Chapter Text
She had Archie tell James nothing was awry, but her heart wasn’t really in it.
Here was the thing about suspicion. It wasn’t easy to get on you— not when you were thirteen— but once it did, it stuck like glue. And like glue, the best way to get rid of that sticky annoyance was to wipe it off on somebody else.
Rigel needed to frame somebody.
Who to choose was less obvious. There was nobody conveniently dead, and of the living, nobody suitable really deserved it. However, if she were willing to lower her standards, there was Theodore Nott.
Nott was a Slytherin, and his father was in Riddle's inner circle. From an outsider's perspective, Theodore would undoubtedly have had the motivation to attack so many students… but it strained credulity that he could have actually done so. How would he have pulled off the petrifications? Theodore was only a third-year….
Only a third-year… yes, but so was Rubeus Hagrid when he got expelled. The story might be workable with a judicious amount of elbow grease. She didn’t even need to have the Headmaster buy it. Just the Head Auror— just James Potter.
An anonymous tip to the Aurors to start it all off… nothing too direct, just to get them looking for the right things. Then, a trail of breadcrumbs, so they’d think it was their idea. And when they got to the end… Rigel remembered what Will had been looking for, the most damning evidence of them all.
They’d search Theodore’s belongings, and there, they’d find Ginny’s wand. Rigel would make do with another memento… a lock of hair or perhaps a finger. In any case, Rigel was confident she could plant the yew wand into the boy’s trunk. His wasn’t as secure as Draco’s, and Draco’s— well… Let her just say the Nimbus Company did not manufacture brooms that threw their riders off, not unless they’d been tampered with.
It wouldn’t even be that bad for Theodore. She doubted he would see a day in Azkaban. Hagrid hadn’t for Myrtle, and he didn’t have the illustrious Nott surname. Admittedly, Theodore wouldn’t be able to avoid being expelled, and his wand snapped. Still, considering that was the wand he had pointed at her… Rigel wouldn’t be sorry for him.
As for why she hadn’t picked Daphne… In truth, Rigel had a very different and far more important role for Daphne Greengrass. You see, the Aurors wouldn’t search Hogwarts without good reason. A tip alone was hardly sufficient. It had to be something big enough that Dumbledore couldn’t hush up. Something actionable, something tragic— like a noble pure-blood lady reduced to a worthless Squib— an unfortunate sacrifice in some twisted ritual. And if one tragedy wasn’t sufficient for the Aurors… Rigel could provide many more.
But she was getting ahead of herself. Rigel had most of the components for the ritual close at hand, but there were still a few key— and highly illegal— ones that she was missing. There was a roaring black market trade in the Alleys, but no store would admit they stocked any to an unknown customer. She could try to persuade them, but Rigel could only tear down so many places before Hurst and the Rogue came down on her head. She had to get everything in one, maybe two tries.
As luck would have it, Rigel was certain of one proprietor who did have everything she needed, for she had been the one putting the items down in the ledger. And so the next Hogsmeade weekend, Rigel went from the Hog’s Head to the Leaky Cauldron and, from there, into Borgin and Burkes yet again.
The bell tinked as Rigel pushed open the door, and Borgin— looking much worse for wear since she’d last seen him— looked up from where he stood behind the counter. A frown crossed the shopkeeper’s face.
Rigel had obviously not gone as Rigel. Nor had she gone as Harriet or Borgin’s erstwhile enforcer. The breadcrumbs needed to start somewhere, and Borgin’s shop was as good a place as any, so for today, she was Theodore Nott.
But Borgin didn’t need to know that. She couldn’t make it too suspiciously easy for the Aurors to follow her— no, Theodore’s— trail. And she doubted Borgin would show Class A Non-Tradeable Substances to a thirteen-year-old unless she fronted the gold she didn’t have.
“Interesting disguise you have there,” said Borgin. “I’m assuming you want something, or you wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.”
