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Chapter Text

It rages, hot and molten. Flashes of scarlet waves blaze and encircle her. She feels their scalding tendrils latch onto flesh and mar unmarked skin—thousands of needles piercing her body. The pain is numbing, blinding, and the shrill voice that breaks from her chest in a scream is foreign in her ears. Then, her eyes jolt open and glaring white is all she sees.

“…m…God! She’s awake! Get…! Miss Hill is awake!” a voice soft, feminine, and panicked shouts.

Miss Hill? Her eyes shut tight, letting just the faintest dusty pink reach her corneas. She only uses that title for her mother. Normally, everyone calls her…. Her brows pinch. The pungent smell of something rotten and old shrouded in a thick mask of antiseptic wafts by.

Right, Irene. Right.

It’s the shouting, the scents that make it so terribly difficult to think as she rattles around in her addled mind. She remembers the flames. The fire. How it had crept over her and seared flesh. Reflexively, she reaches for her shoulder. Coarse cloth sands at her palms.

She’s been bandaged.

She blinks, eyes widening. It would only make sense that she’s in a hospital. She’s injured. And the smell. Irene’s nose wrinkles up. What other facility could both smell like the dead and ethanol at the same time. “Maybe a morgue,” she mumbles to herself, eyes wandering about.

It’s chaotic. Footsteps storming to and fro.

She palms the thin pink blanket overtop her as the metal-framed bed creaks beneath. Ivory cotton privacy curtains box her in but leave an open view of the ward outside her space. Nurses in white cycle through her room and out to the other patients. They try talking, but Irene can’t seem to focus or perhaps hear—she’s not entirely certain—too busy tracing tiled walls and ceiling panels accompanied by hanging light fixtures as mouths move soundlessly around her. Everything feels off in this facility.

Something’s wrong.

She feels wrong. Her teeth worry at her bottom lip. How long has she been here? Metal-wire beds and thin cotton blankets line the walls opposite of her while additional partitions of cloth separate and supply privacy to the injured and diseased. She runs her hand along the bandages again. It’s been long enough for the searing pain of her injuries to dull to an ache. She blinks.

How did this happen in the first place? She remembers the flames, but—

Irene doubles over clutching her skull. Her head throbs angrily and insistently. With every thought her mind rattles in protest. She wants to know but the pain…. It’s too much. She drops her inquiries. Overextending herself right now isn’t a good idea. Irene massages the back of her neck, the horrid pounding already receding to a dull pulse. A cold sweat’s developed on her skin—her lack of answers continuing to seep through in anxious perspiration.

“…iss…Miss. I don’t think she can hear us.” The woman to her right is charting something. It’s only now Irene realizes the nurse looks like she’s cosplaying in that outfit of hers—a white and red-lined dress paired with a small hat.

“I’ll check.” The doctor walks to the side of her bed.

Irene opens her mouth. Hot air rushes out and her voice cracks. She coughs—sharp and dry. It’s a struggle but her stiff throat coats and she manages to squeak out a question, “I-how long have I been here?”

“Are you having any trouble hearing?” The Doc has his scope in her ear while he asks, completely ignoring her inquiry.

“No.” She’s just a little overwhelmed.

“You’ve been unconscious for about a week now.” He asks her to open her mouth and she complies. He continues to evaluate her before speaking again. “You’re lucky your burns weren’t as severe as the witnesses reported. Most of your injuries are superficial although perhaps there will be some minor nerve damage. We believe it was the shock that left you in a coma.” He frowns and pulls away from her to chart a few observations on his clipboard.

Her fingers thread her shirt hem. Witnesses? Did the apartment complex or shop catch fire? Nothing’s ringing any bells, her memories remain elusive and jumbled. “I…I can’t quite remember what happened.”

The Doc’s lips purse. “You don’t remember?” There’s a significant knot in the man’s brows that sets Irene on edge. Did she just land herself a psych evaluation?

“I can feel the flames, see the fire.” She winces and her head throbs. “But I don’t recall what caused it. What happened?” she asks again with more force.

“The authorities believe you accidentally stumbled upon an inert explosive. Probably rummaging around where you shouldn’t have been. The reports indicate that something on your person detonated, luckily limiting the victims to one.”

Irene’s brow twitches at the tone. The hint of disgust tells her he holds no sympathy for her situation. She wonders if it has to do with who she is. She runs a hand through her long jet-black hair, greasy and matted from her time unconscious.

“What is the last thing you remember?” The man asks, fingers patiently waiting to chart God knows what with her next words.

There’s a moment when it occurs to her. If she’s a completely blank slate thit could mean a one-way ticket to the asylum. Heaven knows her sort isn’t exactly welcomed into the community. She pushes through the pain and tries to remember something, anything. Her head pulses as she attempts to sort through the tangled cluster that’s her mind.

She gets flashes, pieces of something. A plane, garden shop, a book, her pet cat Horace. They don’t make much sense. A collection of half scenes, fragments of what once was whole. When she pushes harder—blood vessels popping—she sees something new.

A woman. Red lies in ribbons over her body that’s strewn across a mound of rubble, evidence of an air raid. Irene’s breathing accelerates. She doesn’t want to look, to know. The woman’s golden hair is a matted flaxen, her clear blue eyes an unseeing dull grey, and skin a sickly blue pallor over what was once rosy-pink. Irene’s stomach flips.

Mom.

She leans over the bed’s edge and retches.

When she manages to clean her mouth—after a nurse hands her a handkerchief. She replies, “the Blitz…my mother,” her words trail off as she vacantly stares into white sheets.

Her answer prompts murmurs from the nurses standing and watching them from the ward’s hall. Heavy handed scrawl scratches across paper as the doctor writes something into the chart he holds. This gives her a good idea that something’s amiss before the Doc says, “I’m afraid the Blitz was nearly a year ago. It’s currently the eleventh of February, 1942.”

“But the nineteen forties were nearly a century ago?” is her first thought, and isn’t that absurd? She’s probably still in shock or something. Tag on the fact that they’re in the midst of a war, she’s lived the Blitz, and saw her mom lying dead after the air raids, it’s no wonder she’s losing her mind. She swallows, feels the accompanying heartbreak and hollowness of grief and the utter, terrifying sense of wrongness.

“It is the nineteen forties,” she reassures herself.

But then why does she know with absolute certainty that the war will end in 1945? Why does everything looks so outdated? The dangling ceiling fans are mismatched with memories of florescent square lights. Stiff metal-wire cots awkwardly clash with the familiarity of plush, adjustable beds. Flashes of something pass—memories of things that can’t be possible.

She grips her shirt’s hem, feeling the rough linen grind into her palm. Maybe her mother’s chatter about past-er, future lives held some truth.

Or perhaps she’s gone around the bend.

A confusingly quick week passes.

Irene imagined the stress of dealing with the police would create the illusion of time passing slowly but nothing of the sort happens. In fact, despite the overwhelming stress of lying to the authorities—if only to avoid placement in an orphanage—they hadn’t noticed a single thing amiss with her thinly-veiled lies that her ‘grandmother’ was just out of the city at the moment. She scoffs. Her real grandma probably thinks she would be better off never being born—monstrous half-breed that she is.

Worrying at her lip, Irene slumps back into her chair. Shouldn’t the police have been more suspicious that a week-long coma didn’t upend her sweet grandmother’s trip with an abrupt return? But no, they were quite happy to close the case and leave her be after taking her statement, confirming her citizenship, and returning a few damaged beyond repair items found at the scene.

Crinkled evidence of her place of birth mocks her as it sits atop the brown table that had seated two and now only seats an occupant of one. She pushes from her chair with a rickety squeak while pale fingers card through onyx locks; the irrational impulse to rip and tear at it lingers as she feels the strands flutter across her palm. It was so much easier when mom was around. Now she has to fight tooth and nail to belong, to exist.

Irene pads to the corner desk to file away her crumpled birth certificate. She does her best to smooth out its edges before closing the drawer. As she slumps over the desk, fatigue tugging at her body, she rubs her shoulder. The wrinkly, scarred mass of skin atop her arm shifts slightly under her touch.

It’s an ugly thing, not something a woman would want on her skin in this day and age. She’s fifteen, barely passed puberty, but old enough that marriage is on the table. The mark will bring down her ‘value.’ She frowns. Her mom would probably chide her for such thoughts. But she never had to worry about things like that before. The store and occasional begging of her mother to her wealthy grandparents were enough to support the two of them comfortably.

Now the threat of an orphanage looms behind her while the likelihood of ending up destitute rises every passing day. She bites her lip and pivots to check the savings box. An intricately carved wooden container sits on the bookshelf. It’s an antique given to her mother from her father as a birthday gift. Apparently, that was just before he was deported, or as mom used to claim, ‘ran away.’ Irene presses a notch on the bottom of the box.

Click.

The top pops open and she removes the lid. A few notes, coins, and jewelry sparsely cover the bottom of the satin-lined box. After the hospital bills and declining sales from the store, she’s now less than two months away from homelessness and that’s if she limits her meals to one a day. Covering the container, she pushes it to the back of the shelf once more. She could sell her mother’s jewelry to stretch for another month, but she’d rather die or get adopted by a pedophile than let go of her mom’s things.

Almost on cue, or perhaps provoked by thoughts of eating, Irene’s stomach rumbles in protest. She wanders to the kitchen in a daze. She has nothing to do now but sell what’s left of the store’s inventory and wait until she ends up penniless. Thoughts of the future seem dull and dark; thoughts of the past threaten to drown her in grief. Irene stubbornly keeps herself from thinking of her last memories as she opens the cupboard and plucks a tin from the shelf. Opening it reveals nothing but crumbs.

The whine that echoes is embarrassingly pitiful. It’s the final straw, an empty biscuit tin.

She curls in on herself—knees tucked to her chest. How did she manage to make it nearly two years on her own? The loneliness is stifling, suffocating. Her mother’s presence is everywhere tainted with the grief still fresh in her mind from that cursed accident. It’s all consuming, as if her heart has been ripped from its case and replaced with a bottomless chasm. It sucks her in with an insatiable sorrow whenever it can, whenever there’s pause. She runs from it every chance she gets for fear that if she stops, she won’t be able to prevent the spiral of what-ifs. But as she shrinks into a ball on the kitchen floor, she can’t run any longer—fatigue locking her in its grasp. The waves crash over her, regret and nostalgia rising high enough that she can’t catch her breath. Her lungs hitch and rasp as wet streams rain down her cheeks.

In this silent house, once filled with her mom’s endless, hearing-impaired singing and her own jovial, mocking laughter, her cries are deafening.

In mourning, she lets grief take hold of her.

Time passes while she wallows in her own self-pity and heartbreak, at first only sorrowful wailing but then transformed into calamitous agony. Irene wrenches the cupboards and drawers open, grabbing and throwing whatever she can get her hands on. Glass cups shatter against the wall, while metal trays bounce off the ground. It’s loud enough to cause a disturbance as she screams and throws things about, anguished, but her neighbors are used to as much noise living in the ‘economically disadvantaged’ side of London. She wraps her claws around a box of hotcake mix and pitches it at the wall.

It’s nothing but destructive, yet it frees her in its annihilation until the room is a perfect mirror of her soul.

The ache of her stomach and its vengeful anger at her neglect is what snaps her to stop. She stumbles down, back sliding against the sink’s cabinet to sit on the kitchen floor once more. She breathes out heavily, exertion plain across her face.

It looks like a bomb went off in the room. Dishes, tins, and even some food are broken, scattered, and splattered across the floor. She really did a number in her misery. Sighing, she picks a silver platter from the ground beside her. Her manic face reflects against the dish. With swollen red discoloration around her sharp dark eyes, sweat covered hair clinging to her angular cheeks, and flour speckled across her skin, she can’t help but double over. Laughter is choked out of her at the horrible sight she makes. A “right mess,” is the only appropriate descriptor.

Her stomach grumbles.

Irene begins the toil of cleaning up before preparing a meal. She feels her soul stitch back together with every dish properly stowed away in their rightful place. However, all of the patches of flour and crumbs are impossible to clean with a broom. It’s times like these that she remembers her ‘other’ life, as she’s starting to refer to it as—rather than calling them her psychotic delusions. God, she’d kill for a vacuum at this moment, if only they weren’t considered a luxury product. She continues scrubbing and brushing until the kitchen is in order.

Her stomach rumbles again—acid beginning to eat at its lining.

Diligently, she boils and mashes a potato with salt and pepper. It sits on the plate, a bland shade of white. Her go-to meal for the next several weeks. She grimaces and picks up her fork. The bite is about as fulfilling as she feared. Fuck. She could really go for some pork belly right—

Poof!

A puff of smoke expands then dissolves. She blinks. Her eyes widen to her brows. Succulent red glaze shimmers over tender chunky slices of pork. Perfectly fresh scallions are sprinkled over the dish which has taken place of her potato. Irene rubs her eyes. When she opens them, the food is still there. Blood of the Virgin Mary. She leans in and…sniffs.

Oh, God.

She salivates to the mouthwatering scent. Then her fork is upon the food, and the dish is in her stomach seconds later. The satisfying rumble of her stomach brings an end to her meal. She leans into her chair all smiles, momentarily forgetting her stroke of magic. When her dull mind catches up, she springs to her feet.

“How the fuck!?” she blurts.

Irene paces about the table staring at the empty plate. “That happened,” she reminds herself trying to preserve the memory. Well, if she’s going to have fragments of another time, it’s only fitting to give her some sort of power. She cards her fingers through her hair. It’s just like one of those sci-fi books the other her liked so much—characters gaining powers after some sort of incident.

Irene stops her prowling and turns to her dish. Pork belly, biscuits, dumplings. Her mind repeats the thought almost chanting, but nothing happens. No cloud of smoke. Nothing.

She grumbles. There’s always something else to try. She takes her plate to the kitchen and places it in the sink. Stretching her hand towards the tiled floor, she mumbles a barely audible, “fireball.” Again, nothing happens. Okay. Maybe it was the conviction.

“Fireball!”

Nothing but silence answers.

Her cheeks flare pink. However, going this far she doubles down.

“Menu!” she tries. “Status!” There’s no floating screen of course. She huffs. “Embiggen!” Her arm doesn’t enlarge to her disappointment. “Flame on!” No fire, just her pale skin. She chews at the inside of her cheeks which are now a bright red. “Ugh, fine. Arise! Moon Prism Power, Make up! Shazam…!” There’s no pause between chants as she continues and eventually exhausts her extensive list of superhero-powerups.

