Chapter Text
This collection of tales was written down by St. Luna the Benedictine from the House of Lovegood, an anchoress, mystic, musician, poet, and philosopher.
The sky above their heads was clear. In the distance, he could hear the bells of the small village church. The landscape of Tyrol looked beautiful in early autumn.
It was a time of transformation, like in alchemy, nature was dying to be born anew.
The mountains and valleys fully displayed the infinite power of God’s creation. The unforgiving power that Tom directly represented on the mortal plane.
It was favourable that the last day of the journey fell on a Sunday, as this allowed them to avoid unwanted onlookers. Peasants working in the field for the rest of the week were attending Mass.
The modest wagon lumbered along the mountain path. The very fact that the head of the inquisitional commission, a reputed Dominican prior, valued by the Vicar of Christ himself, was forced to travel in such undignified conditions made him feel nauseated, but they had to remain cautious on the final stretch of their journey.
In the previous days, he had prepared a sermon which he would preach after arriving in Innsbruck. Now he could only listen as the offspring of Margrave Malfoy was being catechised in handling magical contagion by his aunt.
"Avada Kedavra… Crucio, Imperius…" Draco recited the spells, stammering, while Bellatrix watched him as if he were a worm that, at best, deserved to be crushed under the sole of her shoe.
He was pale, sallow in the face, his complexion having almost completely taken on the color of his hair. His body certainly contained too much black bile. The very thought of witches seemed enough to make him swoon. Pathetic, no wonder Lucius had sent him to a monastery. The boy was not fit to assume the title.
Finally, the woman could not contain herself; temperance had never been a virtue she possessed.
“What is it, Draco? You wanted to be a knight your whole childhood, and now that you can take part in the most important crusade of the millennium, this is how you repay your Prior?” she said mockingly to her nephew. “You should, like me, writhe in divine ecstasy,” she whispered.
The Lestrange brothers exchanged glances, both pretending to be reciting the rosary.
He had to pay special attention to Rodolphus. If the machinations within their kin did not change, it was very possible that he would have to leave the Order to become the new head of the House. Then, undeniably, he would court Bella, and Tom would be the shepherd for the newly-crowned Prince and his lady.
“Let the Virgin Mary bless your heart, Sister,” Tom addressed her with approval.
She preened.
He liked the tertiary sister[1], and not many could pride themselves on such regard from him. It was commonly believed that she traveled with them due to her charismata of detecting falsehood and casting out demons. Few knew, however, that unlike her counterpart from Siena, this was achieved not through the power of prayer, but through the power of red-hot iron applied to flesh. But for Tom, that was not important; what mattered was her loyalty. He had many people under his wing devoted to him and his cause, but she, as intended, saw in him a direct path to God or maybe even God’s own reflection.
She drew in a breath, as if to say something more, but then the wagon lurched, a wheel falling into a rut.
Bella howled:
“Filth. Satanic filth fills my nostrils! St. Michael Archangel, pray for us!”
Draco went into tremors, the likes of which the Dominican had until now only seen during interrogations. Rabastan and Rodolphus tensed up, ready to charge.
He casually stuck his head out of the wagon and looked at the sky.
“I’ve always been amazed that you can See—” whispered the shadow of his father.
The Dark Mark.
“—perhaps I should have acknowledged you as my son,” he added with bitter amusement.
The Sister’s attunement to magic was truly remarkable. He had not expected that the custom of warning against the Inquisition had reached the county border. It meant they were very afraid of them. Exactly as they should be. Muggles, as they called them, should not be able to see it, but Tom, Tom was favoured by God.
“This vermin is spreading faster than bedbugs,” the shadow of his uncle sneered, baring black teeth.
But it was too early for that to happen.
“There must be a traitor among you.”
Severus’s alchemical tricks made it possible to diminish the effects of tracking spells.
Tom almost instinctively adjusted his ring. Then, he looked at the coachman, at his hands. Smooth and clean. He turned his gaze to young Malfoy.