Borgin was right. It had been difficult. Rigel had layered a Disillusionment Charm over her Transfiguration, and it had been surprisingly tricky to make it bad enough that hints of Theodore’s face showed through. Not enough for Borgin to recognize who he was talking to, but when the Aurors poked through Borgin’s memory, they could narrow down their suspect to somebody who looked roughly like Theodore.
And poke through Borgin’s memory they would, because Theodore Nott was about to be a very naughty boy.
Rigel pushed a list of things she needed over to Borgin, carefully printed in a nondescript hand. All of them illegal, none of them cheap, and the only payment she had for Borgin was… Rigel touched the wand hidden under her robes, grimacing at the disconcerting feeling of yew. Her holly wand was too recognizable, especially if the case got to James, and this wand was supposed to be in Theodore’s possession anyway.
Borgin checked the list against something under his counter. Probably his ledger, trying to figure out how much he could squeeze from Rigel. She cast an eye around the room as she waited. Business must have been slow in the past few months because Rigel saw the Pensieve was still in its corner, unsold, and even the bag of Instant Darkness Powder next to it was dusty and untouched.
Finally, a rustle of parchment as Borgin pushed the list back. The shopkeeper squinted at her, “I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir. This is a reputable establishment and such… things are not in our inventory.”
Sir. Oh, it was apparent Borgin wanted to close the deal. Yet the Aurors were known to conduct string operations in the Alleys, so he was careful. It was as she expected. The man required a… demonstration that she was not with the Ministry. As he wished. With a wave of the wand, Borgin leaped back, howling in shock and fear, for the counter had burst into sudden flames. But even as the shopkeeper rounded on Rigel, the flames vanished, leaving the counter completely undamaged, save for an odd clicking noise.
With trembling fingers, Borgin pulled out a small locked box, the combination dials slowly revolving by themselves, click, click, click…
“A reputable establishment, you say? Shall you give me what I require, or shall we see what’s in the box? I have a good memory, and I am sure the contents would be of great interest to our esteemed Ministry,” said Rigel in a low, unrecognizable rasp.
“There’s no need for any of that, sir,” said Borgin stiffly, “I’d be happy to do business with you. But no credit. You have the gold?”
In reply, Rigel jingled a heavy pouch. It was empty, but enchantments worked wonders. She looked into Borgin’s eyes and saw the dark glint she expected. In his mind, he had confirmed that Rigel had the gold. And if Rigel knew anything about Borgin… the double cross was coming.
Now, Rigel had displayed enough ability that Borgin wouldn’t try to take her himself, so he would need to keep her in the shop until help arrived, and how else could he do that, other than giving Rigel precisely what she wanted? The north wind and the sun… It was much easier to let the shopkeeper retrieve and pack the many neatly labeled vials himself, for she knew Borgin kept the real valuables behind potent defenses. Rigel could break through, of course, but she could not be subtle, and the Potions incident had taught her that destructive spells and magical ingredients did not play well together.
She pretended not to notice Borgin sneaking looks at his watch, and she pretended not to hear the door open, the bell jingle, and the two pairs of footsteps. She would let the hired muscle make the first move so she didn’t curse some hapless shopper to bits. It wasn’t like she would be in any real danger. Borgin wasn’t on good terms with the Rogue, and in the Alleys, those were the only people who could give Rigel any sort of trouble.
But it seemed unlikely the two men who had entered were here for any other reason. The taller, ponytailed man made a beeline for the counter while the shorter one hung back, eyes scanning the shop. Ignoring Rigel, the taller man said to Borgin, “Again? That’s the second time this week. I know I’ve asked you to contact me if you see anyone suspicious, but this is getting quite ridiculous.”