At the end of her attempts, she’s left rightfully embarrassed and mortified at her own insanity. Bloody Hell. At least no one is there to watch her descent into madness. Irene drags her hand down her face and makes for the bathroom. It’s time to take a shower and get ready for bed. Maybe she can read one of her mother’s books before sleeping. She opens the door; a round black bug skitters across the floor. She slips a house shoe off and wields it to strike.

Before the eventual slap descends, she twirls her shoe lazily and shouts, “Stupefy!” as she lunges. A red-light flares from the end of her slipper. It shoots and strikes true, leaving nothing but a black smudge in place of the roach. Her house shoe lands a second after with a lackluster plop.

Her jaw slackens as she slowly picks the slipper back up. She stares at the fresh scorch marks. “A touch overpowered for a stunning spell,” she thinks a bit hysterically. But the dinner is fresh on her mind—the sudden replacement of her potatoes with pork. Transfigurations and now charms…. There’s only one answer.

Harry Bloody Potter.

Chapter Text

There’s not much to think about, or maybe there’s too much to think about. Regardless, Irene has chosen to simply ignore it. If she’s clinically insane, her delusions won’t be able to keep up with reality anyway, but now—walking around the barren streets of magical London—she’s almost ninety percent certain that she doesn’t have the vivid imagination capable of picturing something the scope of this.

Buildings of crooked and strange proportions line the cobblestone streets, some painted garish shades while others hold steadfast tradition. The windows of various shops and eateries showcase their most magical and obscure findings. Irene’s passed a few moving picture books, flying broomsticks, and magical creatures.

As her shoes clack against stone, hags in rags cup their hands for spare change as the few patrons of the alley—wizards and witches wearing the most peculiar pointy hats and robes—shuffle hurriedly to their destinations. Frankly, everyone looks a tad nervous. Irene’s certain there’s something she’s missing from the picture, but for now, she has some personal matters to handle. She pats out her skirt’s pleats, ignoring the blatant differences between her clothes and the other patrons and moves forward.

Flecks of golden dance across the marble steps to Gringotts Bank reflecting the early morning sun. The pristinely white building towers and looms ahead of her, its columns thick, oppressive, and, well, slanted. It’s a bit crooked. Irene wonders if structural integrity simply doesn’t apply to magical folk as she stands and takes a deep breath. Her hands are clutching her wooden box that represents the paltry savings she has left. With one last hesitant look at the intimidatingly dressed goblins at either side, she pushes past the bronze doors.

It’s a nervously long wait to step up to the counter, made only so by Irene’s unnecessary dawdling. She feels small like a child—she is a child, something she fears she forgets at times—in front of these impossibly tall counters.

“Hello, I’d like to see your banking plans if that would be possible. I am looking to set up a vault here,” Irene says.

The goblin shuffles through his desk drawer and floats parchment with various details of the different vault plans between them. However, before she can read through the first plan he asks, “identification please,” and extends a wrinkly sharp nailed hand to her.

She swallows and looks through her bag, handing him her muggle identification card when she’s finished with her search.

The goblin takes it, eyes narrowing, and shifts his half-moon glasses. He frowns, handing it back to her. “Magical identification, Miss Hill.”

And that’s kind of the problem. She doesn’t have magical identification. The Harry Potter books never really covered that from her memories. Her eyes timidly scan her surroundings—she doesn’t want to hold up the line—and she opens her mouth. “Thing is…I don’t have any.”

The goblin instantly floats the papers back onto his desk in a neat pile. His scrutinizing gaze seems to size her up after her confession. “I see.” He turns and gestures to another goblin who rises from his desk and steps over. “We are unable to prepare a vault until identification is given. However, Garnaff will discuss vault plans with you in a private room and set another date for you to come in with the proper paperwork.”

“This way please,” Garnaff gestures to his left past the counter.

“Thank you.” Irene quickly exits the line and follows Garnaff. The books had said that goblins were shrewd and unfriendly to wizards and witches, but they seem perfectly cordial aside from the spine shuddering growls they sometimes make.

Taken into a private room, Irene seats herself in the chair opposite the desk. Her legs are tightly pressed together, her back straight, and posture rigid while her savings sit posed atop her lap. Garnaff in contrast ignores her clearly nervous display and places information regarding vault plans on the desk.

“Miss Hill, as Ulragg stated, until you register with the Ministry’s Immigration Department, we will be unable to procure a vault for you,” Garnaff says.

She furrows her brows. “The Immigration Department? I’m British.”

He smiles with too many teeth. “Yes, that much is very clear. However, what else is clear is your lack of control over your magic.” He huffs something under his breath and Irene’s certain he hissed the word “witches” like a curse. “You’re a late-bloomer we gather. Therefore, you’ll have to take up your situation with the Department of Immigration to settle the matter. Now onto business….”

That’s all the warning she gets before Garnaff begins to shove the wide variety of plans down her throat. It’s like he’s waterboarding her with information. Irene’s too shy to tell him to slow down, and too embarrassed to admit his technical terms are far above her education. Words like APR, IRA, close-end loans are causing her head to spin. She smiles and, at the end, selects the basic plan, not truly understanding any of the more intense investment options.

“Very well.” Garnaff’s eyes are sharp and judging. Irene knows that he knows she has no idea what’s going on, but she keeps smiling anyway. He sighs, sounding much too disappointed with her. She’s only fifteen for Christ’s sake. “I will schedule an appointment for a fortnight from today at noon?”

Irene nods, and Garnaff records the meeting date in his schedule before giving her an appointment card. She leaves in a flurry with Garnaff all smiles and sharp teeth. As a last piece of advice, he suggests she get inoculated before visiting the Ministry as magical diseases are more severe than muggle ones. She gets the address of St. Mungo’s and leaves to drop off her belongings before heading there.

On her way to the hospital, she can’t help but wonder what the hell he meant by “late-bloomer”?

“No dear, you won’t have to pay.” The short-statured nurse smiles up at Irene from his counter while she takes in her information. “There aren’t many magical children, and we protect our own. St. Mungo’s does not discriminate based on blood-status regardless of our sponsors.”

Irene mirrors the warm expression automatically. “Thank you, sir. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to afford the list you’ve given me.” She swallows when she thinks about the ten-inch parchment of various missed inoculations.

“No worries, Miss Hill. A healer will be with you shortly to give a physical and handle your inoculations.”

Irene takes her seat and waits. She glances at the various decorations. The moving portraits are particularly distracting; however, she can’t help but stare at the bubbling potions on a medical cart. She really is within the Harry Potter universe.

Ironically, it seems she will be unable to meet the protagonist for another seventy years. Strange to think that she could irrevocably change something before the story even starts, but then again, she’s not a particularly interesting person so it’s more likely nothing will change at all.

She swings her legs as they dangle from her chair. Maybe the healers will know what a late-bloomer is.

“Miss Hill?” a tall, spindly woman calls. Her hair is pulled in a severe bun.

Irene stands and is escorted to a sectioned off area with a small cot. She lays and sits, stands and turns throughout the examination whilst various spells are muttered by the healer. She’s quite curt yet Irene doesn’t mind. However, she can’t seem to find the right moment to ask what a late-bloomer is. Despite this, when the appointment seems to be wrapping up—a tray of inoculations outspread on a cart, Irene speaks up.

“Madam Beaudet? I was wondering if you could tell me what a ‘late-bloomer’ is. I heard it from the goblins. Does that just mean my magic was late to develop? The way they said it made me think it was something more,” she says.

Madam Beaudet freezes and flicks her wand at Irene. She glows a bright blue then white. Beaudet looks particularly concerned before she says, “I believe Head Healer Margarite will need to see you to answer your questions.” The quill to her side begins writing on a new section of parchment and the healer mumbles a spell at it. It folds into a small rabbit before hopping off the cart and into the ward’s halls. “For now, let’s get you inoculated.”

She’s sick of needles by the time it’s over. It’s a marvel that her shoulder isn’t Swiss cheese by now. Irene massages the tender and swollen skin of her arm. The doctor-er, healer, had chosen her unmarked arm to push the inoculations through and had informed Irene that her burn marks were removeable but unfortunately only through an expensive beauty potion that the hospital children’s program did not cover. So, she’d have to deal with it for now.

The curtain opens and an elderly woman steps through. She’s quite plump, with a wrinkled but rosy face. “Is this Miss Hill?” She smiles and turns to Healer Beaudet.

“Yes. Madam Margarite.” Beaudet bows. “A late-bloomer, age fifteen. She came in for her inoculations.”

“Oh, must be recent then. Well, I’ll take care of Miss Hill now. Please attend to the other patients Beaudet.”

Something passes between the two healers as they lock their gazes in silent conversation. When it breaks, Healer Beaudet lowers her head in another bow before exiting the room. A shimmer of silvery light shines as she departs through the curtain.

A privacy spell? Irene tilts her head.

“Now then, young miss. All of this must be quite confusing for you. You’re a muggle-born—a child from non-magical parents—correct?” Madam Margarite takes a seat in a folding chair beside Irene’s cot.

Irene nods. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“Oh no, dear child. However, your particular circumstance is concerning. Do you know what a Late-bloomer is?”

She shakes her head. “Is it…dangerous?”

“Perhaps in a sense. You see most magical children show their skills at a young age. Eight is the average and ten is typically the latest. Those that develop their cores past age eleven are considered ‘Late-bloomers,’ which is what you are, Miss Hill.” She smiles, though it appears to be pained. “They usually exhibit particular abilities unlike other children. Ancient Magic they call it. The goblins sent you to us knowing this very fact.”

“Why?” Her brows furrow.

“Users of Ancient Magic are few and far between. So, it was to ensure their investment, I believe. Their folk can be quite meticulous. Young witches and wizards such as yourself have cores that are under accelerated growth. It makes you susceptible to developing magical disorders like an Obscurial—it’s the result of repressing and resisting your magic.” With pause, Madam Margarite sighs and takes a deep breath. “You can imagine such rare abilities are highly sought after. In my lifetime working at St. Mungo’s, I have only seen one other Late-bloomer.”

Irene frowns, taking in the information. Ancient Magic? She can’t think of any examples other than Lily Potter’s sacrifice and she wasn’t a Late-bloomer from what the books mentioned. Her fingers tap across her thigh in soft trills.

“I can help set you up with some emergency potions for magic bursts and an exercise routine that will act as physical therapy for your magic. You’ll need to get into the habit of regularly releasing it.” A quill floats from her pocket and begins writing information down on the blank parchment on the cart. When it stops Madam Margarite uses a severing charm to cut off the piece of paper with various instructions. She hands it to Irene and stands. “This should guide you through your exercises, but please, if you have any concerns come back to St. Mungo’s and ask for me. When you get to the front desk, they should have your potions ready to take home.”

Irene nods and stands up before Madam Margarite can leave. “Um, I know you are a healer, but do you have any advice on how to register at the Ministry? I was told I will have to go but I’m not quite sure about my inoculations’ effectiveness, the procedure for Immigration, or really anything at all.”

“If you aren’t registered, how did you acquire a vault at Gringotts?”

“I didn’t. I haven’t, at least not yet. My appointment is scheduled in two weeks.”

Margarite turns round and looks consideringly at Irene, her face is pinched with worry and something else. “This is very important, so please do remember this. You can stop by the Ministry at any point as the inoculations are already in effect; however, when you arrive you must ask for Unspeakable Flavian Fontius. Do not tell anyone aside from Sir Fontius that you are a Late-bloomer.” The elderly woman twirls her wand in a Tempus to check the time. “If you are planning on going directly after this, please speak with my secretary in my office at the end of the ward. You can take my floo. Now, if you excuse me, I must go.”

“Wait, why shouldn’t I tell anyone?” Irene asks.

“Late-bloomers have a short life expectancy. Not because of their health, but the greed of others, Miss Hill. I am sorry that I cannot assist you through this, but Flavian is a trustworthy man.” On that final word Madam Margarite rushes out of the space, the privacy ward popping upon her exit.

Irene’s spat out insultingly on the polished wooden floor of the Ministry Atrium, courtesy of Madam Margarite’s kind offer to give her access to her private floo.

A sea of wizards and witches impatiently step over and around her in a hurry to attend to their business. Grumbling, she rubs her hip and stands up. The sight is overwhelming as the noticeboard above her head catches her eyes first. It reads a schedule of events for the day including a list of trials and hearings at the Wizengamot. The golden letters cycle and shine with each change displayed over the blue ceiling tiles as shoulders press and push past her.

Getting the hint, she ushers forward through the mass of robe-wearing officials. Her muggle clothes feel particularly out of place here as she walks past the fountain and to the security desk. Not a single person is in muggle fashion, not in the pinnacle of magical society. With each muffled clack of her heels, her heart drums in anxious beats. In her head, Madam Margarite’s words are an ominous prophecy.  

“Late-bloomers have a short life expectancy. Not because of their health, but the greed of others, Miss Hill.”

She represses a shiver. Isn’t that just wonderful? God. She went from undesirable to hot commodity in the span of twenty-four hours in the worse way possible. She approaches the Security Desk trying hard not to think of her distinctive clothing or her particular predicament.

“I’m looking for Unspeakable Flavian Fontius,” Irene says.

“Identification, please,” the security guard, a wizard in black robes, asks before even looking up.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost mine. Do you accept muggle identification cards?” She pulls her card from her bag and offers it.

This garners a look up. He glances at the information card in her hand and doesn’t make any move to inspect it. Instead, the guard regards her with a disdainful look. “Miss Hill, unfortunately unless Unspeakable Fontius has a meeting with you, we cannot accept your request.”

“Madam Margarite from St. Mungo’s referred me to him. If you could at least send a message that would be appreciated.” She flashes her best smile.

He pointedly looks up and down at her clothes, distaste apparent over his features. “And could I know what this message would entail?”

The guard clearly has an issue with her appearance. Either it’s the poverty or the muggle-ness of her whole outfit. Both seem equally as unpleasant as the other. She struggles to keep a straight face, and by the way his hand flexes she’s done a poor job of it. “Tell him Madam Margarite referred me to him.”

“Regarding?” he presses.

“That’s private,” she clips—short and brisk, a sharp smile on her face.

His lips pull taught. He’s quite rude considering he’s a part of the welcoming committee in the Atrium. Irene doesn’t bother to hide her frown this time and simply waits.

Then, changing his tune, he stands up and smiles at her. “Come with me.”

She follows, expecting a trip to the Unspeakable’s department or an escort to the nearest waiting area, instead she ends up in the Department of Magical Enforcement which she realizes belatedly. Her brows furrow. The department name is written at the top of a form that sits on the counter.

