Bluff Checks

He was being chased. He couldn't see it, or hear it, but he knew. He wasn't sure what it was. The forest was full of nothing but silence, not even the rustle of leaves caused by a bird or squirrel. That was his first clue.

"Professor? Are you... all right?" The villagers—Muggles, all of them—spoke fearfully, when they'd had too much to drink, of... something in the woods. When pressed, they'd laugh it off as silly superstition and change the subject. But a slight hesitation in their laughter, a tightness around their eyes...the fear was real. The...thing might be imaginary, but the fear was real.

He could help them. He'd known it. It had been a chance to prove himself, to get some real field experience. Lessons and books were all very well, but he'd been ready for something more. He'd thought it was vampires, in the woods. After all, what could be more frightening than vampires? It would explain the Muggles' reactions.

"Why is he handcuffed? Alohomora." And now, he was being chased. And it was gaining on him. It wasn't a vampire. He thought...he might know what it was.

"I think he needs help; we should bring him back to the castle."

He'd forgotten. They'd all forgotten, wizards and witches everywhere had buried their memories. Because there was something worse than vampires. Worse than Dementors. They'd tricked themselves into thinking it was gone. That he was gone. But now, Quirrell knew better.

"And how do you reckon we do that? You have a cart hidden under your robes, Hermione?"

Worse, he knew a way to be free. But he couldn't even allow himself to think about it, because it...because he was always listening. Always. So he had to be careful. He would bide his time.

"Professor Quirrell?"

The use of his name jerked him back into the present. He sat up, and his hand immediately went to his head as the world spun. Quirrell opened his eyes and stared at a worried face. A worried, bespectacled face.

A worried, lightning-scarred face.

He recoiled instinctively, a sudden, unreasoning hatred filling him to the core. Quirrell steadied himself with effort; he was used to the mood swings now, had learned to recognize which emotions were his and which came from...him.

"M-mister P-P-Potter," he stammered with his accursed stutter. It had been an act, once, to reduce suspicion. But his act had slipped once too many times, and he had seen to it that it was no longer an act. Quirrell shuddered at the memory. "W-where am I?" That was unusual. The last he had remembered, he'd been planning to take the boy to dispatch some of his tame vampires. He still had several connections in dark places; the filthy creatures in their cave likely still thought he was bringing them the child as blood tribute.

The smirk died on his lips when he realized what must have happened. Suddenly finding himself in an unknown location with no memory of how he got there? There were two possibilities. One, he'd been Memory Charmed. Possible, but unless one of these half-trained children was secretly a Metamorphmagus Auror—or maybe a Polyjuiced Death Eater—he doubted they had the power. The other...he must have taken direct control. There could be no telling what he had done.

"We're...not sure, to be honest, Professor," Potter said. Again, another man's—could he still be called a man?—rage filled him. "We thought you might be able to tell us."

"W-what has h-happened?" Quirrell was, frankly, surprised. Had he taken over, he was sure the first thing he'd have done was finished off his mortal enemy.

The four children all began a disjointed story, each starting at different places and clamouring over each other, but Quirrell managed to piece together what, more or less, they were trying to say regardless.

"S-so you s-say D-Death E-Eaters t-took him?" Quirrell frowned. Death Eaters? That hadn't been part of the plan. Had he changed it, without telling him? There was no way for him to tell, their peculiar bond was very much one-sided.

"But I don't see how," Granger said somewhat petulantly. "You can't Apparate or Disapparate within the Hogwarts wards."

"W-we m-m-must be outside them," Quirrell said. "They d-d-don't q-quite cover the f-far edges of the F-Forest."

"We should tell Dumbledore right away," Granger insisted. "He'll know what to do."

"Good thinking," Potter agreed. "Professor, can you walk?" At the mention of the Headmaster's name, he felt a sudden spike of fear through the bond. It always surprised Quirrell that even one such as he could feel something so human as fear.

"N-no," Quirrell said hurriedly. How was he going to talk his way out of this one? He wondered when the last time he'd said something completely true was. "W-we can't t-tell the H-Headmaster j-just yet. D-Dumbledore, f-for all his v-virtues, is overly trusting. H-he will c-certainly t-tell Snape, and your P-P-Potions M-Master will g-go running to his r-r-real master."

