⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟗, 𝟏𝟗𝟑𝟏

⋆

𝙇𝙤𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙣, 𝙁𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚.

Albus considered himself a good man – a great one, even – and that was why he had to do this. He was in a small village in France, quaint? Absolutely, but not somewhere you'd expect the Ravenclaw line to settle. It took quite a bit of his resources to track them down, he had his best men in the Auror department following leads for nearly a year, and the little cottage in front of him proved to be quite an anticlimactic culmination for all those efforts.

A first-generation squib from a local wandmaking family – the Beauchênes – and a fourth-generation squib – nearly a muggle, really, had decided to come together and birth a threat to his future position in the wizarding world. A small girl of 2 years with an active magical core, and a direct connection to the Most Ancient And Superior House of Ravenclaw. He couldn't let that stand.

Oh well, Gellert had always said he had a bloodthirsty streak in him, his lover will also happily bear the blame for this senseless attack on a magical family – no one would blame Dumbledore for it, not without repercussions at the least. Sure, he didn't have the means for exacting such revenge now, but he would, as soon as he got rid of all those pesky Founders' heirs.

The parents went in a quick burst of green, useless as they were, and he was quick to stun the girl once she started shrieking. He'll have to do something about her memory – those honey brown eyes were unnaturally perceptive for her age – he found himself avoiding her frozen, resentful stare.

He sat down in one of the kitchen chairs after setting a pot on the stove, taking the time to admire his handywork. He frowned after a second and with a flourish of his wand the bodies of Brigitte Corbeau – raven in French, how clever – and Claude Beauchêne arranged themselves a bit more naturally, he could feel wee Odette's gaze boring into the side of his head but he ignored her. Besides, its not like he was in a rush, Gellert had told him to take his time because he needed to prepare the ritual room for the girl, and the kettle hasn't even gone off yet! The girl could do with learning some patience.

*whistle*

Did you know, muggle contraptions were such fickle things, entirely untrustworthy and downright dangerous if handled improperly – quite like their inventors. If you left the iron – an aptly named muggle alternative to the ironing charm – on for too long, it could combust and make the entire house catch fire.

*whistle*

He rearranged their bodies once more – he never seemed to get it quite right – and made to get up.

*whistle*

He strengthened the spell immobilizing the girl and summoned her body to him.

*whistle*

He turned on the spot and they were gone.

*whistle*

Same rule seemed to apply to the kettle.

⋆

𝙐𝙣𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙂𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮.

"Did you get the girl? I've been ready for an hour."

His lover seemed to be impatient today, never mind, they'll have the core binding ritual over with soon – a mere formality, really – and then they would move on to the more exciting things. He already had a model in mind for the glamour (an unfortune looking past student of his), and a magically-extended trunkload of aditional changes. 

Ah, such were the wonders of magic.

"Of course beloved, she's right here."

⋆

𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣, 𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝘽𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣.

It took them the better half of the day to finish the rituals, the girl was rather unrecognizable to those who once knew her – and weren't dead – by the time they were finished. Gellert cackling madly while he wore his genial smile. He fabricated the basic papers necessary to prove the girl's existance as a recently orphaned British citizen – not taking much care with them, perhaps he should've – and placed them inside her clutched hands.

Then it was only a matter of using the Imperious curse for her to stiffly pass the wrought iron gate of St. Joan's Catholic Orphanage for Girls – he wasn't foolish enough to send her to Wool's after all. He continued by commanding her to go up the entrance steps, and knock on the door. After a few minutes, a nun answered and ushered her inside – no questions asked.

He was gone with a *crack* of displaced air – he had a seventh year Transfiguration class in half an hour.

⋆

The next day, a closed Wizengamot session – Merlin, he had good friends in high places, soon he wouldn't even need them – ruled in favor of assigning him as poor Myrtle Elizabeth Warren's magical guardian, due to the fact that it was he who rescued her from that housefire – according to his own genuine memories, of course. 

It was a quick and lackluster trial, which meant he didn't throw that big of a tantrum when the Gringotts bankers gleefully let him know that being the heiress' magical guardian didn't entitle him to her vaults, properties or Wizengamot votes – filthy goblins. It was of no matter, really, he had ascertained after he calmed down enough to think clearly, he'd find a way around the restrictions somehow – perhaps a contract of some sort.

⋆

A/n I swear I'm pro-murder spouses, this chapter is a statistical outlier and should not be counted against me. Unfun fact, a kettle explosion did cause a housefire that killed people in 2015, so this wasn't completly pulled out of my ass.