Irene’s stomach drops. She shouldn’t have followed the man without question. The guard’s hushed conversation with the woman at the desk comes to an end just as Irene is backing away. But it’s too late. Suddenly two aurors descend upon her. Kicking up a fuss, she’s manhandled into a series of halls and magically bound to a chair in a secure room.

Well, bugger.

“As I said. I’m just here to speak with Unspeakable Flavian Fontius on Madam Margarite’s advice. Why am I still here? If it’s that much of a problem, I can just go back to St. Mungo’s and ask the Madam to send an owl to Sir Fontius,” Irene says.

When she leans into the cold metal of the interrogation room’s table, she feels the call of sleep and just knows it must be late into the evening. She’s forgone dinner for this farce. And despite the offer of tea and biscuits, she’s refused. The chance of the food being spiked with some potion is low, but not low enough for her to risk it. If Late-bloomers are like extinct creatures, she’s going to do a hell of a lot to keep herself from exposure.

Her stomach growls loudly anyway.

“Here’s the problem Miss Hill.” The auror, Walter Emerson, crosses his legs casually in his chair. “We can’t seem to find your information anywhere in the magical registry. And if Guard Parkinson’s memories are accurate, you’re supposed to be one of ours.”

“My parents were very overprotective.” She scoffs.

“Maybe I could believe that a few decades ago but right now we are at war—”

She rolls her eyes. Yeah, yeah. Irene knows. The whole damn WWII will end in opportunistic terror at the hands of the Americans.

“—and Grindelwald is no simple matter,” Emerson’s voice is sharp, cutting.

She chokes on her own spit. “Grindelwald?”

“Yes.” He leans in towards Irene. “Tell me, a magically powerful fifteen-year-old stops in to speak with the Head Unspeakable with no information on record, is that not cause for investigation?”

Bugger. How could she forget the whole dark wizard Grindelwald incident? The great equal to Professor Dumbledore, predecessor to the Dark Lord Voldemort in the books? It’s not just WWII, currently there’s also the nightmare of an entirely separate war being raged within the wizarding community.

“Well,” she starts meekly, “when you put it like that it sounds a bit suspicious.” Irene grimaces.

“Yes, quite. So why don’t you start again from the top, Miss Hill?”

There’s self-preservation and then there’s naïve hope. Irene’s turned into quite the cynic over the past years but underneath the grime, before all the callous, uncaring truths of life she’d always been an optimist. So, without hesitation, she opens her mouth.

“I’m really not involved with anything related to Grindelwald. I only came here after I was told by the goblins to register myself if I wanted a vault at one of their establishments.” She frowns. “You see during my meeting with the Garnaff, he—”

The door bursts open.

Chapter Text

Flavian is possibly having one of the worst days he’s had in a while.

Morning ushered in a series of new and horrendous cursed artefacts—courtesy of the current terrorizing Dark Lord—with several inspections ending in indeterminable stays at St. Mungo’s, while the afternoon had been a cluster of unfortunate tests with time magic, a space-time fracture being the worst disaster they’ve seen all year—he needs to place a minder on Croaker before he kills someone again. Flavian even dropped his dragon egg ice cream onto the dark ages text that he received the night before. Impervious to magic, the Scourgify he sent did little other than fizzle out.

Sometimes the temptation of retirement is ever so sweet. But he’s a few centuries in, the prime of his life. Parting from the Ministry now would leave him unfulfilled and possibly bored. No. Definitely bored.

However, just as the evening arrives a Patronus from Margarite Gillespie pads in.

Silver strands shimmer around the oversized creature. Even after all these years, Margarite’s lynx remains the same. Its small rabbit’s tail bobs as it prowls about the room.

“Flavian, it’s been some time.” The lynx stops to sit on its hind legs. “I have sent a girl to your department; however, as I have not heard from you, I fear that she may have taken a wrong turn. It appears my secretary misinterpreted my instructions, sending her to the Atrium instead of directly to the Department of Mysteries.”

“Her name is Irene Hill. She’s fifteen and of eastern descent. It is imperative that you find her before she gets into trouble. She’s a Late-bloomer and muggle-born with no knowledge of her skills or of our community. Based on the scans we ran, she awakened little less than three weeks prior to her visit. Please count this as a favor. I’ll owe you, if that makes things any easier.”

This was possibly the best news he had in decades despite the unfortunate side-effect of having to deal with a child.

In a flash, Flavian grabs his wand and rushes out the door, heading for the front desk. Conversation with the incompetent Parkinson—it’s no mystery why he wasn’t able to make auror, his mind is undoubtedly empty—leads him to the Department of Magical Enforcement.

Flavian dispells the locking charm on the door to the interrogation chamber storming in.

It’s a boring bland space, characterized by the usual black tiles lined in white mortar. The Ministry and monotony seem to go hand-in-hand. A simple industrial metal table sits at the center flanked by two chairs, both occupied. There’s a tray of sweets and drinks that sits at their sides. He instantly recognizes the larger occupant.

“Emerson,” Flavian growls lowly. “Explain to me,” he glides into the room, “why exactly an underaged witch is being subjected to an unfair, unrepresented interrogation?”

He meets the young witch’s eyes. They’re a striking black that appear endless. A void painted on pale canvas. One that pulls in all light. Her onyx black hair reflects only blue light from the dim sconce on the wall while it cascades down her shoulders and back. As a thin, wiry thing that a gust of wind could knock over, her locks appear to be cloaking her. It’s like looking at a nymph.

Emerson huffs. “You and I know very well what Grindelwald is capable of, Flavian.”

Golden bindings stretch over the narrow thin of the underage witch’s wrists. Flavian takes a deep breath to meet Emerson with a glare. “Regardless, we do not treat children like this,” he hisses. Withdrawing his wand from its holster, he twirls it in a wordless counter at the girl. “Do things the proper way or not at all.”

Irene’s bindings disintegrate into white particles. He hears relief escape from her.  

“Come Miss Hill, we have much to discuss.” He motions to the door never looking away from Emerson.

The auror is still glowering at the young witch. What is he, thirty this year? Flavian wonders when a child becomes an adult, that maybe it’s a choice or a collection of tests that forge maturity rather than force it with a simple tick of a year passed. When Irene leaves the room, Flavian exits, his robes billowing behind him.

Footsteps echoing off the narrow halls of the Ministry, Irene follows behind diligently and in silence. Flavian makes no effort to brew conversation. They have plenty of time for that in his office. The black tiled walls speed past them as they make their way to the floo to leave for the nineth level. He gives her distinct instructions and watches as she shouts the office room number and level before being consumed by the flames. Following, he does the same.

Green fire engulfs him and recedes as he steps out. But there’s no girl in sight.

“Ugh.”

Flavian stares down with an eyebrow raised.

“Sorry, sir. I’m not used to the floo.” Young Irene rubs her hip, sprawled out over the dark wooden floor of his office.

“No need to state the obvious, child.” He shakes his head and removes his robes to place them on the rack before taking a seat at his desk.

She springs to her feet within seconds to take the cushioned chair in front of his desk at the center of the office. The snoring behind him tells Flavian that the portrait of Levina Monkstanley is sleeping soundly. He sends a charm at the painting to prevent any noise from waking the dozing research enthusiast.

“Now then.” He flicks his wand and several items from the shelves fly to position themselves on the desk. A crystal magic conduit, spherical and opaque. An affinity scale, disk-shaped and bordered in eight gems. And The Book of Ancient Magics, bound out of metal—a piece the first unspeakables had started centuries ago with the intent of documenting all forms of Ancient Magic. They’ve gathered some dust since their last use nearly thirty years ago. He mutters a Scourgify. “Healer Margarite informed you on your particular circumstance, yes?”

“Yes.” Irene stares at the items in curiosity. “I’m a Late-bloomer likely to have Ancient Magic.”

“Not ‘likely’ but certain. I’ve seen four Late-bloomers in my lifetime and all have had some rare talent. You are the fifth, Miss Hill. I doubt you’ll be the exception.” He holds his hand out, palm up, across the desk. “We need to test your affinity, aptitude, and resemblance to other magicks before we work out the finer details of your situation. Please place your hand in mine.”

Irene, the fairly tolerable child that she is, does as directed and without complaint. Flavian pushes his magic out from his core to his arm then his hand. The girl startles when he presses it into her palm—hand pulling away from him.

Must be magic-sensitive. He places his hand on his desk. “Have you understood the gist? I push from my core—my chest—and through to my arm.”

For a moment she considers, then nods her head. “I think I can manage.”

“Then, as I have just exhibited, please push your magic into this.” He picks up the metal disk and passes it to her.

She handles it in her palm. There’s nothing for several minutes. Her face pinches, frowns, and twitches as he imagines her trying several techniques. Then finally, the item’s gems light up in a ring.

Flavian frowns.

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“It means this test is unhelpful unfortunately.” With no specific affinity it indicates her magic has little to do with the eight basic elements. He passes her the crystal ball next. “Please repeat the same method; however, keep pushing until you can’t.”

She does as asked. The crystal ball lights up to a pale yellow at first, but then begins to rapidly change. Green, blue, indigo, violet, and red. She pulls her palm away soon after, her face growing paler than her already ivory skin.

Three weeks? That’s all she’s had to grow her core. It’s positively fascinating that she’s obtained this level of power.

“And the red?” Irene asks.

“Your power is on par with the average Hit Wizard.” His eyes are filled with avid interest. The last users of Ancient Magic hadn’t nearly been as strong. Their powers didn’t necessitate such force. “And you still have room to grow! Fantastic.” He slides the book to her and sits with bated breath. This is the moment he’s been dreading and awaiting.

As she pushes her magic through the object, the tome opens. Pages flip through the book until it stills. Flavian peers over. Only blank pages reflect.

“Oh, Merlin’s tit,” he sighs. “I was afraid of this.” His wand is drawn within a blink. “Accio Ancient Magic of the East.” A wooden bound book flies into the palm of his hand. Its bark chaffs his skin. He flips through the pages until he finds the appropriate chapter. Rituals. He fingers through the different sections. “Hmm. No…not possible. Perhaps. That’s…” he mutters to himself whilst reading through the passages of the book. “Ah-hah!” He places the tome on the desk.

“Now Miss Hill, as you have heritage in the East, I believe we simply haven’t encountered your given magic, and if we have, it most likely has remained undocumented. Therefore, we will have to utilize rituals from that area in hopes of understanding your particular proclivity.” He turns and slides the open book to display the chart on the page in his excitement.

“Out of the three Dantians, I found Qi the easiest to approach. As you see, this section explains how to open the ‘Qi’ lines. Some in the West call them meridians.” His finger slides over a line indicated in the center of the body. “According to this passage, Ancient Magic can be assisted through activation of certain points on the Du Mai and Ren Mai. These ‘lines’ are—”

Flavian sighs. The poor child’s eyes have glazed over during his enthusiastic explanation. But really what should he have expected with an uneducated, recently awakened, previously muggle child. It takes an arm and a leg to get the usual magical children involved, it would take a miracle to get a muggle child to understand. He coughs and restarts.

“To put it simply, I will attempt to open certain magical systems in your body.”

Irene gives him an apologetic smile—and isn’t that endearing? She’s quite understanding and patient as she agrees to the procedure, and Flavian thinks that he won’t mind assisting her throughout her journey into the magical world. Granting her with a reassuring smile, he promptly conjures an examination table and asks her to lay.

This time Irene doesn’t jerk when he pushes his magic in. Gradually, Flavian works down the meridian lines, hitting each core node. He must be doing something right as she breaks into a cold sweat—proof her magic is releasing from its core. With her breathing accelerating with each ensuing Qi point, Flavian prepares for the last part of the process. His hand hovers above her heart. He feels the moist heat that radiates from her body with latent energy. He places his open palm on her chest and breathes.

Then Irene’s stomach growls.

He blinks.

And Irene blusters, “Uh, that’s….” Her face colors. “I, uh, sorry. I haven’t had a meal since before I left for St. Mungo’s.”

He sighs, remembering the tray of tempting food in the interrogation chamber. It was likely spiked with potion. Clever of her to refrain from eating. “I will push my magic through you now. I want you to mimic the circulation I attempt on your own after I let go.”

The press of his magic pools into Irene’s core. This time her arms and hands twitch, most likely wanting to resist. It’s an uncomfortable experience for someone with magic sensitivity and he can empathize. Despite this he begins to circulate it through her magical passages. Hopefully with exposure to the magical world her sensitivity will lessen. When his magic snaps back inside himself, he takes a step back and waits. 

Irene breathes out. Then opens her eyes.

Flavian narrows his. There’s an unnatural silverish glow to her irises that starkly contrast with her natural black. That’s certainly something….

She’s peering around wordlessly, eyes wide, a look of wonder in them. Her gaze continues to flicker about, eventually landing on him.

“What do you see?” Flavian asks.

“The…meridian lines? Tiny particles of light? They’re in everything,” her tone is breathless, awed.

The sound of scratching steals his attention. The Book of Ancient Magics is open, active—a quill jotting away to record.

He turns back to Irene. Magic sight. “Magnificent. I believe you are observing magical energy at this moment. It’s an uncommon skill, not many have the ability, but some are able to develop it. I’m afraid I am incapable.”

Irene’s stomach rumbles once more. It’s louder this time, a sound great enough to ring in the room. Flavian makes a memo to take the girl out to eat after this. Opening her magical channels has undoubtedly spent a good amount of her dwindling energy.

He watches her, hoping that something new will occur—something to indicate her magic’s innate abilities. Those with magic sight do exhibit glowing eyes, a side-effect of magic gathering around the corneas; however, Flavian doesn’t believe the silver iridescence of hers is anything but a characteristic of her own unique Ancient Magic.

She turns and looks back at the desk. A glimmer of purple flashes through her eyes. She’s unnaturally fixed on the collection of artefacts.

Irene’s hunger hasn’t abated since she’s stepped into the Ministry, only stubbornly settling in to eat at the lining of her stomach. She’s tried her best to ignore it, will it away from the forefront of her mind. But it persists in the lazy writhing of her abdomen.

God, she’s even more hungry now that her—what did he call it?—Qi lines are open.

A light from across the room pulses. The crystal ball shines with a blinding white, magic flowing around it and inside. Irene can’t seem to look away. She rises from her position and steps across the room. Before she knows it, she’s staring down at the orb. Her fingers hover covetously over the top of the sphere. Her mouth pools—hunger overwhelming her.