The man continued, not noticing Borgin desperately gesturing at Rigel with his chin. “You’ve been worse than useless to me, Borgin. False alarm after false alarm… I have to make do with worse protection now, thanks to you. I swear, if your lead turns out to be Mundungus again, I’ll feed you your own—”
“Finite,” said the other, shorter man suddenly. He was fast, faster than anyone she’d seen in the Alleys. Rigel’s Disillusionment faded and was gone, but before her Transfiguration unraveled, she’d gotten the wand out and forced Theodore’s features back onto her face.
The taller man stopped, staring. Rigel looked up and stopped, too. The ponytail had thrown her off. The taller man was Will. They looked at each other for the longest moment, and then a horrible smile slowly crept across Will’s face.
“You’ve made a mistake, imposter. Nott was among the first we checked.”
Checked? She thought. For Dumbledore, Theodore should have been among the hardest and the last.
“Remember, the body must not be harmed,” said Will commandingly to the shorter man, and Rigel realized she knew him, too. She’d just never seen him outside the red robes of an Auror.
“Do it yourself. My assignment is only to protect you,” said Dawlish in a bored voice, but he went to cover the door, and the Anti-Disapparition Jinx went up all the same.
Will turned back to Rigel. “You’ve already lost, you know. You’ve copied Theodore too well— that means you know what he looks like now. You’re at Hogwarts. Even if you run, it is just a matter of time….”
“If you accept defeat,” continued Will in a low voice, “Then we have an offer for you. Relinquish your possession of the girl, swear us a vow of loyalty, and we will grant you another suitable host. That would be the best for all of us.”
Rigel stared. Possession. Will thought she was the Diary. More importantly, he knew about the Diary.
Only two people alive could have told Will about that. Herself, and Tom Riddle.
Will didn’t work for Dumbledore… he worked for Riddle. Traitor. And to traitors, the only thing she had to say was—
“Avis!” Rigel shouted as she raised the yew wand and whirled it through the air. A flock of canaries exploded from its tip.
Rigel felt an unspoken disappointment from Dawlish. Avis was a simple conjuration, slower and milder than any curse. It was more suited for a schoolyard tussle than for fighting an Auror.
Even so, Dawlish did not underestimate her. He raised a red, shimmering Shield, a particularly dangerous Protego variation that would disintegrate any bird— or indeed anything— flying into it. An excellent reply to so many fast-moving objects and a reply Rigel had been counting on. Dawlish had wasted time defending against her first spell— when it wasn’t an attack.
Her second spell, directed at Will, was.
Will had reacted, too. His Stunner was almost upon her when she got her curse off. Despite that, Rigel’s aim was good, forcing the ponytailed man to dive to the floor to avoid the same fate as the shelf behind him, which had quietly disintegrated in a burst of cold light. But the curse, horribly dangerous though it was, had not given Will pause. The next moment, he had sprung to his feet, wand swishing, already working on another spell. Rigel saw the confidence in Will’s face, confident that Rigel— having to defend against the Stunner— would be a shade slower. He got out two syllables before Rigel’s third spell crashed into him. Will crumpled.
That, however, had left her open to Dawlish, who had so recently seen one of Rigel’s canaries disappear in an explosion of feathers, for it had bravely darted headfirst into Will’s Stunner. A shiny black rope appeared around Rigel— and constricted— crushing the two small birds that had rushed out to meet it against Rigel’s chest.
Rigel wrestled with the conjured rope. Not with her body but with her mind. There was a moment of uncertainty— Dawlish had made it well— then she found the flaw, and her Transfiguration went through. The black anaconda uncoiled from her.
Dawlish flicked his wand to undo what Rigel had done— and gaped when the anaconda kept slithering, a living head sewn onto writhing rope. For the first time, Dawlish looked unsettled, and his form slipped.