“You know, Draco”, Tom mused, sending Rabastan a barely perceptible nod. “Your hands show that you belong to a noble house. You’ve never had to work with them, so they are as delicate as a child’s…” he trailed off.
The young man resembled an animal that had been beaten so many times it had accepted its fate and humbly awaited the next blow. He should be grateful to him; was this not an experience that brought one closer to the Lord’s Passion?
“Do you know who else has such delicate hands?” he asked after a moment of silence, during which Rabastan had moved to the front of the wagon.
Draco shook his head.
“Wizards,” Lestrange answered. At the same moment, with a swift movement, he slit the coachman’s throat. The concealed warlock slumped over on the coach-box, not even having time to reach for his wand.
The monk took the reins. The horse pulling the wagon merely snorted. Draco cried, and Bella began mumbling a litany to Saint Dominic.
“After all, magic distracts the peasantry from honest work,” Tom added with a thoroughly satisfied smile, not moving even a head of a pin.
***
People were leaving the church walls in droves. Some were drowsily rubbing their eyes and awkwardly hiding their yawns.
Mrs. Weasley, Angelina, and Ginny were chatting animatedly among a group of neighbor women. Gossip was exchanged. Her sister-in-law blushed, probably something about matchmaking again.
Ron, holding Rose in his arms, along with Fred and George, had met other merchants from the guild. Thanks to William, trade with the Levant might be possible, as the man was on site; they would set out in spring. The twins gesticulated wildly, occasionally amusing the little girl by teasing Ron.
Mr. Weasley seemed lost. No sorcerer had been at mass today. So her father-in-law had no one to question.
Fortunately, despite the commotion, the red hair made it possible to locate each member of the Weasley family.
More importantly, after the sermon, Hermione had many questions about the teachings of St. Jerome. She had wanted to do this before his feast day, but she had been unable to get her hands on the right books.
She would have to ask Ron to inquire with the priest. Father Binns knew the doctrine, but his sermons could try the patience of a saint.
They were wending back home through the market square; every person, both rich and poor, was within a few klafters[2].
Suddenly, a wave of whispers reached them, preceded by an erratic dispersal of the crowd.
On the road leading to the city gates, a Dominican was approaching barefoot in a pristine black-and-white habit.
Behind him, also barefoot, walked a woman and three men. She recognized Draco Malfoy among them, the embodiment of vanity, which is why she considered the display sacrilegious, mocking the true humility.
She seemed, however, to be alone in her judgment; people were making the sign of the cross, praying, falling to their knees.
Obviously, it was a delegation from the Office of Inquisition. They had no problems with heretics in the city, nor could she think of other crimes the Church would have an interest in investigating. However, she had heard of an inquisitor from Salzburg who had targeted witches and wizards. It was said he was…
“Beautiful,” Ginny whispered, not taking her eyes off the man. “He is, isn’t he?’
“Lucifer was once the most beautiful angel of the Lord,” she replied without much thought.
Ron chuckled, and her mother-in-law tugged her and the other woman by the sleeve of their gowns.
“Mind your words, he is a holy man,” Mrs. Weasley admonished them.
He stepped onto the dais prepared for the town council meeting.
Percy looked as if he wanted to stop the man, but without Bishop Fudge he could not make a decision in time.
The Dominican waited a moment for the crowd to gather. When the murmurs subsided, he began to speak in a familiar, ingratiating tone:
“I am called Thomas Marvolo Riddle. I serve as prior of the Dominican convent of Salzburg. I must confess it is beautiful to see such pious people in such a picturesque city, truly, if I did not have obligations to the Archbishop... this is a place where I would wish to settle permanently.”
The statement drew murmurs of approval. People began to merry, but then the monk’s voice grew low and serious.
“All the more it pains me that murderers of souls as well as robbers of God’s sacraments and of the Christian faith thrive here,” he intoned. Another wave, this time of worried whispers, spread across the square.
“Cathars?”
“Hussites?”