She places her hand atop the crystal. The light intensifies, blindingly bright. Her eyes shut, and she’s suddenly hit with warmth. Something’s flowing into her palm. It feels nice, filling. She sighs into it. Her muscles grow lax. But then she remembers what she’s touching, where the warmth is coming from. She drops the crystal ball as if scalded. However, the damage is done. The orb bounces against the table and falls to the floor in a thunk. Her eyes chase it as it rolls across the dark cherry-colored wood and is brought to a stop against the examination table.

Her breath hitches. It’s lost its shine.

Irene panics. “I didn’t mean to!” She’s waving her hands around manically but then realizes what she’s done. She’s sucked the magic out of that thing. Her face pales, and she digs her hands into her pockets. “I touched it and then the light—the magic—was sucked in!”

Unspeakable Fontius—an older gentleman, tanned skin, silver haired with a few chestnut strands, and light hazel-colored eyes—looks at her, his expression carefully blank. However, she sees the calculating watch of his eyes. He starts cautiously, “Miss Irene, you’ve done well to keep your hands in your pockets. Now, you need to stop channeling magic into your middle.”

She swallows thickly. The sweat that trickles down her neck has gathered to dampen her shirt collar. Hot breath puffs out of her throat clouding the air in front of her. It’s impossibly warm. Irene feels a blaze inside her, her chest on fire. God. She reaches deep within herself. It’s like a river, untamed and wild. Streams run in trickles than rapids through her body, yet all end at where they began. She’s urging it to constrict, slow the flow, but nothing happens. Instead, it almost feels like it’s seeping out of her. A dam only redirects the water after all.

The room’s still glowing in a rainbow of colors—flecks of magic swirling freely around her and from her. It’s something new, her own magic sparking out of her, attempting to touch things it shouldn’t.

Dread gathers in her stomach. “It’s not working.” The panic can’t be any more apparent in the shrill note of her voice.

“Let’s try something different then,” Fontius says with an air of tranquility that Irene can’t understand. He gestures to his desk. “You appear a bit overheated. The Du Mai is said to bring heat, perhaps that pathway is over extended. Your Ren Mai in reverse is cooling. Shut the lines that bring heat and force the other pathways to open.”

Irene’s lips quiver. She was listening when he’d went into the details of his ritual, but she didn’t understand what he was talking about. Dantians? Qi lines? It’s all very theoretical and she’s got no clue what the actual science is behind it.

Her eyes are shut once more in concentration. The flowing river is too fast for her to grasp. She reaches inside focusing on her chest, but she doesn’t understand where to open and where to close. She swallows. God. What happens if she accidentally touches something again? Oh, God. What happens if she accidentally touches someone? Her jaw clenches. How can she stop her magic from bursting out of her?

“I can help set you up with some emergency potions for magic bursts and an exercise routine that will act as physical therapy for your magic….”

Madam Margarite. Irene’s hands are in her pouch before the idea registers. A black potion in her grasp, the consistency of sludge, sloshes in its small spherical bottle. She pops the cork off.

Bottoms up.

She clenches her eyes shut. The liquid chills her throat to her stomach. The residual cold travels through her body and to her chest. She takes long labored breaths and feels her pulse slow while her temperature levels out. When she deems it safe, she opens to see that the room has returned to normal. Her breath of relief is echoed by the Head Unspeakable. Only now does she realize he was just as tense as her.

“Well, I believe I should owl Madam Margarite for the wonderous potion.” Fontius smiles and walks around the examination table. “Miss Hill, I do believe I’ve never seen anything similar to your abilities and have not yet read about anything related to this.” He plucks the crystal ball from the floor. “It’s been rendered inert as I was afraid of. It seems your innate talents have something to do with magic absorption. Though it may be too soon to say. However, I fear the effects of inflicting your powers on beings that generate magic rather than objects that house it.” His smile tilts to a crooked thing. “You will need control of your talents, as I will need to research what exactly your abilities are.”

Irene slumps onto the chair once more. Her hands are shaking around the empty bottle. She bites her lip. The unnatural fullness and satiated hunger whisper in the back of her mind.

“What do you think about an apprenticeship?” The sparkle in Fontius’s eyes is bright and mischievous.

Chapter Text

A contract signed in her own blood. What an ominous sign. Irene pushes the parchment forward and back to Unspeakable Fontius. The employment representative from the Ministry gathers the papers and informs Irene she’ll finish preparing the final documents and file the paperwork by this afternoon. She leaves the room with a polite handshake, while Fontius and Irene are left in his office alone.

She fumbles with her new wand that sits tucked away in her pocket. It’s been about a week since they met, and Irene’s been given a different task to finish each afternoon despite not being an official employee until now. She dreads what it’ll be like when she’s officially under him. Irene stops her fiddling, removing her hand from her robes. With this, her apprenticeship in the Department of Mysteries has been decided.

She starts her new position on Monday.

Fontius raises a brow at her. ‘I imagine you did not sleep well?’

She winces. Does she look that bad? ‘Not great, no.’

He grunts and slides a potion to her. ‘A Pepper-up. Think of it as muggle caffeine but more efficient. Have you received your wand?’

Irene slides it onto the table.

‘Very good. As I mentioned before, I recommend not using your abilities outside of the department. You’ll likely need to avoid touching your wand as well during your active moments.’ He picks up the wand and examines it. ‘Larch?’

She nods.

‘Interesting.’ His mouth opens in further question, but then closes. ‘Since you’re officially contracted with the Ministry. We should discuss expectations first.’

Irene is thankful for her trip to Flourish & Blotts. There are too many rules and regulations for her to remember perfectly, and although Fontius is patient he doesn’t look like the type to explain something more than once. The nib scratches over her notebook in quick annotations of his list of warnings.

‘I also expect you to study while your apprenticeship is in effect.’

Her quill stops. ‘What?’

‘You have no education, Miss Hill. It is not conducive to your future.’ He levels her with a stern look.

She lets out a pitiful whine.

He sighs and flicks his wrist. Several books stack themselves on the desk. ‘I expect you to read through these texts.’

Irene checks the title on the top, ‘Hogwarts: A History.’

‘This is the entire collection of first and second-year texts for Hogwarts’ students. I expect one to two chapters from every book read each week. I will test you frequently so I will know when you aren’t keeping up with the curriculum. Mondays will be practicals and Wednesdays we will hold theory.’

She knows he has a point. This is for her own good. Yet she can’t help but frown. Studying has never been her strong suit and soon Fontius will know that too. ‘Why the hurry? Isn’t it better to learn gradually?’

‘Your enrolment at Hogwarts come fall has been decided. You have a deadline to learn coursework from years one to four before you depart. Unfortunately, time is of the essence.’

‘Wait, who decided?’ If it’s Fontius, maybe she can convince him to give her another year.

‘The Ministry of Magic.’ He flips a parchment around to show her. ‘As you know, I sponsored your registration to expedite the process.’

Irene skims it.

‘Dear Mr Flavian Aurelius Dante Fontius,

We celebrate the registration of Miss Irene On Hill as a member of the British Wizarding Community…. As accordance with Bill…all underaged registered Magicals must be educated in standard of…. Failure to comply is a punishable offence….’

She slumps back. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely no chance of getting me through four years of schooling in seven months.’ How’s she supposed to manage this on top of everything else?

Fontius grunts as if expecting her answer. ‘We will at least get the basics in. Perhaps I can work something out with Headmaster Dippet for your school year. Regardless, you are to read chapters one and two from all your year one texts before Monday.’

There’s only a groan in response to that.

‘If I see unsatisfactory results, I may assign an assistant from the department to watch you. Do keep that in mind.’ He mumbles another spell, and twill ropes wrap and pack the stacked texts. With another, they shrink to fit in Irene’s pocket.

‘Now then, as discussed during the contract negotiations, you will be working in liaison with the Department of Magical Enforcement with their cursed-artefact removal team. To make things easier, you’re only taking up a weekly quota of items to render inert. Your work hours can vary upon completion of your tasks that should allow ample time to study. The lab you will be in is currently under construction. They just have a few more safety enchantments to weave in.’ He scribbles something and sends the notation off. ‘Also, for all the aurors know, you are a skilled curse-breaker and quite the prodigy. Let’s keep it that way. Stick to the background we’ve agreed on.’

Irene nods and writes down any important notes. With a bow and another, ‘thanks, looking forward to working with you,’ she stands and heads for the door. She has to return home and open the antiques store for the evening.

Fontius escorts her to the door. ‘Here.’ He hands her a parchment. ‘We discussed most of these spells yesterday, but I’d like for you to be familiar with these before Monday. Accidents are not uncommon in our department.’ He gives her a pat on the back and Irene’s out the door within seconds.

The streets of London aren’t as heavily trafficked as she remembers. A lasting impact from the air raids. Despite the fact it’s the afternoon, and the Germans prefer their attacks in the evenings and nights, it doesn’t diminish the fear. Irene wonders if she still had someone to lose, would she be the same?

Her key clicks open the lock as it turns. The glass panelled window reads, ‘An’s Antiques.’ Their store is a small corner shop, a meagre 287 square meters made smaller through the shelves that line the walls in fine china and the ornate floor pieces that create and elaborate maze throughout the shop. It smells of old wood and dust. Irene carefully manoeuvres herself to the back to open the till and fill it with cash.

It’s twelve in the afternoon, but she’s only seen about a handful of patrons walk by. She sighs but opens her doors, anyway. Irene places the sign out with a mention of a sale on larger pieces.

An hour passes, and a single soul hasn’t entered.

Irene heads to the back and grabs a feather duster. In reality, there’s nothing to clean, but it creates busy work, so she continues. Like this, manning the store isn’t hard. She’s already worked in a number of magical ways she could make it even easier. Her palm smooths over the greyed wand that’s in her pocket. Featherweight charms, locking charms, and shrinking spells. All of them would supply relief to her everyday toiling.

Without her mom, Irene realises how difficult it is to move items about the floor. Sometimes she wonders how her mother managed when she was too young to assist. She pictures her wild blonde hair piled atop her head with sweat dripping down her forehead, cursing up a storm as she drags a chest to the back storage. Like this, it’s like her mother never left—a piece of her stored in every inch of this very place.

Irene smiles and continues her busy work.

The room’s spinning. Irene tilts her head and feels the wavering light-headedness that always accompanies this fatigue. She’s about two and a half weeks into the job at this point. One day under the weather is predictable when she’s juggling two jobs, especially when one of them has landed her in cursed-artefact removal. God, she could do without the acid reflux that results from absorbing magic with mal intent.

‘Hill,’ Prewett says, ‘Are you alright?’

He’s sitting across from her, a sandwich in one hand and a cup of soup in the other. His bright red hair settles in soft curls that frame his freckled face and emphasize his intelligent green eyes. ‘Evan’ he tells her to call him but she’s not there yet. Even if he’s the only other member of the unspeakables that is somewhat within her age—he’s twenty from what she knows—and Irene finds it easier to talk with him than the other more distinguished members. Though his genius level intellect sometimes leaves her confused as to what’s going on inside his head.

Her vision wavers. Right. She should eat. That’ll make the exhaustion ebb. Irene reaches into her own paper bag and pulls out a sandwich of her own—cheese, ham, and vegetables atop brioche. At least she’s eating better with the salary from the Ministry. Who would have thought they paid so well?

‘I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.’ She smiles, although strained.

In Prewett’s face, something passes that Irene’s never seen before. She ignores it. Just one more cursed item and she can go home.

Dwindling profits. A month has passed since she woke up, and they’re at an all-time low. She’s just breaking even. Irene sighs into her hands. Her fingers rake through her tangled hair. The low light of the desk’s lamp illuminates the store’s ledger in a dim yellow. If things continue at this pace, her job at the Ministry will have to supplement the costs of maintaining the store. She looks up and stares at the bag of potatoes that sits on the counter. God. What if she has to close the store?

Her throat constricts. She can’t breathe.

‘Whatever happens, we’ll get through this. There’s always a way.’

Irene shakes her head. There’s no ‘we’ anymore, but she can handle this. Keep the store and manage the job at the Ministry.

She crafts a new sales strategy late into the night.

‘—rene…Irene.’

A hand grips and shakes her shoulder. Irene blinks out the fog from her eyes. Dazed, she can’t seem to remember where she is. However, the sight of freckles upon pale skin gives her a good guess.

‘Evan,’ Irene says and frowns. Her voice sounds weak and fragile.

‘You passed out.’ He frowns and helps her sit up.

The way his brows are in a knot is perplexing. It almost makes her think she’s still passed out. Evan is rarely expressive, much too calm and aloof to show anything. She must have messed up on this one. Irene glances at the artefact table. The ‘sorry’ slips out before she can stop herself.

The frown on Evan’s face deepens. ‘The rate is exponential rather than linear,’ he mumbles incoherently.

Irene looks at him, confused. Maybe she hit something on her way down. Evan conjures a glass of water for her and tells her to drink. She does so without complaint.

‘You’re overworked,’ he states with a detached finality to it.

‘No, I’m—’

‘Is it the coursework? Or the artefacts?’ Evan tilts his head.

Irene shakes her head. ‘It’s fine. I’m just not used to working here. This’ll work itself out once I get into a pattern.’

‘No, it won’t,’ and there it is again, that tone of finality. ‘Friday, February the twenty-seventh. Monday, March the ninth. Wednesday, March the eighteenth. Monday, March the twenty-third. Thursday, March the twenty-sixth. And Monday, March the thirtieth. You’re already in a pattern. One that’s exponentially rising.’

‘What are you—’

‘Friday, February the twenty-seventh you came in with a sickly pallor. Monday, March the ninth, you had dark circles and unfocused eyes. Wednesday, March the eighteenth you were stumbling around. Monday, March—’

‘Alright, alright.’ She waves her hands to stop him and scoots away. ‘I get it. You’ve been watching me like some test subject.’ There’s a fond chuckle at the end of her words.

He sighs. ‘No. I’m concerned.’

Irene gets to her feet, assisted by placing a hand on the table to her side. The inert cursed bracelet is sitting on the tray where she left it, no longer able to thrall whoever places it upon their wrist. ‘Well’ she starts defensively, then sags with fatigue.

‘I’m taking the rest of the day off,’ Evan says as he stands up and leaves the room.

The door closes with a soft squeak.

Irene’s perhaps still dazed, because she’s not entirely sure if that just happened. He says he’s concerned, then disappears. She shrugs it off and grabs her robes from the hangar to leave the testing room.

Walking through the department, she worries at her lips. This isn’t the first time she’s come into work exhausted, but it’s certainly the first time she’s fainted. She didn’t even know she could faint, always thought that only people with health concerns had that problem. Irene’s always been in tiptop shape. She’s the first to finish a race, the longest lasting for push-ups and sit-ups. What’s going on? Is she really overworking herself like Evan declared? She enters the staff room to grab her bag.