She had a timing here. To the snake, she hissed, “Att—”
A shout from behind drowned out her command, followed by a flare of pain in her right knee. Her leg gave out. Rigel teetered, but she managed to twist around, getting an arm onto the wooden counter to catch herself. Who had… Ah. Borgin. She hadn’t thought he had the courage. He was also close, close enough to smell his breath. She should… The shopkeeper gave her an ugly grin and slammed a meaty hand down on the arm she’d instinctively thrown out. It went numb, and— Rigel realized as she tried to curse Borgin— that arm was the one holding her wand.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rigel saw Dawlish finishing off her snake. She could spare only an instant for Borgin.
Borgin had pinned her forearm, careful to keep the wand pointed away from himself and into the countertop. But he was not trained and had left her a few inches to work with. Rigel strained, and wand met countertop and wood met wood… once… twice… thrice…. Three taps, and the counter— the entire counter— shuddered and wrenched itself free from the ground. It bounced three feet into the air, ripping Rigel free from Borgin’s grip, before coming down with all its weight onto the shopkeeper's leg. There was a satisfying crunch, and Borgin screamed. We’re even, Rigel thought savagely. Now, to hide her limp…
Dawlish saw through the facade. With a whistle of air, the Auror launched what looked like a large rock toward Rigel, with such force that it pasted her canaries without slowing down. His mistake. She couldn’t hobble out of the way but could Vanish it. It had to be conjured— there was simply no way a plain old rock was sitting around in Borgin and Burkes. Her magic met the stone, and the rock continued on, unchanged. Rigel could scarcely believe how much magic was in it, so much that she couldn’t Transfigure it, not in the moments left to her.
A Shield Charm? No. It wouldn’t stop something that heavy. A Banishing Charm, like what the Auror had used? That would be a contest of strength, and Dawlish was fresh while she was not. Then she could only try—
Bone cracked as the canary changed. Six arching wings erupted out of its back as the bird swelled to an abominable size. Eyes, hundreds of eyes opened up along its wings, and it launched itself into the oncoming rock with the fury of an avenging angel. Both shattered. Bits of flesh and rock skidded to a halt in front of Rigel, and she saw the runes on the stone. Moments ago, it had been a Pensieve.
Another whoosh. This time, a small bag. Wait, she thought, but her last canary followed the rules Rigel had laid down during its conjuration. It tore open the bag, the powder spilled, and darkness erupted.
The last thing she saw before the cloud of darkness enveloped her was Dawlish diving towards where Will was sprawled. She felt the Anti-Disapparition Jinx lift, and there was a loud crack from where the two men had been. Dawlish was gone. Back to the Ministry for reinforcements, no doubt. The Aurors were on their way… but there was a little time left, time enough for one more move. And yes, despite Riddle’s best efforts, despite what Will had said, Rigel still had something left to play.
For she possessed one little nugget of information that neither Dumbledore nor Riddle had. That Archie and Rigel were two different people. And when Arcturus Black appeared at some public function, with Sirius, or perhaps, even better, with James… and the person they were looking for appeared elsewhere at the same time… She had a new scapegoat now, one she hated more than she could ever hate Theodore. And that meant she could do anything she wanted… Rigel would be hidden, lost in the sea of the many unfortunate souls put under the Imperius….
There was a price, true, but what was the burden of one more name? All it takes for evil— for Riddle— to triumph is for the good to do nothing. She must act. Despite the darkness in the shop, the path to greatness lay in front of her, clearer than it had ever been. The only thing she needed now… was a messenger.
Rigel looked around, eyes slowly adjusting to the shadows. Amidst the rubble, she could make out the outline of Borgin curled around his shattered leg, moaning weakly. “Please, sir, please, whoever you are … no more…”
Rigel eased herself down to Borgin’s level. The shopkeeper made a funny noise, flinching away. She flicked the yew wand, and with a cry of pain, the man was hoisted into the air by his bad leg. Good. He would not soon forget what she was about to say. For the message, she chose a higher, more memorable voice, one closer to Harry’s own.
“You don’t know my name? All this, and I never properly introduced myself,” she said softly. “My, my… Where are my manners? I am Lord Voldemort.”