“Many local clergymen over the years have ignored my petitions, but the abominations and enormities in question cannot remain unpunished, not without open danger to the souls of many and peril of eternal damnation.
Heresy, the most wicked of the wicked. However, Our Holy Father Innocent VIII has granted me explicit authority, making it my most important duty to root out every witch and every wizard from the territories of Germany.
As Scripture declares: Let there not be found among you anyone who immolates his son or daughter in the fire, nor a fortune-teller, soothsayer, charmer, diviner, or caster of spells, nor one who consults ghosts and spirits or seeks oracles from the dead.
Therefore I ask you, good people of Innsbruck, lend me your strength, so that in eternal glory we may all together behold Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
She thought it would be difficult to convince the townfolk. Everyone had had dealings with sorcerers at least once; sometimes this was a sudden illness, sometimes a foolish attempt to glimpse into the future, sometimes mundane problems like poorly growing vegetables in the garden.
Were there also warlocks who practiced the dark arts, bringing crop failure and plague, but Hermione had never met such people.
Yet, she was so wrong in her assumption. It started with a single cheer, but after that, a whole avalanche followed.
“Your enthusiasm pleases us, good people,” he laughed benevolently. “My doors will remain open at any hour for anyone willing to help us bring witches to justice.”
Some, those closer to wizardkind, fell into an awkward silence. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen the Thurkell Brothers or Ms. Figg today. Perhaps they had known in advance…
The crowd was parting, but she could not move.
Ron was saying something to her, but she couldn’t hear.
She was furious. If the offense was considered so serious, it would not end with penance and alms; these good people faced a terrible death.
Moments passed, until finally she stood face to face with the Dominican. He looked down, seeming genuinely confused that she had not got out of his way. However, he recovered quickly and smiled warmly, but she easily noticed that his dark eyes remained cold.
The woman behind him looked as if she was ready to pounce on her, and Malfoy looked at her with genuine pity.
“Can I help you with something, daughter?” he asked, almost unpleasantly cordially.
If she said nothing, people would die. There was no point in arguing with the doctrine. She decided on a simple message that would reach everyone — anyone who disagreed could join in.
“Fie on you, you bad monk, may the falling evil take you,” she spat.
“Hermione!” Ron wailed. Now she felt him squeezing her hand.
The Dominican Prior ignored her completely, turning to her husband.
“This is your wife, young man?”
“Yes, Father,” Ron groaned.
“St. Paul clearly instructs: Do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve; and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor.” he explained, smiling even wider.
“In that case, I am ready to be taught and deceived as a result,” Ron answered with pride.
The monk’s eyelid twitched, a crack in the perfectly smooth surface.
“In that case, you are a fool. And now I must excuse myself; it is almost None[3].”
The entire way home, the Weasleys were unsettlingly quiet, only Rose hummed nursery rhymes. She would have preferred the twins’ jabs and her mother-in-law’s anger.
While she and Ginny were preparing dinner, Mr. Weasley began hastily getting rid of magic-related paraphernalia in the cellar: the broken wands, burnt cauldrons, and stuffed creatures like pigchickens, which probably hadn’t been magical from the very start, that he was so very fond of.
As she placed a platter of hot groats on the table, Mrs. Weasley for the first time in many hours lifted her gaze from her needlework.
“I don’t like it either, Hermione, but I cannot let you put yourself at risk,” she whispered.
"Then help me, mother, please," she begged.
"I’ll talk to Arthur when he’s finished burying his treasures."
The rest of the family finally calmed down.
“We’ll deal with it together, ’Mione,” Ginny assured her.
“Besides, if he plans to walk around the town barefoot like that, he’ll freeze to death before he burns anyone at the stake,” Ron assured her.
“We like your logic, brother,” Fred nodded.
“When you were little, we thought witches had swapped you,” George added.
“But you’re ours, after all,” the twins said in unison.
She had put little Rose to sleep, just finished telling her the tale of The Wizard and the Hopping Pot, and had herself begun preparing for slumber.