"See?" Weasley said. "I told you he was up to no good." Granger coloured slightly, but said nothing.

"We can't just do nothing!" Potter said. "He's in danger." Abbot nodded fervently in agreement.

"I d-don't p-propose we d-do nothing," Quirrell said. "j-just let m-me handle it. D-don't talk to D-Dumbledore. In f-fact, d-don't let anyone know you w-were out h-here at all." He was feeling increasingly impatient, and it did not do to keep him waiting. "W-well, if we're r-really outside the w-wards, we'd b-best start h-heading back. It c-could q-quite s-some time." Time they certainly didn't have. If the Death Eaters were brazen enough to abduct Milo this close to Dumbledore's seat of power, they really were active again. So Lucius is taking a hand in events again. It had to be him. No-one else had the power and drive to unite his followers who had managed to keep out of Azkaban. Quirrell was somewhat surprised that they had been able to manage even this; he had understood that the best and brightest of his followers lay rotting on the island. Where, he was quick to remind himself, he was certain to go if his true nature was revealed. But...why would they bother? Was it to bring him back? But the boy couldn't even manage that, yet.

Or so he said, anyway.

On the way back to the castle, they passed a large group of dead Acromantulas, of all things. It only took Quirrell a glance to determine what had happened. Something had caused the horrid beasts to turn on each other, but, judging by the pristine corpses lying above the mangled ones, one or more wizards had finished off the lot with the Killing Curse. Must have been Lucius and his cronies.

By the time they reached the castle, it was well past curfew, and after sending the children to their Common Room, Quirrell's footsteps echoed ominously in the hallway alone. He had long since grown out of fearing the dark, but all the same... he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being hunted. Worse, now that he was finally alone—as alone as he could ever be, now—he could speak.

"You lost the boy... were overpowered by an eleven year old..." That was enough to trigger the memories. The Memory Charm that had been placed upon him was a weak one, from someone whose talents clearly lay in other directions.

A dozen excuses came to mind in an instant: that the boy had powerful magic was the reason they were interested in him, that he would have simply told the Death Eaters he was as good as being the Dark Lord before he had prevented him, that there were six of them and only one of him—but he had learned, painfully, that he did not accept excuses. You simply waited, and hoped he would forgive your failures.

"I-I'm sorry, m-my l-lord. Y-you know w-what happened, I h-have n-no excuse."

"No, you don't... but you will have this opportunity to redeem yourself... am I not merciful?"

Quirrell felt a rush of relief that was wholly his own.

"Y-yes, my l-lord." He explained to him his plan as Quirrell hustled to Dumbledore's office, listening carefully. It was a daring move; much could go wrong—and he would be the one to have to modify it on the fly as circumstances changed. No plan lasted much longer than the first contact with the enemy. He could take over his—their—body directly, but only for brief periods of time.

"Sherbet Lemon," he said to the gargoyle statue.

Dumbledore—again, that sudden rush of hate, spiked with fear—sat behind his great wooden desk on a comfortable-looking chintz armchair. As Quirrell entered, a glowing silver doe patronus he had never seen before was leaving, presumably having delivered a message of some sort. He glanced at it briefly, frowning. Quirrell himself had been unable to produce one since... he had arrived. Could it be coincidence, the doe arriving on the same night Lucius made his move? It must be. Surely, someone as powerful as the Headmaster received messages of all sorts at every hour of the day.

"Why, Quirinus," Dumbledore said, sounding genuinely pleased to see him. Quirrell tried to fight down his borrowed emotions with limited success. "What brings you here at this hour?"

It was vital that the Headmaster not discover what Lucius had done, because he was still unsure about the possibly-former Death Eater's loyalties. He might still be useful in the future, but not if he were rotting in Azkaban.