If she is, then what does that mean for the store?

It’s when she’s just about to leave that Evan meets with her again. ‘Fontius is giving you two-days off,’ he says and opens the door for her.

Irene exits and heads for the floo. ‘I can’t just take off whenever. I need the money.’ She frowns.

‘It’s paid sick-leave Irene.’

He follows after, even when she throws powder in the flames and shouts, ‘Atrium.’

She watches him dubiously, in a direct path for the toilet exits. ‘Why are you following me? Don’t you have a floo in your home?’ They round the corner, and as expected, the lines to leave for muggle London are short in the evening.

‘I will observe your daily schedule and decide what to clear from it.’

Irene’s footsteps slow to a stop, next in line to open the stall. ‘You’re going to what?’

The front patron steps through the threshold. ‘Fix your fatigue,’ his tone is chipper, excited. He gestures for her to hurry on.

Irene’s pushed through the doors and into the public stalls of muggle London by a particularly impatient witch. What?

She exits the women’s bathroom with her brows in a knot. A strongly worded argument’s brewing in her head. Outside, Prewett’s leaning against a stone pillar, his ankles crossed, and hands in his pockets. She’s surprised to see that he’s transfigured his clothes into a casual muggle suit—brown twill and blue cotton. He’s looking about with curious, wandering eyes.

‘Shall we go?’ Evan offers his elbow.

Irene bites back a whine and threads her hand through.

It’s a quiet stroll back to An’s Antiques, made so by Irene’s unwillingness to speak and Evan’s contentedness to enjoy the sights. The spring wind is chilly at this time of the year. She pulls her jacket tighter to her body and feels it blow through her still. It must be the exhaustion.

She jingles her pockets for her keys as they arrive at the step of her family’s store.

It’s a mechanical process to open the shop. The bell rings and Irene turns on the lights. She sets her things in the back, opens the till, and places the cash and change in. After propping the door open and setting out the sign, she makes to do any busy work she hasn’t managed to finish the day before. When everything’s dusted, swept, or wiped, Irene pulls out her texts and begins reading while manning the checkout. There are seven more hours in the day to make some money, no matter how little.

‘I see the problem.’

Irene startles, forgetting Evan is still in her odd company.

He’s sitting on the spare stool near the counter, observing her with folded arms. ‘You have two sources of employment while retaining your status as a full-time student.’ With a nod to himself, he pops up off the chair and begins weaving through the store as if he’s cataloguing every fixture and antique.

She swallows.

‘There aren’t many customers, are there?’ Evans says.

‘That’s due to the war. Things will pick back up after—’1945 ends ‘—a few years.’ Irene closes her charms text.

Evan hums and picks up a jade sculpture of a dragon and its egg. ‘And what will you do during school?’ He rotates it in his palm.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her gaze hits the old mahogany countertop. Thin and deep scratches and dings cover the expanse of it. Irene’s never really thought about that. Waking in the hospital, she’d taken things day by day. It’s only recently that she’s begun to plan about a week in advance.

‘I’ll…I’ll hire an employee to mind the store while I’m away,’ she says stiffly.

‘So, you want to keep this shop?’ Evan asks. His eyes are focused on the various novelties that lie scattered about in the front.

‘I….’ Yes. She wants to claim the word. Speak it. Mean it. But her throat closes, willing away its force. And she realises maybe behind conscious thought, she’s always known where this would lead, where this would end. ‘I—’ Irene’s voice is reedy with desperation.

Evan’s never been great with others. His mother had said that was the reason he did not make Head Boy his seventh year. That was true, of course. But it’s never been something of consequence. Social inadequacies have never prevented him from achieving what he desired. Although at times like these, Evan wishes he had a little more insight into another’s mind.

Rays of evening yellow peek through the scratched glass pane. The wooden bench creaks and squeals beneath their weight as Evan sits only inches away from the demure Irene. When he looks about, lustreless brown shelving housing fine china, gemstone sculptures, and carved furniture fill his view. His hands stretch and flex in the scant rays of ochre that filter into the space. It’s dark in the store despite the vast windows and various hanging lights. Dust and cobwebs sit in tight crevasses too tricky to reach. It’s a cramped store, exacerbated by the meagre square meters and cluttered store inventory. But past its age and wear, he sees the effort put in—through the custom displays and hand-painted signs—and surely it wasn’t only Irene who built this and it’s easy to understand why she wouldn’t want to let go of such a thing.

Evan has had his suspicions for a while now. What guardian allows their child to work with volatile and dangerous cursed artefacts? He’d thought perhaps her parents were absent, neglectful. But now, it’s crushingly and illuminatingly clear.

Evan listens to the hitches in Irene’s breathing calm to an easy hiss—her sobs receding. He glances at her, sees the sorrow that carves itself into her cavernous eyes, and turns back to the empty shop. ‘When you’re here, what do you think of?’ he asks.

‘…My mother,’ Irene says.

He hums trying to imagine a woman similar to Irene shuffling about the store, sweeping, dusting, and organising the floor. He thinks that Irene must do the same, must relive the memories day after day, alone. The past is ever present here. ‘That seems a bit lonely.’

‘It’s not…. It’s not that bad,’ she says, but it doesn’t feel all that convincing.

His hum is an echo of his earlier one. ‘Perhaps.’ But he can’t imagine it’s all that easy either. His shoulder brushes against hers as he leans back against the wall. It’s strange. Evan’s never minded silence, but the air here almost feels suffocating in its quiet.

‘It really isn’t,’ she whispers. ‘Here, sometimes it feels like she’s still with me.’

It occurs to him then—and it’s no surprise that he’s slow to the point—why the shop feels bereft, barren despite the clutter. It’s the grief that chills the vibrant paints, that weighs the air, and that darkens the sunlit shop.

And it’s grief that leaves Irene sunken and solemn, bleak.

‘Do you love your magic?’ Evan asks.

‘What?’ Irene’s taken aback by his seemingly random question.

He cocks his head.

‘I mean, yes?’

‘Did you know when a witch or wizard grieves, sometimes our magic will leak out or lash out? It searches and seeks what we miss most because, foremost, it protects us. Take a look.’

She’s hesitant, not used to controlling her magic. Evan knows this but trusts her. Practice has been fairing well as of late. Within seconds, her eyes flash in that inhuman silvery glow and fade away as her perusal about the room ends.

Irene swallows.

‘It’s killing you. Your mourning.’

‘It’s killing you. This store,’ goes unsaid.

Evan fingers thread together above his lap. ‘Do you think you can continue like this?’ he asks.

It’s a sad thing to have to let go.

Seven months later….

‘What’s this?’ Irene tilts the tiny container in her hands. It looks like a shrunken trunk, but there’s something more. She tests it with short pulses of her own magic. ‘Enchantments? Did you bewitch this?’

‘Yes. I heard from Fontius that you are moving. Can you figure out what runes I used?’ Evan cocks his head, waiting.

Ever since the Fontius—now deemed the Overlord due to his overbearing need to control everything that occurs within the Department—assigned him to her nearly four months ago her performance has improved. Who would have thought the aloof recent graduate would be great at teaching? She allows her eyes to glow for only a second. Purple symbols appear drawn in magic.

It’s unmistakable. The runes…. ‘You didn’t.’ Her fingers twitch around the tiny, invaluable item. ‘This-this is too much. Do you know how much expansion-charmed trunks cost?’

‘Good work.’ He settles the palm of his hand on her head for two brief pats. A habit he’s developed to praise her work. ‘Roughly four galleons.’ Evan’s face transforms. It’s a slow transition, lips pulling gradually upward, eyes crinkling. His bright expression shines, smile reaching ear to ear.

At times like this, Irene thinks he looks more human, personable. Most moments it’s like he’s constantly impersonating the Terminator—his actions being a bit slow and stilted. ‘Looking less robotic, Prewett.’ She nudges him. ‘But truly, thank you. I don’t think I’ll be able to repay you, not for this or the last.’ There’s a shy smile on her face.

Without Evan there for her nearly five months ago, she’s not sure if she’d be able to let go. After they’d talked and Irene had broken into sobs once more, he’d taken the initiative to pack up the store in the quiet of her fatigued nap—with her permission of course. He’d wrapped and shrunken every precious antique and shelf and stowed them away in a simple suitcase.

‘No need. I have plenty of money,’ he says flatly. She doesn’t doubt it, not with him being from a well-off, pure-blood family and all. ‘I also did not spend much. The trunk is a common item. I only stitched in the enchantments.’

Unspeakables. Irene shakes her head. As if such magic is easily accessible to the common witch or wizard. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Still, if you need anything, just ask, yeah?’

Evan nods his head back to that usual blank face. ‘Fortune’s blessing at Hogwarts, Irene.’ He turns and walks off.

It seems the conversation’s over. Irene takes the shrunken trunk and shoves it into her bag. She leaves the breakroom and makes her way to Fontius’s office. In the black-tiled hall, she passes a few familiar faces, waving to Croaker and Elderberry. When she arrives, she gives two knocks and enters after the lock clicks open.

‘Miss Hill.’ Fontius, the Overlord himself, doesn’t bother to look up from his paperwork. ‘I presume you’ve finished your work?’

‘Yes, I’ve met my required seven artefacts.’ Irene sighs. ‘I believe this marks the end of your summer dictatorship. Any bitter farewells to send me away with?’

His lips perse before he sets his quill down. ‘Ah, but this is only the beginning.’ There’s a cruel smile stretched across wrinkled features.

She shivers. Weekends and all-nighters spent hunched over a textbook with various empty bottles of Pepper-up Potion rear their ugly heads. She fiddles with her fingers. The itchiness of her palms and the upset feeling of her stomach hasn’t abated since her morning shift in curse-artefact removal. Irene wonders just how she was fooled into thinking the old bat was nice.

‘And as discussed, expect those packages. Weekends with the DADA professor, remember? If you feel the need to extend your services, an owl or Patronus to either Emerson or I will do.’

Fat chance, that. The extra pay is not worth the resulting heartburn. Regardless, she has something to say. ‘Thanks for everything, sir.’ She bows, deep and grateful, and means it.

Seven months of tortuous, hard work orchestrated by Fontius had whipped her in decent shape for Hogwarts—for her Ancient Magic. Something she didn’t think feasible in this short time span. Although, technically, she’s still only average in her studies—can’t fix everything, right?

A slightly kinder smile replaces the previous. ‘It was my pleasure, Miss Hill. I wish you luck in your studies at Hogwarts. If you need any help during the year, I’m sure Prewett wouldn’t mind assisting. Now then, I believe you have yet to pack and a train to catch early morrow.’

Irene smiles back. ‘Yes, sir.’

She leaves the DoM to return home for the last time.

It starts when she least expects it.

Arriving home, Irene had approached packing with an air of resolution that greatly contrasted with her decision to close her mother’s antique store. Working two jobs was never feasible, and she’s not sure why she’d even believed it workable.

Beginning in her mother’s room, the last room down the hall, she had wasted no time. Its pink floral wallpaper and accompanying painted wood furniture sat covered in a thin layer of dust, proof of Irene’s refusal to enter, and filled with memories too painful to hold on to. Without thought, she packed away various clothing items and personal effects. Her wand did the work, and her mind never allowed her focus to stray away from the process.

Irene had not shed a tear throughout the entire affair.

Then she’d moved onto her room, the bathroom, the kitchen, and finally the living space, cleaning and packing each area with a brutal efficiency. It was only upon arrival in the final room that her resolution starts to crumble.

She feels the tight clench of her throat, the spike of heat in her head, and suddenly, without warning, the tightly wound lock over her heart snaps open. It isn’t nearly as disastrous or grief stricken as the first time, but all the same, she cries a sad sob with ugly sniffles and reedy whimpers. Despite this, she continues to spin her spells as clumsily executed as they are. Picture frames, folded curtains, lampshades, and other items buzz past her sometimes bumping into each other before diving into the bewitched trunk.

Irene has lived here for her entire life and until two years ago it’d been with her mother. Maybe that’s what this is. A farewell to the final tethers to her life before.

It’s terrifying.

A part of her knows that when she leaves, the memories of her time here will fade. It’ll be gradual, like an artist removing details from a painting. The subtlest of spices missing from the time they ate freshly baked biscuits, a clarinet’s tune absent from the song that played when they danced in the kitchen, or the scratch of her mother’s callouses smoothed over as they hold hands walking to the market. A steady decline into obscurity, a memory still intact but faded, nonetheless.

Her heart aches, accepting the inevitability.

Irene wipes her cheeks and flicks her wrist. Her larch wand sings and pulses. Its warmth is comforting, reassuring. The records, trinket boxes, and radio player lift and float to the open trunk.

When all is packed up and cleared, Irene leaves without looking back.

Chapter Text

The train station is a cluster of bodies. Irene has never particularly liked the overcrowding of London—it was simply something she tolerated due to living in the city—but now she finds it positively annoying. She pushes through the sea of bodies and can only tell her path through the glimpses of passing signs. As the red bricks cover every inch of King’s Cross, she finds the entrance to Platform 9 ¾. It’s surprisingly devoid of life next to the support beam—muggles giving it a wide berth.

Anti-muggle charms or notice-me-nots? She debates, and then realizes the unspeakables have somehow managed to brainwash her with their own curiosity. Though a part of her still wants to check, to see the runes and enchantments weaved into this structure

However, she banishes the entire idea without another second wasted. Since she started working at the DoM there’s been an unsettling nagging at the back of her mind when she’s often alone. It’s a prickling, persistent buzz like she’s being watched. She hasn’t felt it since yesterday—not since she moved to her new temporary residence, a rented room at the Leaky—but that does little to qualm her wound nerves.

Irene breathes out and makes a run straight at the wall, her trolley within tight fisted hands.

Boarding the train—called in order of incoming class—she passes by student after student. All of them have their house colors proudly shown on their ties. Not a single one has a plain one like her. It’s not a surprise, but she’s not exactly looking forward to the attention. Fontius only let them go over her background once, not wanting to waste more time on frivolous things. His motto, “what do children really know?” sounds like a horrible character flaw.

Irene bites her lip. She’s now in the third carriage. More and more students are beginning to crowd the compartments. Orphaned asylum seeker. Avoid questioning by acting sad. “Nobody wants to interrogate sad children,” more advise from Fontius nags in the back of her mind.

