Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Unlikely
Politicking & Memories
0 reviewsRiddle and Ravenclaw!Harry travel to meet with the Emperor-at-Milan.
0Unrated
April 11th, 1997
The Palace of Milan was unlike anything that Harry had ever seen before. Reds and whites swirled together with the staircases in a way that hearkened back to Hogwarts, for all that they were totally stationary. The ceiling seemed to twist in on itself, and at times it seemed that he was looking at something from entirely the wrong point of view, from above when it should be from the side, or that things were much closer or further than they had appeared to be only moments before.
He remembered reading in someone’s mind, just a trace fact in response to a question from Professor Malfoy, that it had been so designed with defense in mind.
“The Palazzo Reale has its origins in the Dark Ages of Muggledom but came to be renovated and expanded over the centuries,” Voldemort explained to him as they walked through the halls. “At certain points in its history it even served as a fortress, and after the World Wizarding War it came to serve as a fortified seat of government again.”
He made a show of not looking at Harry too much, apparently to further put Harry at ease about his legilimency. The glasses that he now wore were a design known to Harry’s world as well, but they were generally regarded as a supremely useless invention for they could do nothing to protect the wearer from legilimency. They only prevented the wearer from using it, which was useless outside of unique situations such as these.
“After Grindelwald’s regrettable death— this was 1951, in case you never stole that date from anyone’s mind— the Empire fragmented, becoming those states which we refer to colloquially as Behemoth, Leviathan, and Ziz. The rightful heir to Grindelwald’s throne, Erardo Pizzimenti, took over the Palazzo Reale as his new seat in the face of the North’s defection and assumed the title ‘Emperor-at-Milan,’ and to make the place suitable for its newly-heightened stature he hired the architect Maurits Escher, a Muggle Dutchman by birth but Italian by marriage.”
“And this, Harry,” Voldemort said, gesturing to a sprightly man coming toward them, “is the Duke-Governor of Florence, Osvaldo Lazzara.” Voldemort gave a small bow, which was returned to him but with a deeper bend.
“Our gratitude to Hogwarts and the House of Windsor for your coming,” Osvaldo said.
“Nonsense,” Voldemort said. “Britain may be a free state, but what imperils her allies likewise imperils her borders. And if we are to be honest with each other,” he continued, pausing to confirm that the hall was empty, “if Britain is truly free then I am a dog. And dogs must come when the master calls, no?”
And if Voldemort was a lapdog then Harry was a rabbit.
“Osvaldo is one of our staunchest supporters in the Chamber of Duke-Governors. He and his friends keep a symbiotic coexistence from becoming an abusive relationship.”
“I wouldn’t be there to do it if Hogwarts and her Queen hadn’t supported me first.”
“No,” Voldemort agreed. He turned to Harry. “The Duke-Governor of Florence is set to succeed the Emperor-at-Milan, by law. It helps us greatly that both the Emperor and his successor are our friends.”
“It is almost time for us to be present,” Osvaldo said. “My apologies for not acknowledging you sooner, Miss Potter,” he added, and then he bowed for Harry. “This way.”
In the room that they entered there were eleven people seated around the curved side of a half-moon table, with seats for Harry, Voldemort, and Osvaldo, and on the other side sat the Emperor-at-Milan. He was a bald, hatchet-faced manwith beady, brown eyes. His advisers were a diverse mixture of Italians, Spaniards, French, and others, and wizards and witches and even a Muggle, according to Voldemort. Most, but not all, were Duke-Governors.
Osvaldo and Voldemort made obeisance to the Emperor, casting their eyes to the floor as they did so, and Harry followed their example.
“I am pleased that the envoy of Her Majesty Elizabeth could make it here,” the Emperor said. His voice was like molten brass. “Behemoth is going to war.”
“And we are going to meet them.” Voldemort took a seat, and Harry sat beside him.
“It is my understanding that you had prepared for this eventuality.”
“As you say.” He smiled, which made an ethereal sight when paired with his yellow glasses.
The details of the meeting were lost on Harry, but he understood some of the consequences. Voldemort had been given special dispensation to do and requisition whatever was necessary to stop the impending war or, if it could not be stopped, ensure that it ended in failure for Behemoth.
“The war can’t be stopped,” Voldemort told him after they had returned to his office at Hogwarts. “I don’t want it to, anyway. I would have started one myself if it had come to that.”
Of course he would have. What Voldemort said next, though, Harry hadn’t expected.
“Leviathan needs this war. Britain needs it. And truth be told, Behemoth needs it as well.”
“Why is that?”