"Milo is g-gone," Quirrell said simply. "V-vampires t-took him."

o—o—o—o

Lucius Malfoy frantically rubbed the blinding particles out of his eyes as he surveyed the carnage that had been wrought in the dining hall of his country manor. Some form of skeletal abomination held Nott by the neck with a single overly long arm, and was closing in on the Carrow siblings with a speed that belied its appearance. Crabbe, Goyle, and Macnair were still nowhere to be found. Gibbon and Avery were trapped in some form of giant web, of all things, which had appeared from thin air near the centre of the room. Lucius had worked too long and too hard to unite those servants who remained free to lose them to this boy. It was time to finish this; the fight had gone on long enough. The situation demanded it—nobody would argue with him on that.

"Avada Kedavra!" The boy, who was flying around in circles dodging curses, whirled around with an expression of genuine fear as the Killing Curse flew towards him. The fear was just as swiftly replaced by a grin as he muttered something under his breath; without any form of show or sign of magic, he was gone. The skeletal nightmare stood—or rather, floated—in his place, and simply dropped out of the air. The foolishly-named "Unforgivable" Curse, impossibly, exploded against its ribcage harmlessly.

How...? No time to think. The monster crashed into Jugson, who crumpled with a scream underneath its bony bulk. The boy re-appeared where the skeleton had earlier stood, with a surprised Nott on one side and Amycus and Alecto Carrow on the other. All three lowered their wands at him.

They would have to handle the boy, Lucius had other concerns. The boy's tame pet defenestrated Jugson's body with, if it had had a face, he was sure would have been contempt—and came loping straight at him. Between the thick webs, the ruins of his centuries-old table, and the writhing trapped Death Eaters, Lucius struggled to get a clear shot. He heard a pair of loud booms, six seconds apart with almost musical precision, from the other side of the room. The skeleton leaped, and Lucius realized he only had time for one last Killing Curse. He would have to give it everything he had if it could so contemptuously ignore the earlier one. He began the practiced motions—despite its power, the Killing Curse required only fairly simple wandwork—but stopped. There was no guarantee a second Unforgivable would have any more effect.

"Petrificus Totalus!" The nightmare struggled vainly as its arms and legs snapped to its sides, and it crashed into his polished mahogany floor, scoring it with deep gouges that would cost a small fortune to repair. He spun around to find the Carrows and Nott in a tight cluster, cowering before Milo's outstretched left hand. Somehow, they'd all managed to lose their wands—no. Nott's was at his feet, but the Carrows' wand hands were bleeding from toothpick-sized-splinters; Lucius was willing to bet galleons to knuts that those were all that remained of their most prized possessions. If we survive this, he decided, we're all going to start carrying two or three spares. Ollivander rarely made two of the same wand, but with the right application of pressure... well, everyone had a limit.

"Give it up," Lucius said. "It's over." He would still try to escape—Milo, from what he had seen, was nothing if not tenacious—and Lucius would kill him in the attempt.

"Is it?" Milo replied, his voice nothing but confidence. Merlin, the boy didn't even look tired! "I could have shattered their heads as easily as their wands. I still can. Drop it, Malfoy, and I'll let you live."

Can he? Lucius wondered. He'd seen the boy do the impossible—he can fly, he thought with amazement—but if he could simply kill them all... why hadn't he? What's more, why hadn't he already destroyed Lucius' eighteen-inch elm wand like he'd done the Carrows'? And Nott. His wand was still fine. It seemed absurd, but if Lucius had to guess, he'd say... well, the boy was out of magic. As if such a thing could happen. The boy was bluffing! Lucius cursed himself inwardly. The situation could still be salvaged, however, as long as nobody else realized. Other masked Death Eaters were moving to surround him, wands drawn. A slightly wild look about the eyes was the only sign that Milo's confidence was cracking.

"The moment you try," Lucius said slowly, "we'll kill you. There are seven of us," No use counting the de-wanded Carrows, "and one of you." Nott, who had grabbed his wand as soon as Milo's back was turned, and the six remaining active, armed, and unimpeded Death Eaters moved to surround him. Most had been hiding around the edges of the room, as if to escape the notice of this child. Cowards. All he had were the dregs; the best—well, all but the very best, of course—had gone to Azkaban. The best, and in many ways, the most foolish. He had little more than contempt for those who confessed to the Wizengamot.