She pivots and walks back to the second carriage. It was fairly empty being the closest seats to both the prefects and few teachers boarded. With a rattle, she pulls the first empty compartment door open and steps in. If she locks the door with a quiet Colloportus, there’s nobody there to complain.

Irene sleeps throughout the entire seven-hour ride until a forceful banging and a put-off Finite stir her to wakefulness. The door rattles open with a curse.

A student in Hufflepuff colors stands in the entrance. Irene’s eyes flick to her, “Head Girl” pin.

“It’s against school rules to lock the carriage doors,” the girl says snappishly.

“My apologies,” Irene wipes the dried drool off her lips and blinks to try and clear the fog. “As you can see, I wanted to sleep.”

“Miss Irene Hill, correct?” She crosses her arms in a huff. Her tight pony-tail bounces in her irritation.

“Yes, and you are…Head Girl?”

Her lips twitch, Irene’s not sure if it’s in annoyance or amusement. “Regina Laxley, Hufflepuff.” She curtseys. “I’m here to inform you that you are to deboard the train with the first years. You will be sorted with the rest.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Irene nods and Laxley leaves without another word.

She sighs. It’s not like Irene was expecting special treatment, but the prospect of being huddled with the first years seems awkward. Why couldn’t they just sort her beforehand?

An hour later, the first years are finally called to deboard. Irene’s not tall but she certainly sticks out like a sore thumb among the first years as they walk to the docks following some burly, roughish man. When they arrive, the group huddles around the bank of the Black Lake. Whispers and noisy chatter bustle with interesting theories on the castle and its sorting until the man sends a Quietus to silence them.

“Forgot to mention this earlier, but I’m Ogg the gamekeeper at Hogwarts. Since I’m sure you lot aren’t interested in hearing ‘bout my job, I’ll keep it short. I maintain the grounds and what not. From this point forward we will be taking the boats. No more than four to a vessel. If you decide to disregard the rules you won’t be answering to me or even the headmaster but the giant squid in the lake, kids. So, stay in the dang boats.”

Children excited to see the spectacle of Hogwarts, group up and hop in the boats with enough order and speed to give Irene pause. When she steps into a boat, she’s the third member of a two-person group.

“You aren’t a first year,” the little girl in front of Irene frowns. “Why are you riding to the castle with us. I heard all the upper years ride the bewitched carriages to the school.”

“She’s obviously a new student,” the boy to her left cuts in. “Look at her tie. It’s like ours.”

“Correct and correct,” Irene says and then cringes. Merlin, she sounds like Fontius.

“—And we’re off!” Ogg yells and the boats shove off from the docks.

“I’m a transfer, here to get sorted with you before I join the fifth years.” Irene turns to look out on the lake.

It’s dark at this time in the fall. The lanterns attached to the boats only supply the faintest of light to the water below. She doesn’t focus too long on the deep, not wanting to see any disturbing creatures to fuel nightmares. Instead she watches the stars twinkle above them stretch to blanket the gothic castle that sits on the horizon. It’s peaceful, picturesque, a moment that could be—

“Wow! Are you a blood traitor? On the run from Grindelwald?” the girl chirps. “My mom talks about them sometimes. Says if they really don’t mind the muggles, they should just live with them instead of causing problems for us.” The little thing says this with pompous arrogance seeping through every word.

Irene’s face screws up in a complicated expression.

“What school were you in before? Beauxbatons? Durmstrang? I bet it was Beauxbaton. Aren’t they struggling with the war?” the boy continues.

It’s better to get some practice in. Irene tries for a solemn expression, brows pulled down and slight frown. It’s fairly convincing based on the kids’ reactions. “I…I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” The boy frowns.

“It’s not a pleasant memory. I don’t want to think about it.”

The girl clicks her tongue. “That means you’re a coward. Mom says people that aren’t able to talk about their past are running away from it.”

Irene frowns. “Sometimes people have other reasons for not talking about something.”

“Excuses.” The girl tilts her chin up, proud.

Irene’s eye twitches. She’s a tad annoyed with the whole situation and the fact that she underestimated an eleven-year-old girl. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Doubt that. I’m not ashamed of who I am or what I’ve done.”

Irene’s already speaking before her filter can activate. “I’m not ashamed, it’s painful. How would you feel if your mom died? Because that’s what happened to me. My parents are dead,” she snaps. And—

Fuck. Where’s her tact? Isn’t she supposed to be the mature one?

The children’s eyes go wide, the girl’s taking on a misty sheen as if she’s about to cry. Instead, the little girl turns her head to the side and bites her lip. Irene can’t find it in herself to say something—afraid of making things worse. And so, they avoid making conversation for the rest of the ride. She’s fairly certain she’s ruined their Hogwarts’ boat-ride experience.

Upon arrival the children scatter like she’s the Dark Lord himself and all Irene can do is sigh. She feels terrible for taking out her irritation on them but not terrible enough to track them down and apologize. When they arrive at the doors to Hogwarts, a familiar ginger-bearded man greets them.

“Dumbledore,” Ogg bows his head.

“Ogg.” Dumbledore returns the gesture—bright red robes breezing in the wind. Irene thinks she can spot lions on them from her position in the back of the pack. “Thank you for bringing them.”

Ogg gives a grunt and doesn’t bother to stay a moment longer.

With a polite “come this way,” from Dumbledore, the students are ushered into the castle.

The flagstone corridor at the entrance dwarves the group, wide enough to fit a mountain troll through. Hypnotized by the low lighting of the sconces and the crackle of their flames, Irene barely registers a word from Dumbledore’s information dump. It’s strange seeing the future headmaster, like meeting a childhood hero that you know too much about. His favorite candies, past relationships, family history, garish collection of robes, place of death; she knows all about it. Does that count as stalking?

As they come to a stop, Irene bumps into a child, nearly crushing them. It seems they’ve found their destination in an empty chamber. A wide and long ornate rug spreads itself across the stone floor. Several paintings, some still-lifes and other portraits line the walls sparingly between sconces.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore says. “We will begin the start-of-term feast shortly; however, before being seated in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. Like families, you will attend classes, sleep in dormitories, and share a common room with your house members.

“At Hogwarts the four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each has its own noble history and has produced wizards and witches of great talent and caliber. Throughout the school year, your achievements and disobedience will win and lose points for your house. Come the end-of-year feast, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup. As it is a great honour, I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever family becomes yours.”

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes at the front of the Great Hall. If you wish to freshen yourselves up, now is the time.”

“I shall escort you all into the room when we are ready.” He smiles kindly and leaves for the feast.

When Dumbledore returns, they walk in a uniform line to the hall. The double doors open, and Irene is peering into a fairytale. Long tables, noble flags, goblets and plates of gold. Professors with pointy hats and fine robes, ghosts shining in whisps of silver and white, and hundreds of students wearing expectant expressions and house colors. Irene’s been in and out of the DoM for months, but she hasn’t seen any of the grander chambers—too busy and too lazy. The sight is a shock. It’s all too much to properly sink in. She feels like an astronaut—or perhaps an alien—staring at Earth. Her tiny world before this seems a faraway memory. The bewitched ceiling, a vast expanse of stars that glisten above, steal her eyes away.

In the background of her loud thoughts, she hears the song of the Sorting Hat and the resulting applause.

“As many of you have noticed, this year we have a transfer student to the fifth-year class. Please be respectful and understanding to our new member,” Dumbledore says as he stands to the side of the stool and perched sorting hat.

Irene swallows when she notices the eyes on her.

“When I call your name, place the hat on your head to be sorted.” He flashes her a wink. “Hill, Irene!”

It’s easy walking to the front. She keeps her mind occupied, wondering what house she belongs to. Irene’s never been particularly prideful or ambitious, but she has a healthy dose of self-preservation. She’s neither hard-working nor extraordinarily loyal, but she values fairness above all. There’s no brash bravery to her person but she is perhaps a bit courageous—a byproduct of her mom’s steadfast righteous indignation. And…no. She’s definitely not a Ravenclaw. No matter how hard Fontius tries to instill those traits, she’s neither that witty or creative, nor clever or original.

She’s at the stool now. Dumbledore’s waiting expectantly. She hovers for a moment, holding the hat in her hands. It’s going to look into her head, right? See all the secrets, the jumbled mess of memories that cloud her thoughts. The prospect frightens her. But no matter, she places the hat on and sits. 

“Hmm,” the hat rumbles.

Irene’s hands twitch. It’s startling to hear someone speak inside your head.

“My, my, my, it’s been centuries since I’ve dealt with one of you.”

She furrows her brows. One of me? A Late-bloomer?

“No, those are uncommon, but they wander to the stool every few decades. I’m referring to that messy mind of yours. Quite complicated. Too many memories, too many conflicting thoughts. I must say I’d get a headache if I had a head.” It chuckles.

Do you know why I have more than one set of memories?

“No, I can’t say that I do. That’s not my area of expertise, you’d have to ask a wizard or witch about that.”

“Now then, let’s see here…. Not adverse to lying to survive, I see. Although your execution could use some work.”

The hat chuckles and Irene hopes it’s not looking through anything too embarrassing like the time she told the schoolteacher that Adam had shoved his own head in the toilet or the time she tried to convince someone she was actually white but had a rare facial deformity. Various embarrassing moments flicker in her mind like a picture reel. She even sees a moment from the ‘other’ her. Apparently, her abhorrent lying skills transcend lives.

“Stop that. It’s hard enough to sort through this disaster,” the hat chides. “Goodness. Where was I…? Ah yes, very patient and just. And, my, let’s skip Ravenclaw, shall we?”

What?

“Now don’t do that. We both know it’d be a terrible house for you, and I dare say an insult to Miss Rowena to sort you there. No thirst for knowledge in that mind of yours.”

I’ll have you know I studied at the level of a PhD for the past seven months!

“I have no inclination as to what a ‘P. H. D.’ is—must be a by-product of that jumbled mess of a mind you have.”

Irene’s mind flashes with memories of post-doctorate students.

“That was not permission to assault me with your ‘other’ memories,” it scolds. “Any matter…. Oho? Determination and courage you have in spades. Not afraid to stand up when it matters. So then, where to place you? Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. They both fit. They could both build you in their image.”

Irene runs through her options and really, she would be fine in either house. After all, it’s only three years of her life. A little more than two if she totals the months.

Anything’s fine really.

Irene sighs.

The hat echoes her. “I must say, your head is a terrible place to be Miss Hill. Do try and work out your memories, or else I believe the Mind Arts will never come to you. Now then, with that wand of yours, better be—”

“Gryffindor!” the Sorting Hat bellows into the hall.

Irene pops the hat off to place it on the stool. Belatedly, the applause starts. When she begins walking to the Lion’s den, she catches the proud glint in Professor Dumbledore’s eyes. She keeps a blank expression. It’s not going to last past her first lesson in his class. She hastens her steps, sits in the first empty slot she spots, and ignores the curious looks of her seat mates, clapping for each first-year student—even Headmaster Dippet’s morose speech—until the feast begins.

“Longest hat stall for a muggle-born I’ve ever seen.” The boy that had been staring at her throughout the sorting offers his hand. “Graham Frank Longbottom, sixth year.” He’s a bit on the lanky side—perhaps going through a growth spurt—blonde-haired, and blue-eyed.

“Irene On, An—whatever you prefer—Hill, as you already know.” She shakes his hand, and he gives her a funny look that breaks into a smile.

“Shaking instead of presenting your hand. How masculine of you, Hill. I approve. Though, perhaps you did that to avoid Graham’s kiss? Can’t fault you for that.” The girl across from her laughs. She’s a petite thing, all round edges and soft lines. Her loose brown curls and kind honey-brown eyes seem to emphasize a sweetness that is nowhere to be found in her jeering tone. “Augusta Iris Fawley, fifth year. I’d offer my hand, but I don’t fancy dipping my robes in gravy.”

“Pleased to meet you, Fawley, Longbottom.” Irene fills her plate with an assortment of delectable foods. She needs to remember that a normal greeting entails letting the other kiss her hand. Gross. “Unfortunately, the hat was feeling chatty and rude. Even offered some advice.” Irene doesn’t wait, digging in the moment her plate’s filled. With her mouth too busy, engaged in the feast, the curious students leave the questions for another time.

When the feast is over, Irene follows Fawley to the dorms, telling the Gryffindor Prefect Allan McLaggen that she’ll be fine without joining the first years.

“So, you’re a transfer but from where?” Edmund Wolpert asks. His dark skin shines a purple hue in the scant light of the corridor.

After splitting from the Great Hall Fawley and Irene were flocked by a group of fifth year Gryffindors.

Lillian Wood skips in front of the group and spins to walk backward. Her curly blonde locks bounce with each step. “Bet it was Beauxbatons. The muggle war has gotten a bit crazy. There are so many asylum seekers—”

“—But she doesn’t have an accent, Lils,” Evelyn Sloper interrupts stepping to Wood’s shoulder and locking their arms together.

“I was taken in by a small witches’ enclave in the north.” Irene rubs the back of her neck. “My mum decided it was best for me to stay close to home. Grindelwald, Hitler—everything going on and all that.” She waves her hand loosely gesturing at the madness that encompasses the entirety of the forties.

“Oh, is your mom a witch? With the last name Hill, we thought you’d have muggle parents.” Wolpert cocks his head. He’s looking at her like she’s a puzzle to unravel.

“No, you were right before. She’s a muggle.”

“She must be very intuitive to keep you in a small enclave. Now’s not the best time for the muggle-borns and ‘blood-traitors.’” Wolpert nods.

“Why are you here then? It’s only gotten worse.” Wood’s spun back round to walk hand-in-hand with Sloper.

Subtlety, subtlety. Irene bites her lip. “That’s….”

“Why does anyone transfer this late, Lillian? Are you daft?” Fawley, er, Iris as she’s said to call her breathes out, disappointed.

Irene’s shoulders slump in relief. Up the last run of stairs Wood offers a password to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and the group enters the common room.

The first feature that catches Irene’s eyes is the cozy fireplace that sits in a gentle flame at the room’s center. She’s drawn to its warmth along with the rest of the gathering, Sloper and Wood huddling on the couch while Iris, Wolpert, and Irene settle on the rug swaddled in a mountain of pillows. Tall windows emphasize the high-ceilinged, round space as dark wood stairs wind around to scale the walls in spirals. Every inch is covered in ornate gold and red, Gryffindor colors and pride are stitched into each draped gonfalon flag.

Irene palms her tie. The golden chandeliers sparkle against the dark gothic windows. This will be her family, her home, for the next three years.