”Because of…” Voldemort looked at him without speaking for so long that Harry began to worry if he’d failed to spot a flaw in the glasses when he’d examined them. “Because of a prophecy. This is how friendships are forged, by offering secrets. I’d like you to be your friend, Mister Potter.” Voldemort sighed. “I won’t bother you with the details, which merely identify the subject, but there are four lines that make her important. ‘The last hope of the sea, to reunite the brothers three and there rule long and justly reign, a Gilead ‘gainst the dawn’s mean wane.’ The sea is Britain and her territories, of course, and the brothers are the fragments of the Empire, disunited but not forever. Which, I surmise, must be so if Britain is to be preserved. The last hope of the sea,” he repeated.
“It’s your other Harry. The prophecy is about your other Harry.”
Voldemort nodded. “That was surprisingly quick of you. Are you the subject of prophecy yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t trouble you for the specifics. It isn’t my world. Unless you think it might concern mine?”
Harry shook his head. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Unless it was this Voldemort that it was talking about. “I don’t think that I can be your friend, though. Even with that news.”
“Don’t worry about it. No one can be my friend.” Voldemort didn’t look as troubled as Harry would have expected someone else to be. “But I take care of that which is mine. Now, would you like to see where we’re going? Our work for the Emperor will dovetail with our search for Grindelwald’s weapon.”
Voldemort lead him to a pensieve, and there Harry began to learn the road that Voldemort had already begun to trace out, starting with a few scenes of Grindelwald at the height of his power. His weapon was a long and beautiful wand that went alternately by the names Elder Wand and Deathstick, the latter of which Voldemort dismissed as being overly dramatic. Where the trail had gone cold for so many others
“As you will see in just a moment,” Voldemort soon said, “it was stolen before Grindelwald ever died.”
Years before, in fact, but few had cottoned on to that. Instead they continued to search for the replacement wand and they either failed for lack of skill or were too easily satisfied with what they discovered: a wand that may not have been the real thing but was nevertheless powerful in its own right.
From the thief it fell into the hands of an American warlord who carved out a dominion in the Sovereign Territories in the New World. Another American, a magical theorist from the Bloodworth Family, took it from him, but it disappeared for a couple of years when he went to Australia.
From the cult of the Spider Children it went to Argentina, and then back to the Old World in the Ukraine. From a golem fashioner to a wand-smith, to an alchemist. Roald Dahl made reference to it in a letter, having been shown the wand by a friend in France but not told its true nature, and it changed hands again.
Where it was now, Voldemort didn’t know, but he knew where he could find the man that had lost it: A small Belgian town, near the border dividing Leviathan and Behemoth.
The last hope of the sea
To reunite the brothers three
And there rule long and justly reign,
A Gilead ‘gainst the dawn’s mean wane.
The Palace of Milan was unlike anything that Harry had ever seen before. Reds and whites swirled together with the staircases in a way that hearkened back to Hogwarts, for all that they were totally stationary. The ceiling seemed to twist in on itself, and at times it seemed that he was looking at something from entirely the wrong point of view, from above when it should be from the side, or that things were much closer or further than they had appeared to be only moments before.
He remembered reading in someone’s mind, just a trace fact in response to a question from Professor Malfoy, that it had been so designed with defense in mind.
“The Palazzo Reale has its origins in the Dark Ages of Muggledom but came to be renovated and expanded over the centuries,” Voldemort explained to him as they walked through the halls. “At certain points in its history it even served as a fortress, and after the World Wizarding War it came to serve as a fortified seat of government again.”
He made a show of not looking at Harry too much, apparently to further put Harry at ease about his legilimency. The glasses that he now wore were a design known to Harry’s world as well, but they were generally regarded as a supremely useless invention for they could do nothing to protect the wearer from legilimency. They only prevented the wearer from using it, which was useless outside of unique situations such as these.
“After Grindelwald’s regrettable death— this was 1951, in case you never stole that date from anyone’s mind— the Empire fragmented, becoming those states which we refer to colloquially as Behemoth, Leviathan, and Ziz. The rightful heir to Grindelwald’s throne, Erardo Pizzimenti, took over the Palazzo Reale as his new seat in the face of the North’s defection and assumed the title ‘Emperor-at-Milan,’ and to make the place suitable for its newly-heightened stature he hired the architect Maurits Escher, a Muggle Dutchman by birth but Italian by marriage.”
“And this, Harry,” Voldemort said, gesturing to a sprightly man coming toward them, “is the Duke-Governor of Florence, Osvaldo Lazzara.” Voldemort gave a small bow, which was returned to him but with a deeper bend.
“Our gratitude to Hogwarts and the House of Windsor for your coming,” Osvaldo said.
“Nonsense,” Voldemort said. “Britain may be a free state, but what imperils her allies likewise imperils her borders. And if we are to be honest with each other,” he continued, pausing to confirm that the hall was empty, “if Britain is truly free then I am a dog. And dogs must come when the master calls, no?”
And if Voldemort was a lapdog then Harry was a rabbit.