"Yeah, well, there were thirteen of you a moment ago," the boy spat. "And none of you can come back from the dead." He addressed Lucius's followers, now. "How many of you do you think I can kill before I go down? How many of you are wondering what happened to your three guards, in the halls?" The fool's desperate bravado was playing right into his hands.

"Be that as it may," Lucius said, raising his wand. "I think I will be doing the world a favour in k—"

"Stupefy." A red Stunner hit the eleven-year-old's chest, and he crumpled to the floor with an expression of faint surprise frozen on his face. Lucius was aghast. He rounded on the fool who had cast, fighting down fury.

"You idiot!" he shouted. "What were you thinking!" Lucius paused. He'd nearly given away his plan. "He could have killed all of us!"

"If he could have," Snape's oily voice replied from beneath his mask, "he would have." Lucius fought down his anger, the true reason for his rage could never be known. With a cool confidence he did not feel, he gave the necessary orders. There was much work to do to perform the ritual.

o—o—o—o

Quirrell ducked into a side-room to make the necessary preparations, and also to catch his breath. He'd never had much of a talent for Apparition, and the distance from forest outside Hogwarts to Malfoy's manor had pushed his limit. His eyes barely registered the priceless Persian rug or the painted masterpieces hanging from the walls as he began casting. He had been very specific in his instructions when he'd taught him how to perform these spells. The price of failure—or of telling anyone the secrets—would be heavy. Too heavy.

Quirrell glanced at a polished silver mirror hanging on the wall as he began. One spell to turn his eyes red, another to shroud him in darkness. One to change his face—he gasped as his nose turned to slits, like a snake's—another to change his voice, and a third to alter his robes. He suppressed a shudder, looking at the mirror, as he saw a near-perfect replica of the Dark Lord staring back at him. Wonderingly, he touched his now-unfamiliar face.

Somehow, Quirrell knew that these were not the spells the Dark Lord had used to appear like this. He hoped to never learn the truth of the matter. He had given him permission, in this one instance, to pose as his master. It was necessary. The fools who called themselves Death Eaters would fall in line immediately and turn over the boy they captured; Merlin knew why they'd done it.

A pale, bony hand turned the brass doorknob—his hand, for now—as he stepped out into the hallway, wand in hand. Quirrell strode confidently down the hallway, past an unmoving Death Eater's body—dead or unconscious, he neither knew nor particularly cared—and, briefly, past a window. It was then that he heard the unmistakable crack! of a Disapparating wizard. Close to twenty of them, like an erratic staccato beat, followed by, of all things, the hoot of a barn owl. He looked outside and saw uniformed Aurors appearing all around the field, eyes wary for danger and wands held at the ready. But it wasn't the Aurors that caught his eye.

Dumbledore led them, a brilliant phoenix riding his shoulder. A mad rush of terror swept through him, making his knees turn weak and his hand tremble. How did he know to come here? He wondered. He'd been certain the Headmaster had bought his story hook, line, and sinker.

"Dismiss the spells! Hide!" He said. Quirrell did not need to be told twice.

"Finite!" he cast. "Finite! Finite! Finite! Finite Incantatem!" One by one, the spells disguising his appearance ended, and Quirrell wrapped his purple turban back around his head with quick, practiced motions.

o—o—o—o

"It didn't work," Amycus said flatly. Lucius was stunned. After everything he'd gone through to avoid the ritual being performed with a living subject, he'd finally resigned himself to defeat only to be faced with... this. It was unexpected.

"Perhaps," Alecto mused, "she doesn't want to return?" They'd done everything right, he was sure of it. He knew that a single misspoken word could result in disaster, but when they'd completed the ritual the change should have been unmade. Instead...this. Milo stirred feebly on the table.

