Chapter Text
The first he heard from Roy Mustang was in a letter from young Crouch. He knew all too well that his most loyal follower would love to visit him in person, but unlike so many other of his loyal followers, Barty had a profound sense of loyalty coupled with pragmatism and wouldn't risk blowing his cover.
Wormrail shakily read the 5 page long report, going over each word carefully as not to misread anything. And because this poor excuse of a body came with skewed and inferior senses.
The report on the Triwizard Tournament was wholly as he expected, and the same went for Crouch's assessment of the Potter boy. However, what caught him off guard is the detailed account delivered about one intrepid young alchemist. A man that caught Dumbledore's attention by acquiring for his whereabouts. Not those of Lord Voldemort, but of Tom Marvello Riddle. That alone was enough to pique his curiosity as well.
He had abandoned that name decades ago, preferring the moniker of "Lord Voldemort'' nowadays. The only possible people that could be interested in his old persona were those that made the connection between the two and are seeking to destroy him. Or are too fearful to come forth and knew better than to speak of what they knew. Everybody else was dead and buried. Besides that, this intrepid young alchemist apparently knew nothing about the connection, at least that was until the old buffoon had enlightened him.
And there was all that talk about the Philosopher's Stone. It seems like this Roy Mustang knew how to make one, that was something that really aroused the Dark Lord's curiosity. Ever since coming back to Britain on the back of Quirrel's head, the thought of that artefact had haunted him.
While his horcruxes prevented him from truly dying, the Killing Curse had bereft him of his body. With that flash of green light came the clarity that he had made a grave mistake - when somebody lands the killing blow, then what of his body? Turning into a wraith was something he never wanted to endure again; being in such a pitiful state was a blow to his pride. Not to mention how impractical he was, how vulnerable he was. The Stone could solve that problem and make his immortality complete.
Clever as he was, Barty had included a vial with the memory of that encounter in his post. Sadly, there wasn't any Pensieve around so he had to settle viewing the memory the hard way. It was a subclass of Legilimens that was rather obscure because unlike a pensieve it was complicated and didn't grant the benefit of emotional distance; and it meant having to make do with the murkiness that is so typical of most people's memories.
So it was unsurprising when he delved into the recollection and spots of the Headmaster's Offices were fudged out, as if looking through opaque glass and he felt the alien thrums of Crouch's anger and frustration.
“You must be Mr. Mustang,” it is Dumbledore that spoke, standing by the window, wearing a ridiculous combination of clothes, as was so typical of him. Voldemort wondered to himself if the position the Hogwarts Headmaster had been in had been carefully planned. As much as his former Transfiguration Professor loved to play the part of a wise, benevolent old man, he knew that he was the sort to weigh every word and calculate every action. In that way, they weren't so different.
“Take a seat, please,” the memory said next and gestured towards the desk. The words had been directed at a young man with jet black hair and a modest taste in clothing. He had the angular features and good facial symmetry that the female population usually takes a liking to, and a posture that spoke of a good upbringing.
Sadly, Barty had stood to the side of the man, so he couldn't fully take in the expressions the guest made. It becomes even worse when his Death Eater settled against the wall and Mustang seated himself in a chair.
“Thank you, ” said the foreigner, with the anticipation that is expected from a guest, and a guest that wants something nevertheless. There was a strange accent to that voice, one that the Dark Lord can't fully place. Something Germanic but from where? Belgium, Germany, Austria, the Netherlands?
“I admit I wasn’t expecting you could spare a moment to meet with me so soon when I wrote to you,” the alchemist admitted and that alone said a lot. Of course Dumbledore had never believed in his death, so much the Dark Lord gathered before, but how quickly he jumped at even the slightest whisper of his old name. It was rather pathetic. It would be more understandable if he were the one reacting in such a fashion, since he had so much more to lose from people poking around in his past.
On that note, why was this stranger interested in him? From the letter Voldemort knew that his spy hadn't gotten straight answers out of that man. Perhaps a scholar's quirk, considering he was a self-proclaimed alchemist, perhaps something more.
“I was most curious to learn you are looking for Tom. Although I didn’t expect you to be quite so young.”
Neither had he for that matter. But considering that the Philosopher's Stone was mentioned in the letter, is this man using the alchemical creation to continuously rejuvenate himself?