“—too busy running from the giant Hodags.” Wolpert laughs. “Merlin, I think that was the moment I truly understood why he got a troll on his Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L. Father and I were laughing so hard we couldn’t get a word out to stop him.”

“You’d think your brother would notice the creature was harmless with how the tour guide was acting.” Iris sighs and slumps into the pillow mound.

“It’s not his fault. If giant frogs with red eyes were chasing after me, I’d start running and screaming too.” Sloper shivers and leans into Wood.

“Did you go anywhere during summer, Hill?” Wolpert’s shoe pokes hers.

“No, I was stuck at work all summer.” Irene frowns. “Oh, and you guys can call me Irene. Don’t worry about niceties either.”

“Work? What do you do? I’ve always been curious about muggle establishments. They seem so labor intensive.” Wood pushes Sloper off her and leans closer towards the group on the floor.

“My mom used to own an antiques shop. We had to move everything around physically. There were times when she’d get bulk shipments of carved wooden trunks—took an entire day to load those onto the truck and into the shop. Unfortunately, it’s closed with everything that’s happened.” The effect of her words is instant, all of the group looking a bit awkward and pitying at her. “But now, I work at the Ministry and I can’t complain about the pay.”

“The Ministry? I’m impressed. How’d you manage that?” Wolpert asks.

“Cheap labor and a recommendation.” Irene shrugs.

“Ha. You must be someone’s apprentice.” Iris shakes her head. “So, what do you do there?”

“Yeah, how’d you know? And I work with magical artefacts.” Irene doesn’t mention Fontius, knowing that will draw too much attention to her. “They’re terribly understaffed. It’s no wonder they’d let me join the team with no complaints.” She hopes they won’t be too busy while she’s gone.

“It’s how the Ministry usually gets away with underpaying their employees,” Wolpert explains.

“Wait, do you work with the unspeakables?” Sloper is at the edge of the sofa, her eyes narrowed at Irene.

“Uh, yeah. They’d rather not have to contract a new full-time employee, and I needed the money.” Irene shrugs.

Chaos erupts.

Apparently, working with the unspeakables under the age of twenty-four is incredibly rare, even more so for those under the age of eighteen. Irene grimaces and listens to the various complaints about the department’s exclusion of young talents and a history lesson on the shady experiments that they’ve run. She’s pretty sure the avoidance of youth has something to do with Fontius, and if the story about Croaker is true, Irene’s not sure if she’ll be able to face him at work. It seems the development of the time-turner isn’t as simple as she thought. But on another side, it makes perfect sense how easy it was for Fontius to hire her. Maybe destructive predispositions are a requirement for the job.

With great patience, Irene answers their questions but leaves out as much information as she can. Curious onlookers eavesdrop and wander into their conversation. Being the new student, interest in her must be at its peak. She wonders how many days that’ll last before they mosey off back to their own business.

Irene yawns. The common room is starting to empty. It’s getting late. She watches a group of—most likely third or second year—girls giggle while ascending the stairs and entering the third door up. “I’m guessing the girl’s dorms are that way and the fifth years are in the fifth door up?”

“Yeah, that about sums it up. There are four people to a room and the names are written on the outside of the door,” Sloper says.

“Thanks.” Irene stands up, smoothing out her pleats and robe. “I’m a bit tired from the trip. Think I’ll head to bed and wash up. It was nice talking with everyone.”

Iris’s expression falls a bit, but she quickly fixes it. “I’ll come get you tomorrow for breakfast, okay? I want to see your timetable. Maybe we’ll have a few classes together.”

Irene flashes a smile to the group and makes for the stairs.

Of course, it only takes a night for rumors to spread about her deceased family. Irene has her money on the children she scarred on the boat ride. However, the wide berth some of the fifth-year Gryffindors are giving her makes her almost think one of Iris’s friends spread the gossip. She can see Lillian accidentally saying too much. Sighing, she takes her last bite of hotcakes. The way they treat her as if she’s spun glass is almost insulting. Dragging a hand through her hair, she picks up her timetable. Her lips press into a thin line.

Eleven classes. Bloody Hell.

All this and she has DoM work on the weekends with Professor Galatea Merrythought. Irene sneaks a peek at the older woman. Her sharp curved nose and severe features scream strict, but Irene hopes it’s just her appearance. Afterall, her first impression of the Overlord was a kind old man, and she couldn’t have been any more wrong. Though, the frown lines the Professor is sporting tell a different story. Irene’s face droops. She should destroy all of Fontius’s artefacts when she’s back for the summer. Suck them dry in retribution.  

Iris leans over Irene’s shoulder. “Seems like we have our core courses and Arithmancy together, but I don’t have Ancient Runes, Ancient Magic, or Magical Theory.” She cocks a brow. “You sure you aren’t a Ravenclaw? You barely have any free time. This looks like an unspeakable’s timetable.”

“That’s the least fitting house for me, no matter how hard my mentor tries to change my nature. Trust me.” She looks through Iris’s schedule. She’s got Care of Magical Creatures and that’s the difference really. The one class with animals—regardless of how terrifying they may be—and she doesn’t have it. She slumps her head on the table. “Flavian, I’m coming for your Probity Probe.” she mumbles under her breath.

“Is this some form of innuendo I’m missing?”

Irene’s nose scrunches up. “No. Definitely not. He’s a horrible old codger.” She rolls her head to the side and peeks at her first class of the day, Transfiguration.

She’s doomed.

When the seats begin to empty, Regina Laxley approaches her. “Irene. I hope that it’s alright that I call you by your first name?” She has a kind smile unlike the day before.

Irene’s willing to take it as long as it isn’t the stifling pity running through Gryffindor—she’s half afraid it’ll trigger some sort of chivalry from the guys that are staring for longer than considered socially acceptable. “I don’t mind, Laxley.”

“Please.” She offers her hand. Irene doesn’t think about it and takes it. “Call me Regina.”

Regina helps her to her feet, and gestures for Irene to follow her.

“I have been tasked with showing you around the castle. The teachers gave me a copy of your timetable. Your courses are interesting.”

“Oh. I think the professors are expecting too much. I’m fairly confident I’ll fail at least a third.”

“Please, Irene. Your curriculars have already been explained to me. Someone with an apprenticeship at the Department of Mysteries is guaranteed to be genius level at least, or maybe even a prodigy.”

“I’d consider myself a savant if anything,” she sighs out.

“A savant?”

“Muggle term.” And isn’t it a mystery how fast some pure-blood’s faces will twist from the mere mention of a muggle? “The concept’s quite interesting. I suggest looking it up.”

Boisterous chatter hums around them as Regina begins showing her around Hogwarts. They pass chamber after chamber, starting from the dungeons, and ending in the astronomy tower. Regina’s busy interrogating Irene on her life, studies, extracurriculars, trying to find something in common. Irene’s quite adept at being contrary when she doesn’t like someone. In a heated verbal rapid exchange, they don’t notice the time that’s passed. Thoroughly annoyed with Irene’s refusal to show any cordiality, Regina sends her on her way not caring if she finds her way to Transfiguration or not.

Irene does of course—great mental map and all that—but not without a long run that still ends with her tardiness.

She pants—hands gripping the door frame to keep her from bending over. “Sorry. The tour ran late, Professor.”

Dumbledore’s sparkling eyes and fiery hair are blinding in the early morning. “I would take points off normally, but I believe tardiness on your first day and first class is excusable. Please do take a seat Miss Hill.”

“Thank you, sir.” Irene breezes to the only other empty seat.

The class resumes, and she takes her textbook out and glances at the student beside her. Page 164. She flips through and feels eyes on her. It’s only a glimpse but she notices the green tie and instantly wonders if she made a mistake.

A Slytherin. Aren’t they supposed to hate Gryffindors? She’s also a muggle-born. Neither wanting to know or deal with a possible threat at the moment, she forces all concentration into Transfigurations. Iris tries to convey something in little glances from the front, but they aren’t on the level of friendship that Irene can understand what the hell she means when her hands are flailing about like that.

Ignoring it, Irene gets back to taking notes.

“As it is the first day back, we shall move onto review. Please decide on a fourth-year transfiguration of your choosing. At the front, I have a selection of various animals and other items you can use. Once you perform the spell and counter—if that is applicable—to expected competency, you will be dismissed.” Dumbledore’s jovial expression is answered with various cheers from the Gryffindor side of the room, and God isn’t that embarrassing to realize there are sides now?

Maybe that’s what Iris meant when her hand was making a cutting motion between the two sides of the room and pointing at her tie. Good to know. But a bit late to supply any help.

Irene decides on a simple Orchideous because really, she doesn’t want to experiment on an animal, not with her skill. Transfigurations always go awry when she practices. She doesn’t rise from her seat, instead pulling out her wand. However, the entire class moves to grab their chosen animal or item. Irene’s left sitting and feeling particularly wrong-footed. Especially when her seatmate returns with a lovebird in hand and a scoff on his lips.

They make eye contact for a split second. His glaring platinum blonde hair is almost as long as her onyx locks. Grey eyes narrow at her with disdain. “Poor performance is especially damaging to people such as yourself, Miss Hill. It’d be wise to follow in the class’s stead.”

Irene’s lips pull taught. Let’s just get out of here fast and wait for Iris outside. She brushes him off and stands to stare down at her desk.

Orchideous. Her wrist glides in the symbol for a bouquet—sparks cracking in the air. A gentle poof sounds accompanied by a cloud of smoke. It clears, and a perfect collection of plants sits carefully tucked together in a brown paper bouquet on her desk. She feels the relief pour through. But just before her exhale, a green vine whips out. It snaps forward.

Toward her.

The stunner is out of her before she can think, tendril dropping inches away from her arm. With a better look at her creation, she recognizes an assortment of cannibalistic plants. Some frozen Vampiric Vegetation wilts. At least they aren’t dead. Although she wishes they weren’t nearly as ‘alive’ as they are either. Irene acts like everything’s fine but catches an unimpressed eyebrow from her desk mate.

She smiles, saccharinely sweet. “Would you like a cutting? I made these with you in mind after all.”

The boy looks positively scandalized as he turns from her to his lovebird. Irene shrugs, then hears the snickers from behind her. She speeds to the front to Dumbledore’s desk, presenting her bouquet to him like an eager suitor. His lips twitch in amusement before taking the offering in both hands.

“Living plants in a bouquet spell. In all my years, I have never received such an original gift. Five points to Gryffindor for remarkable innovation.” Dumbledore says. His tone is jolly enough that it draws attention. Irene’s lips twitch. He smiles and mercifully excuses her from class.

Irene wisely decides to wait for Iris several meters away from the door.

Iris is out within minutes. She catches sight of Irene and crowds her. “Interesting taste. I never thought you’d have something for carnivorous plants or old men. But then again, what was it you said? You’re coming after some old codger's Probity Probe?”

She grimaces, urging Iris to head to their next class.

“But brilliant work with Malfoy, I believe you are one of the few to adequately leave him tongue-tied. That pompous prat could learn a thing or two if he’d keep his mouth shut.”

“That was a Malfoy?” Irene frowns. She almost regrets taunting him, but then she remembers it was just a tiny incident. He’ll forget within the week.

“Abraxas Malfoy, third in our year. He’s expected to join the Ministry just like his father. With his popularity, he’s expected to land a seat on the Wizengamot by his early forties. I think it’s more likely he’ll get the position through nepotism and family funding.”

“You know we’ve only had two discussions about the Ministry, but I get the feeling it’s corrupt.”

“Oh, you sweet thing.” Iris reaches over and musses Irene’s hair. “How’d you work there all summer without figuring that out?”

“Unspeakable department, remember?” She raises an unimpressed brow.

“Ah, yes. The meritocratic hermits.”

Irene opens her mouth in outrage. Iris doesn’t allow a word of it, looping her arm through Irene’s and tugging her down the hall to Arithmancy.

Class lets out, and Irene waits at the door again for Iris. Her foot taps against the stone floor in satisfaction. Unlike Transfiguration, Arithmancy is like breathing. The theories and equations are simple, easy to understand. She smiles, contented. It doesn’t hurt that the ‘other’ her had years of advanced calc in her reserves.

Iris steps out of class, Wood at her side. “Oh, Irene! Were you waiting?” She has a lop-sided smile stretched across her face.

Wood scratches her head. “Sorry, Irene. We’ve got Care of Magical Creatures next.”

“Meet us outside the Great Hall in the courtyard before lunch, alright?” Iris gives her a small smile and waves before spinning on her heels to run after Wolpert, who waits just a little further down the corridor.

Left alone, Irene debates on going to the common room or heading for the courtyard to relax. She’s on the seventh floor, but a part of her wants to lounge in the sun. In just a few more months it’ll be too cold for that. She departs with a clack of her heels, mind wandering.

There’s still the issue of her self-practice. Fontius recommended the Room of Requirement. If she asks for a magically inert room, she’ll likely get one. It’s perfect; however, the chances of her being spotted while sneaking off is high as the new student. While descending the stairs, she posits different strategies and tactics on how to evade her peers.

It’s on the final step to the ground level that Irene abandons her quests and decides to just wait a month or two. She rounds the last corridor, pushes the double doors open, and feels the breeze on her skin. It’s a mixed scent, summer heat and dirt blended with the crisp nutty smell of autumn. Her robes flutter behind as she strides to the courtyard. Unfortunately, without her self-practice she’ll have to set time to regularly release her magic.

The courtyard is grand in scope. Irene stares at the endless loggia. It’s flagstone pavement and brick walls stretch to border the grounds. She walks under its archway and onto the vast greenery. Flattened walkways section the space along with several bushes and trees—the picture of a Scottish garden. Irene finds a cozy space beneath a tree surrounded by shrubs and sits. The grass tickles and scratches at her calves, while the shade casts leaf-shaped shadows atop her skin.

It's quite busy here. Students are isolated into groups and pairs. There isn’t a section unoccupied, even if it isn’t crowded. I’ll have to practice elsewhere. She could use the grounds around the Black Lake. The nearby Forbidden Forest should keep the area reasonably vacant. The shadow above her grows dark. If it rains, she’ll have to use an umbrella charm. Irene leans back against the tree and looks up, but it’s not a cloud that obscures the sun.

“Get up mudblood,” the voice carries, it’s shrill and reedy sound cutting in the dulcet tones of the distanced students.

Chapter Text

“Get up mudblood,” the voice carries, it’s shrill and reedy sound cutting in the dulcet tones of the distanced students. The girl who insulted her wears a mop of curly brown hair and is peculiarly similar to a giraffe. Irene faintly notices her three friends behind her, but her focus is on the mostly green ties and several students who are only watching from under the loggia’s cover.