“Father will send a letter to Archbishop Dumbledore, Ron informed her in a whisper, entering the bedchamber. He had just finished conferring with his brothers.
“I’m glad. The Office of Inquisition will be furious; the Prior didn’t seem like someone who takes an insult to his authority well.”
“If he reacted like that to us, imagine how Harry would stir him,” Ron laughed.
“Ronald, you’re a genius!” she exclaimed. “Have your father ask the Archbishop to appoint him to this task, and I’ll also write privately to Harry.”
She believed that Harry’s very presence might work on the witch-hunter like pouring hot lard into water, explosively exposing the rot of the newly arrived monk.
She sat down at the small table, grabbed a piece of parchment, and began to write.
Her husband asked her an unspoken question with a look.
“Yes, yes, I’ll sign it as from both of us.”
***
Within a few weeks, they had arrested eight people. Paupers, fishwives, and one alchemist who, as it turned out, did not practice magic at all. It was a quite satisfactory result.
First, they had to weed out the common riffraff to demonstrate their effectiveness, and soon he would be able to deal with allegedly pious and prosperous citizens. Thankfully, they were always too full of themselves to flee. And now, it was already too late for that anyway.
If Severus's contact spoke the truth, a certain local potioneer had information about something he had a great interest in.
There was also that wench with big teeth, from a family too respected to touch, but her recent deeds had filled his goblet of chagrin until a drop from overflowing.
He thoughtfully toyed with his ring, but finally signaled to Brother Percival to invite the next person into the sacristy. The young monk did not bring up the topic of his unruly sister-in-law, so Tom, as a gesture of good will, would not do so for now.
“I can no longer listen to these withered spinsters. Where are the maidens?” Uncle Morfin kept up a pained groan.
Listening to the minor sins of the townsfolk was similar regardless of the city, but thanks to it he could, in no time, learn everything about the hierarchies ruling the town and the ongoing disputes. Even while maintaining the secrecy of the sacrament of penance, he could gain more from this than from the tattlers coming in about matters of witchcraft.
Through the door came a short, plump, middle-aged woman; under her headdress, her hair was surely as fiery red as that of all her offspring. She looked very resolved.
She knelt and began the formula of confession with a determination he had so far only seen in Bella.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Benedicite, pater, quia peccavi.”
“Dominus sit in corde tuo et in labiis tuis,” he replied, keeping his face perfectly neutral.
“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti... lately I keep letting myself be consumed by anger.”
“The sin of one person drags other people into it. Such is the plan of the Enemy of Mankind.”
“Yes, I understand, Father,” she nodded, sniffing, “but you must understand, Father, the girl is in mourning for her parents.”
Interesting. It could have been just a hunch, but God had been known to give him hints before.
"That is a terrible loss. When did they pass?"
"Just before St. Titus Day."
So, right after his return from Rome. Many of the magicfolk had left this part of the Empire upon hearing of the papal bull.
"Ah, I see, a truly terrible loss indeed. A sudden illness?"
“Yes… yes, I think so. Forgive me, father, the whole of January was…a bit blurry for me.”
Thank you, Lord, for bringing this woman to him.
His face must have shown his satisfaction too clearly, because Molly Weasley began to recite hastily.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”
She had helped carry out God's will, so he was not overly harsh.
“Strict fasting for the next four Fridays, and one rosary for each member of your family.
Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
The woman was the last one.
He instructed Percival to summon Scabbers to visit him after Vespers[4].
The unkempt, ugly man saw him as a hefty source of income; he sought opportunity in fact that a wizard could not take earthly possessions to Hell, and Tom had no intention of disabusing him of that notion. He was also a grave robber, something the locals seemed unaware of, yet the Lord saw everything, which is why he had been punished with a hunchback. But his lack of moral scruples could prove useful if the situation required committing a grave sin; therefore, the Blessed Virgin Mary had brought this man to protect his good Brothers in the faith.