“I hear that a lot,”
Or it could be that he really was just young and a protege in his field. Or an arrogant upstart that held himself in too high regard. Despite what everybody believes, hiding such things as being ageless from everybody was extremely difficult. Somebody is always bound to piece the clues together.
“May I ask why the interest in Tom?”
Now that was something he wanted to know as well. Why was he interested in Tom Riddle?
“I’m just working on a project and I need to ask him a few questions.”
He felt his physical body croak out a laugh at that. If it hadn't been clear before it was clear now - Mustang had no idea of what became of Tom Riddle. The naivety on display was nearly endearing and he could feel his shallow emotions echoed to a much deeper extent by Barty Crouch.
“Project?” , Dumbledore questioned, managing to inject as much innocent curiosity in that single word as humanly possible. Knowing the old croon as he did, he didn't doubt that he was itching to whip out the Veritaserum and make Mustang chug the whole vial, because as much as the warlock liked to preach about morals and love, he knew that his nemesis was rotten at the core. It was really hypocrisy at its finest.
“As a fellow researcher, I’m sure you understand my reticence to share what I’m working on.”
Mysterious as well! This person was becoming more interesting and entertaining by the second. No doubt Albus was trying to poke around that mind, trying desperately to uncover his guest's intentions. Morals are only on the table when they are convenient, after all.
If Mustang were wiser, he would have known that drawing that line in the sand would worsen his standing in his host's eyes. Either this foreigner was completely foolish or had massive gaps in his knowledge. Could it be that he had been sent on here on this quest on the behest of someone else?
The wizard felt the impatience and derision of the memory owner finally win over and after a scoff, a sharp remark:
“Cut to the chase, Albus. Why the hell are you looking for Riddle, Mustang? Are you interested in the Dark Arts?”
“Not in the slightest,” the person in question answered, not even turning around to address the false Mad-Eye. Brave as well as foolish? Or just brave with the intellect and self-respect to back it up? At least there is none of that simpering wonder that so many people display when they encounter Albus Dumbledore so it can very well be the latter.
“Do you know who Tom Riddle is?”
Gone was the affable masquerade and now piercing blue eyes sharply regarded the alchemist. He would have loved to see the expression Mustang was wearing but with how things were, he had to settle with observing the line of his shoulders. Surprisingly, they remained easy and relaxed.
Did he realise yet that he was way out of his depth yet?
“Enlighten me.”
An admission? At least this man was honest.
“Sometime during his school years, Tom decided to discard his birth name and adopt a new one, the name he has been using ever since and the reason why you haven’t managed to locate him: Lord Voldemort.”
A pregnant moment of silence followed. A part of Voldemort was upset that Dumbledore so cavalierly went ahead and revealed a part of the past best buried and forgotten but the other part wanted to see all those hints of fear. Yes, Crouch had mentioned in his correspondence that Mustang had been strangely nonchalant about the reveal, but they both knew that the master could sense fear like a shark could smell blood. This might just be a memory, fuzzy around the edges and tainted by emotion, but there was always body language, there was always the way pupils would dilate and muscles tense before emotions could be fully hidden.
“Isn’t he supposed to be dead?” Mustang asked, and it didn’t sound like a question that stemmed from astonishment, or the hope that the worst possible answer wasn’t the one that was true. No, there was a slight note of irritation in his voice and no disbelief. Another person that had cued on his bid for immortality?
“What makes you think he isn’t?” came the answer without a moment's hesitation. This was one of the games Dumbledore so excelled at playing.
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if he was.” Mustang smartly replied. So this was a person that possessed a degree of social intelligence as well. Not very typical for scholars.
Of course, the Dark Lord couldn’t claim to be leagues better - upon his ascent, he had cast off the unnecessary deference to most social mores. He has the greatest and most terrible sorcerer that ever lived, why should he have the same social constructs apply to him? He had spent half of his life humouring the petty standards people pressed out others and themselves but now that was no longer needed.
He almost pitied Barty for having to put up such a charade.
“Whatever. Now that you know, you should focus on something else, boy.” It was the fake Moody that said this and Voldemort had to commend Crouch for being such a fantastic actor; the real Moody would have probably said something similar. However, Mustang didn’t show any noteworthy reaction to the jibe.