“Osvaldo is one of our staunchest supporters in the Chamber of Duke-Governors. He and his friends keep a symbiotic coexistence from becoming an abusive relationship.”
“I wouldn’t be there to do it if Hogwarts and her Queen hadn’t supported me first.”
“No,” Voldemort agreed. He turned to Harry. “The Duke-Governor of Florence is set to succeed the Emperor-at-Milan, by law. It helps us greatly that both the Emperor and his successor are our friends.”
“It is almost time for us to be present,” Osvaldo said. “My apologies for not acknowledging you sooner, Miss Potter,” he added, and then he bowed for Harry. “This way.”
In the room that they entered there were eleven people seated around the curved side of a half-moon table, with seats for Harry, Voldemort, and Osvaldo, and on the other side sat the Emperor-at-Milan. He was a bald, hatchet-faced manwith beady, brown eyes. His advisers were a diverse mixture of Italians, Spaniards, French, and others, and wizards and witches and even a Muggle, according to Voldemort. Most, but not all, were Duke-Governors.
Osvaldo and Voldemort made obeisance to the Emperor, casting their eyes to the floor as they did so, and Harry followed their example.
“I am pleased that the envoy of Her Majesty Elizabeth could make it here,” the Emperor said. His voice was like molten brass. “Behemoth is going to war.”
“And we are going to meet them.” Voldemort took a seat, and Harry sat beside him.
“It is my understanding that you had prepared for this eventuality.”
“As you say.” He smiled, which made an ethereal sight when paired with his yellow glasses.
The details of the meeting were lost on Harry, but he understood some of the consequences. Voldemort had been given special dispensation to do and requisition whatever was necessary to stop the impending war or, if it could not be stopped, ensure that it ended in failure for Behemoth.
“The war can’t be stopped,” Voldemort told him after they had returned to his office at Hogwarts. “I don’t want it to, anyway. I would have started one myself if it had come to that.”
Of course he would have. What Voldemort said next, though, Harry hadn’t expected.
“Leviathan needs this war. Britain needs it. And truth be told, Behemoth needs it as well.”
“Why is that?”
”Because of…” Voldemort looked at him without speaking for so long that Harry began to worry if he’d failed to spot a flaw in the glasses when he’d examined them. “Because of a prophecy. This is how friendships are forged, by offering secrets. I’d like you to be your friend, Mister Potter.” Voldemort sighed. “I won’t bother you with the details, which merely identify the subject, but there are four lines that make her important. ‘The last hope of the sea, to reunite the brothers three and there rule long and justly reign, a Gilead ‘gainst the dawn’s mean wane.’ The sea is Britain and her territories, of course, and the brothers are the fragments of the Empire, disunited but not forever. Which, I surmise, must be so if Britain is to be preserved. The last hope of the sea,” he repeated.
“It’s your other Harry. The prophecy is about your other Harry.”
Voldemort nodded. “That was surprisingly quick of you. Are you the subject of prophecy yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t trouble you for the specifics. It isn’t my world. Unless you think it might concern mine?”
Harry shook his head. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Unless it was this Voldemort that it was talking about. “I don’t think that I can be your friend, though. Even with that news.”
“Don’t worry about it. No one can be my friend.” Voldemort didn’t look as troubled as Harry would have expected someone else to be. “But I take care of that which is mine. Now, would you like to see where we’re going? Our work for the Emperor will dovetail with our search for Grindelwald’s weapon.”
Voldemort lead him to a pensieve, and there Harry began to learn the road that Voldemort had already begun to trace out, starting with a few scenes of Grindelwald at the height of his power. His weapon was a long and beautiful wand that went alternately by the names Elder Wand and Deathstick, the latter of which Voldemort dismissed as being overly dramatic. Where the trail had gone cold for so many others
“As you will see in just a moment,” Voldemort soon said, “it was stolen before Grindelwald ever died.”
Years before, in fact, but few had cottoned on to that. Instead they continued to search for the replacement wand and they either failed for lack of skill or were too easily satisfied with what they discovered: a wand that may not have been the real thing but was nevertheless powerful in its own right.
From the thief it fell into the hands of an American warlord who carved out a dominion in the Sovereign Territories in the New World. Another American, a magical theorist from the Bloodworth Family, took it from him, but it disappeared for a couple of years when he went to Australia.
From the cult of the Spider Children it went to Argentina, and then back to the Old World in the Ukraine. From a golem fashioner to a wand-smith, to an alchemist. Roald Dahl made reference to it in a letter, having been shown the wand by a friend in France but not told its true nature, and it changed hands again.
Where it was now, Voldemort didn’t know, but he knew where he could find the man that had lost it: A small Belgian town, near the border dividing Leviathan and Behemoth.
The last hope of the sea
To reunite the brothers three
And there rule long and justly reign,
A Gilead ‘gainst the dawn’s mean wane.
Sign up to rate and review this story