In excellent spirits, he decided to head to the library. Bishop Fudge might have been a joke of a cleric, but he had phenomenal taste when it came to the Church Fathers. Traversing the stone corridors, he hummed Salve Regina under his breath, ignoring the terrified looks from the monks of the Innsbruck congregation.
Tom had always liked the smell of old parchment, and the sound of the other monks’ quiet breathing had a soothing effect on him. That was one of the only earthly pleasures he allowed himself.
As soon as he had chosen a Greek text that seemed particularly interesting and sat down at the lectern, he heard rapid footsteps and the sounds of a scuffle outside. He sighed and closed the heavy tome. The massive doors swung open with force, but by then he was already waiting.
Bellatrix dragged Draco in by his habit.
“Sister Bellatrix,” he called her to order before she could speak. Otherwise, it would have been nearly impossible to interrupt her.
She collected herself, released the blond, and straightened her robes. Then, with a gesture, he allowed her to begin.
“I most sincerely apologize, Father, but this matter cannot wait,” she said rapidly, bowing, “my pathetic nephew scorns our interrogation methods.”
Tom nodded his head sympathetically.
“I am pleased that you have raised this most important issue, Sister," he announced, and turned to the young Malfoy. "Brother Draco, follow me.”
Bella guffawed.
“And you, sister, go to the chapel to ask the Lord for better control over the throes of your passion.”
“But Father, the interrogations!” she protested in a shrill voice
“Brothers Lestrange will handle it. Your immortal soul is more important,” he cut her off.
He led Malfoy through the winding corridors to his cell. Tom had not uttered a single word since leaving the library. Interestingly, Draco, with his head bowed, was quietly reciting the litany to Rita of Cascia.[5]
Since dawn, the air had foretold rain, and the billowing clouds he saw through the passing windows only confirmed it. Excellent.
They entered the room. The confiscated items started to take over his cell; unfortunately, he was forced to keep them in his possession before they could be destroyed, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.
He did not warn the other man about potential curses — none were strong enough to kill him, and direct contact with the dangers emanating from magic would do him good. The House of Malfoy saw the prosecution of wizards, especially those of noble birth, as purely political gain.
Tom sat at the modest desk; he did not offer the young Dominican a place to sit.
“So, Draco, our methods seem inappropriate to you?” he asked in a conversational tone.
“No, it's not that, Brother Prior, it's just, it's just…” Towards the end, he was unable to utter another word.
Tom nodded his head understandingly.
“You simply feel that you are too good, too high-born, or too uneducated to adhere to the bull of the Holy Father Innocent IV from 1252, in which it was clearly ruled that our methods are completely justified.”
Of course, the boy knew this; he had studied both laws at the University of Cologne. Tom could forgive cowardice — it provided survival — but he could not forgive stupidity.
“No, please, Brother Prior, it's not like that,” Malfoy begged, but Tom ignored him.
“Our Brothers in faith, the Benedictines, have a motto: Ora et labora,” he began amiably, while Draco looked petrified. “Of course, as an almost too fearful Servant of God, you have prayers in abundance. So let's focus on the second part.”
He received only a faint nod in response.
“After dusk, a man will come here. I had planned for him to dig something up for me, and Brother Rabastan was to oversee him, but—” he stood up and began to circle the other monk, “—we can alter that plan a little. The rat-catcher will show you the place, and you will dig.”
Malfoy looked at his hands, as if concerned about potential blisters.
Tom couldn't help it and burst out laughing.
“Believe me, Brother Draco, if I were in your place, ruined hands would be the last thing I'd worry about.”
The boy audibly swallowed.
“Fortunately, by the end of this escapade, you will understand why it is better to be a Dominican than a Benedictine.”
He was clever; Tom could see he understood instantly that this would not be a normal task.
“No, please, I’ll help with the interrogations, I won't complain,” he pleaded.
“That's enough, you may leave.”
Upon one’s departure, he said to Malfoy:
“I will pray for you, that everything goes well and duly—”
The monk bowed in trembling gratitude.
“—to Rita of Cascia,” he added a moment before the door could close.