“I’m afraid that’s not an option,” the alchemist replied, resolute in his choice. Now this was interesting. Was the tale about the project just a charade? Most likely if he hasn't been frightened by the revelation. But that gave rise to more questions than answers. What the blazes did Roy Mustang want from him then?
“Why is that?” Dumbledore asked, the old man sharing his sentiments for once.
In turn, Mustang's shoulders raised slightly and the wizard was sure there was a hardened expression on the youth's visage. It seemed like he had arrived at a conclusion. And thus he stated a term:
“Before I answer that question, would you mind answering something for me?”
“I can’t promise I will, but you may ask.”
And if that wasn’t a typical answer the famed Mugwump would give. Derrison spiked in Voldemort's mind, making the memory waver slightly
“Did Nicolas Flamel ever tell you the process to create a Philosopher’s Stone?” , Mustang asked, with every line of his body conveying the seriousness of the subject matter. Well, that was a way of dropping an incendio in the middle of the room.
Another astounding fact was how grief and bitterness spread across that old face. The Dark Lord could feel Barty’s confusion and surprise about the sudden change in the tone of the conversation. When before, it had been clear that Albus had been probing and prying at Mustang, now the tables were turned. This, after all, was a question that implied knowledge, it carried an underlying statement.
I know how to make a Philosopher’s Stone and I want to know, if you know as well.
Though, now it was also very apparent why his faithful servant had sent a memory of this encounter. This was something that had to be seen to be fully understood. And what he understood was that Roy Mustang was a protege, a resource that he had to obtain. From how he conversed with Dumbledore, it was also clear that this man would never be fully subservient to the other, or take his word as the gospel truth.
Did that mean he could pull Mustang to view the world from his point of view? The idea held a deep allure to it. He had never really developed a taste for alchemy, finding it to be one of the more esoteric branches of magic that operated on its own bizarre brand of logic. Besides, he found the principle of giving something in order to complete the equivalent exchange rather unappealing. So having somebody at his side, somebody that could create something so powerful for him that could just as well ensure his invulnerability was immensely appealing. The thought excited him, even.
“Not for a long time. He just told me it was best for me if I didn’t know, no matter how many times I asked him. But at the end, before he destroyed the Stone, he explained everything.” Dumbledore explained, and Voldemort was pleased to note the grief and bitterness in his voice. Anything that pained his ex-Professor, that proved his lofty ideals of friendship and love just to be flaws, pleased the Lord.
“Would you make one?”
There was an edge to that question, an edge, an ultimatum. Ah, and wasn’t it refreshing to know that there was a person that wouldn’t cover in fear or stare up in awe at the vanquisher of Grindelwald?
“Never. You?”
“Under no circumstances.”
That was interesting. The one thing that he did know about alchemy was that it operated on the so-called Principle of Equivalent Exchange. Deriving from Dumbledore’s and Mustangs’s conversation, and that law of alchemy, he could guess that the price that had to be paid was a hefty one, one that probably broke quite a few taboos. What could they be? The slaughter of some magical creature? He had had Quirell kill unicorns and drink their blood a few years back, all so that he could gain a more palpable form. Whatever it was that was required to create a stone, and could be sure that he wouldn’t hesitate.
Sentimental fools and all their supposed morals. Though, it did provide him with another tidbit about Mustang - he was empathetic, probably even an idealist at heart. He would have to be treated with care, persuaded, coaxed into revealing his secrets. From what he could read of the man, Mustang must have had a difficult and harsh life. Likely a man that had been put through the meat grinder and therefore had been forced to develop a steadfast character. But he was young, and inexperienced and such people commonly believed that they had the world all worked out.
Surely if thrown into the heat of battle, Mustang’s cockiness would cost him dearly. The sword went over the pen in such situations, a fact some scholars only accepted in their dying breaths. If the alchemist wasn’t careful, he would meet that exact fate.
They both seemed to reach an unspoken agreement and then Albus shifted to address the Defense professor.
“This conversation is going to take some time, I’m afraid. Maybe you should return to your duties, Alastor,”
“If you’re sure,” Barty said and left, but not before tacking something on: “You should be careful about bringing things like the Philosopher’s Stone into a conversation, Mustang.”
And wiser words couldn’t have been said, because now Lord Voldemort had set his sights on Roy Mustang