"I somehow doubt we need their permission," Lucius drawled. "Or we never would have been able to summon him in the first place." He tried to keep the elation out of his tone. Like most in the magical world, he was hardly a religious man, but now more than ever he was certain that if there really were a God out there, he was on Lucius's side. He'd been given another chance to make his plan work. "In fact—" he cut off as he heard the hoot of a barn owl. The elaborate system of wards around his manor had, of course, nothing on Hogwarts—but it did tell him when someone Apparated onto the grounds. "It appears members of the law enforcement community have decided to pay a call. Gibbon, Avery—guard the prisoner and keep your heads down. The rest of you know what to do." With a series of cracks, the other Death Eaters vanished into thin air. This wasn't the first time the DMLE had decided to raid his manor, but they wouldn't find any more than they ever did. Oh, he always left a few minor illicit trinkets and dark objects around, anything else would be suspicious—but in the end, it would amount to nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

Lucius stepped out of the ritual chamber in his basement and tapped the door behind him with his wand. Wooden boards, curled up around the entrance, unfurled with a groan to cover the door. The gap in the wall was seamless; a Malfoy in the distant past had found an apprentice to the master wizard who had hidden Diagon Alley to do the job. Not even Lucius knew what had happened to his body, after he was done. None but his inner circle knew of this hidden chamber, and nobody still living knew the trick to opening it. Lucius transfigured his mask into oil (which he poured into a lamp nearby, he doubted anyone would ever find that when the spell wore off) and went out to greet Amelia Bones like a friend coming over for tea. He felt tremors in the floor along the way, but ignored them.

o—o—o—o

Quirrell knew the plan needed changing. It always came to this; he'd gotten quite good at thinking on his feet. Despite what looked to him like half the Ministry's magical might knocking down the doors, he would settle for no less than complete victory. Quirrell cast a Disillusionment charm and shuddered as the icy feeling came over him. Before meeting him in the forests of Albania, he'd never had a knack for combat magic, but he'd always been good at these. Hiding was something of a specialty for him.

Strolling down the corridors of the richly-appointed house, he quickly found the small service staircase. The house rocked suddenly, but Quirrell had more pressing matters than the inevitable conflict between the Aurors and Death Eaters around. What the purpose of a staircase for servants in a wizard's house was, Quirrell had no idea (House Elves could simply snap their fingers and Apparate). The stairs led him through narrow corridors winding about in plain backrooms and servant's chambers (maybe the house had belonged to Muggles at some point, although it seemed out of Lucius's character to live anywhere that their touch had sullied) until he came to the otherwise unremarkable stretch of wall that he had directed him to. Quirrell tapped the wall with his wand, and was astonished to find a hidden doorway revealed.

"Alohomora." The door behind popped open, and even his usual control broke. "Merlin's beard!"

o—o—o—o

"As you can see," Lucius said to Amelia Bones, the head of the DMLE, while the two strode through the hallways of his mansion near his front entrance, "once again, my home has been attacked by the most brazen thieves I have ever seen. Fortunately, the timely intervention of the Ministry's finest has apparently frightened them off. I am, of course, eternally in your debt." Bones eyed him skeptically. He knew the aged witch had strong suspicions of him, but he also knew that she would never act on them without definite proof. Which was why men—and, of course, women—of principles always lost to those like him, who were free of such... constraints. Dumbledore, who had no official ministry standing, contented himself by waiting outside—for now.

Lucius led her towards his sitting room. "I'll have Dobby bring us some tea while your men search the house for the other thieves," he said, opening the door. "Though I doubt you'll find—" shooting up through the centre of his luxurious room was a great oak tree. The floorboards were bent and buckled around it, as was the ceiling. "Merlin!" he gasped. He couldn't help himself. Even Bones, who was rumoured to chew iron ore and spit nails, widened her eyes. Tangled among the branches were Gibbon and Avery, struggling vainly to escape.

Both were still wearing their masks.

Bones stared at the vista before her, shocked beyond belief. He knew he had to act quickly, or things could quickly become...embarrassing.

Lucius hesitated only seconds.

"Death Eater scum!" he gasped. "Call in your Aurors!"

o—o—o—o

Milo picked himself out from among the leaves and branches and climbed onto the Malfoy manor' tiled roof. Note to self: never again use a Tree Token as an elevator. Being slammed facefirst into four stories of old, hard wood was not his idea of fun. He looked over the edge and sighed.

"At least I'm not jumping through glass this time. Feather Fall."