It’s not as much of a cliché as it is sad. Irene frowns and minds her own, ignoring the slur. However, as a safety precaution, she grips her wand safely hidden away in her pocket.

“I said, get up!” Curly-hair kicks at Irene, but it doesn’t connect—only a threatening feint.

Irene meets the other’s eyes. “You should mind your own,” her tone is calm, distant. She offers a warning, her heel already pressed into the soft soil beneath, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice.

The girls around her laugh and chuckle as if her resistance is the funniest thing they’ve seen in a while.

And perhaps it is.

Perhaps the majority of the others—as small a population as muggle-borns are—never bothered to show any opposition at a disadvantage from the start. Irene’s muscles tense.  

“The Gryffindors always have something to prove,” the one in the back—hair pristinely braided into a bun—mocks. “You think you’re chivalrous, brave, destined to become some heroic knight, but the truth is, most of you are just like Sir Daguenet. A foolish, cowardly whelp whose only place by a king was as a court’s jester.”

This prompts another round of cackles.

Irene’s empty hand palms the ground beneath her. She knows that bullies often stop once they can’t get a rise out of someone, but why can’t they understand to leave others alone? Why do they seek out such sadistic satisfaction? Her fist tightens around a patch of soil while her other shakes in fury around her larch wand.

“Oh, looks like the little mudblood’s upset, Renee,” the girl in the back—stout and muscled—says to the curly-haired girl, her tone is infantilizing, condescending.

Irene’s attempts to calm her expression only serve to deepen the wrinkle between her brows. “Listen,” she sighs, “if this is some powerplay I don’t understand just get to the point already.” Irene tries to breathe in slow, easy breaths. She needs to cool her building temper. This isn’t her fight. A teacher should intervene, but as she glances at the crowd of students watching, she knows help won’t be coming. She exhales, reaching for some sense of peace. A part of her admits she wants them to act out, if only so she can punish them, show them that hate begets hate.

“In a hurry? Need somewhere to go and cry to your parents?” the girl with the bun smirks. “Oh wait, I heard they were dead.”

Irene sees red. She’s on her feet in a flash, her teeth bared in a snarl. “It’d be wise to shut your mouth,” she hisses. Her wand is out of her pocket, dangerously twirling in her hand, still pointed down. It sings in dulcet pulses that zip up her arm. She can feel it, the wand’s courage and reassurance. And so, despite the fury she feels pressing behind her eyes, Irene relaxes. She knows they’re just words from someone who doesn’t have the heart for a pittance of empathy. She won’t start a fight, but she’ll finish it if she has to.

Renee grits her teeth. Her wand is carefully at her side. “Okay, Hill, I’ll tell you why we’re here. You’re the new student—the current curiosity of the school. It’ll last you a few weeks and maybe a month at best, but here’s the truth.” She leans onto one hip, as if her next words aren’t some horrible manifesto.

“This is Hogwarts, and the majority of us are born and bred witches and wizards.” Her hand gestures between the other three in her group. “We’ve been taught to understand the subtleties of our culture. Mudbloods on the other hand are rude, ignorant, and frankly brutish, taught nothing apart from their own savagery. Flirting with someone else’s fiancé, whining about unfair treatment—when we have to suffer through something as droll as ‘Halloween’—and your men are so quick to physical violence like some magic-less muggle. It’s not your fault, it’s your parents, your blood. You simply can’t be taught; nothing can change your nature.”

“To be honest, you don’t belong here, but the law states otherwise. And until that wrong is rectified, we’re forced to deal with your imprudence. Now you’re free to muck up any of those blood traitors and apologists, but approaching a Slytherin pureblood is off limits.”

Irene stares darkly at them. She’s not unfamiliar with prejudice. Her grandmother had preached something uncannily familiar at her mother’s funeral. It took time—as muddled as her mind is from the accident and extra memories—but she remembers bits and pieces. In her mourning—in her desperation—she’d let what she believed was a grieving mother come for her only deceased daughter. It’s her greatest regret and strongest what-if. What if she didn’t let her in? What if she didn’t let her speak?

Her hand balls into a fist. What was it her grandmother said? Right. Her mom was cursed to have a half-life since she bred an abominable half-breed such as Irene herself. Irene laughs, low and detached. Since then, words such as this barely carry a weight to them as they can only strike chest deep once.  

“You know,” she breathes out, lifts her chin. “Ironically enough I’ve heard your speech before and from a muggle at that. The same separatism, the same bigotry. Doesn’t it grate, strangle you in misery? How can you live with such vile hate in your heart?”

The words must be cutting, as Renee levels her wand at Irene. “Today’s Transfiguration lesson was a mistake that will not be repeated. Let this be a warning.” The next second a babbling curse is hurtling towards her.

Irene’s wand slashes up. Protego!

The yellow curse fizzles out against her shield. And she has never been more grateful that work at the DoM prioritized defensive magic. The group blusters. Curses, hexes, and jinxes flash and scatter rippling across silver. Irene knows she only has a few seconds until the dome shatters. It doesn’t matter that she has more magic than the average witch or wizard, control is crucial as well and she finds herself lacking in that department. Four against one. She needs a plan.

They curse and yell, their muffled voices and rhetoric unimportant and unregistered to Irene. She bites her lip—an idea on the precipice of its own making. Her offensive magic is volatile and dangerous. She doesn’t want to, but it seems her best option.

The shield shimmers and bursts. Incandescent flecks of silver flicker and hiss—Irene’s Protego reaching its limit.

A scarlet jinx screams through the air. She spins. Wind rustles through her unbound hair. The spell speeds past, its tail catching and singeing her onyx strands. Behind her, sparks shatter against bark. The tree’s wood now scorched, blackened.

An Incendio? Irene glares. With a flick of her wrist she chants, “Entomorphis.”

The magenta spell hits true. Renee falls, grass crunching beneath. But a curse is whistling towards her. Irene lunges to the side. A zip of green clips her ear. Her skin burns and swells instantly. She grounds her boots into grass, pivoting. Her response is sent in a stunning spell directly aimed at the girl with a bun.

It misses—the spell shrieking past to disperse against the cobblestone loggia. The shot just wide of her chest. Bystanders jeer and curse from the covered corridor—unhappy to be caught up in the spectacle.

Irene’s second spell is already out before the first doesn’t land. Purple scatters against the other’s leg. When Bun Girl waves her wand to send another, the spell backfires. Her hair falls like feathers from her head. She gathers strands pressing it against her skull as if trying to reattach it. The other two raise their wands.

“—Salazar! What have you done to me!?” the high-pitched squeal of Renee’s voice cuts through the chaos.

Everyone stops. Stares.

It’s her leg, arms. They’re black and bumped like a bug’s. Abnormal prongs have replaced her fingers, each with their own horn-like protrusions. The scene is monstrous—a horror film made real—and Irene knows that she’s responsible. She’d planned, bet on such an event. Her Transfigurations consistently end in unexpected and unfortunate results.

Renee screams and wails while her friends are too disturbed to come any closer. Her exoskeleton leg and arms crack and click with every irregular movement. Disgust is plain on their faces no matter how hard they try to hide it.

Irene should feel bad, and later she probably will, but right now righteous triumph is clouding her better judgement.

“What is going on here?” a voice stern, commanding, and directly behind Irene says.

She whips round, hand tightly wound around her wand.

Eye-level, the first thing she sees is the shiny prefect pin that sits atop the other’s chest. She’s about to pocket her wand, but then catches the green tie. Her fingers twitch over her cherry hilt.

Irene hesitantly raises her head.

Jet-black hair, pale skin, and ruddy brown eyes look down at her curiously. He looks familiar, like an artist’s rendition of someone she knows but can’t seem to piece through the broad strokes. Her attention flicks back to the pin.

Irene licks her lips. Great. She gets the Slytherin prefect to deal with her specifically Slytherin problem. She doubts it’ll end in her favor. Her mouth remains shut. She’ll say her peace if she gets the chance but won’t fight for it.

“She cursed us! That’s what happened.”

Irene doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s the girl with the braided bun. Renee still seems to be consumed in her own sobbing.

“Miss Hill, would you care to explain?” The boy raises a brow.

“They attacked me, called me a mudblood,” she says calmly. Then whirls around to face the group of students, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “I told them to mind their own.”

“Is that true?” the prefect asks.

They splutter until one of them steps forward. It’s the same girl again. “We were only having her on. There wasn’t anything harmful sent, and look at her, she’s completely uninjured. She’s the one who used an unregistered spell against us!”

Irene’s cheek twitches. Nothing harmful? The scorch marks on the tree behind would serve as conflicting evidence. But Irene can’t seem to muster up any angry retort. Bun Girl—well perhaps she should say Bald Girl—has lost nearly half the entirety of her braided hair which now sits loosely on the back of her head edging to slide off entirely while the rest of her pale skull shines and reflects the afternoon sun. Irene’s lips thin to prevent her from laughing. “It wasn’t an unregistered spell, only a botched Entomorphis.”

“Was it really?” The boy says a little too fascinated and excited considering the situation. And maybe something shows on Irene’s face, because he changes the subject without hesitation. “Any matter. Miss Carrow, I believe we should get you and…the others to the hospital wing for now. And although it disappoints me to do so, I’ll have to take off points for your conduct as I’m inclined to believe Miss Hill’s story.” He sighs as if terribly pained, but something about it rubs Irene the wrong way.

It feels artificial.

“I’ll handle that, Tom. I took statements from the witnesses that stood around watching the scene. Miss Hill is telling the truth.” A Gryffindor prefect Irene had yet to greet walks over to them. She turns and flashes a glare back at the group of onlookers. “Cowards the lot of them,” the last sentence is barely registerable under a whispered scoff. “Fifty points will be taken from each of you for attempting to curse a fellow student. And Miss Hill?” The prefect spins on her heels to face Irene. “Twenty points from Gryffindor for use of an unpracticed spell.”

“Minerva, are you sure that’s necessary? She’s a new student. Clearly, she was upset about the assault and only defending herself.”

“Unfortunately, in her particular case, yes. We can’t have students turning into bugs now, can we?” Minerva—McGonagall? —sighs.

They turn to Renee who’s still sobbing and whimpering at her arthropod appendages.

“I’ll take them to the Madam Weber.” Minerva nods and gathers the group of girls. “All of you, follow me to the hospital wing, lest you wish to lose more points from your house. After the Madam whips you into shape, I expect you to report to detention with Professor Merrythought. And stop your incessant whimpering Lestrange!” She glares, and Renee Lestrange wobbles onto unsteady feet, unused to the transfigured leg.

Murmurs and chatter carry across the courtyard. Their eyes are on her. Watching, judging, and then Irene remembers.

Minerva, Minerva McGonagall, called the other prefect “Tom.”

Irene bites her lip. What are the chances that another fifth-year prefect would have the name Tom? What are the chances they’d know McGonagall and graduate Hogwarts roughly fifty years before the golden trio?

Dread slithers down Irene’s back. She can feel the side of her face burn, the prefect’s piercing stare never leaving her face. It makes the curse that swiped her ear grow molten. Jet-black hair and pale skin loom in the corner of her eye. What if it is him?

What if it is Tom Marvolo Riddle?

She needs to get out of there.

Irene slaps a hand over her ear. “I think I should head to the hospital wing as we—”

Two strong hands clamp down on her shoulders; Irene tries not to shiver. “Miss Hill, if you’d please,” comes the soft rumble of the voice behind her. “I’ll help you with the counter-curse for the spell that nicked your ear.”

So, he’d seen that? How long had he been watching before intervening? Irene observes enviously as Lestrange limps alongside the others, following McGonagall into the safety of the castle and medical ward.

Irene doesn’t want to look at him—doesn’t want to be face-to-face with a possible future genocidal maniac—but like everything else in her life, like everything else that makes living difficult, she doesn’t want to, but she does. Irene steps out of his clutches and smiles at the devil himself. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that,” she says. And color her surprised, perhaps she can lie naturally after all.

He stares at his palms as if she offended him by shrugging him off. “Shall we move to a more private area?” He clasps his hands behind his back returning the smile to her, and Irene feels a bit like she’ll faint from the shock of it all.

“I’m supposed to meet some classmates here,” she says weakly.

“It’ll only take a second.”  

Irene nods and allows him to whisk her away into the castle’s corridors. When they’re properly sequestered in a corridor behind the Great Hall, he withdraws his wand—bleached wood and an intricately carved hilt. Unhesitant, he closes the gap.

She swallows, eyes never leaving the bleached wand. “What was your name again?” At this point there’s no doubt in her mind who it is, but how she wishes she could be wrong.

“Oh,” he chuckles, low and deep. “My apologies, Miss Hill.” His hand reaches and brushes against her locks, combing it with his fingers to reveal her ear beneath. Then his wand is raised and pointed at her.

Her breath catches.

With a flourish of his wand, he murmurs two spells in succession. The burning of her skin is replaced with a cool sensation. “A counter-curse and a healing charm.” He tucks her hair behind her ear. “Tom Marvolo Riddle.” He bows his head and offers his hand.

Irene takes a long breath. She grabs it in a firm shake not giving any opening for a polite kiss. “Irene On Hill, pleasure to meet you.” She lets go.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Riddle’s smile is the picture of charming.

She wants to puke. He looks completely genial. Isn’t she undesirable number one, being a mudblood and everything? Merlin. A right charming bastard he is. Thinking of which, when does he go on his reign of terror with the Chamber of Secrets?

“Well, I ought to meet with my classmates. Wouldn’t want them to wait too long.” She twirls and doesn’t give him a chance to interrupt. “It was nice meeting you. Thanks for the help again, Riddle.” She waves as a parting farewell and scurries away.

Irene’s chest heaves as she makes it back to the courtyard, but by then the students are already cleared out. She hurries to the Great Hall and breathes out a sigh of relief when she spots Iris waving her over.

“Goodness, Irene. You look like you’ve been through a windstorm,” Sloper says.

Iris pats the open seat beside her. Irene sits whilst trying and failing to comb out her hair. Wood murmurs a spell to fix it behind her.

“Thanks.” Irene beams. Her heart is still pounding, but she tries to focus on what’s happening now rather than what was before. She takes her empty plate and begins to pile food atop it.

“So, is everything alright?” Wolpert gives her a concerned look. “We heard about the whole courtyard incident.”

“I’d say she is. I mean did you see Lestrange limping to the Hospital Wing? And Carrow? In comparison Irene is in excellent shape.” Iris cackles into her salad. “Sorry about Minerva, though. She’s a fanatic when it comes to the rules. I swear the only time she lets loose is during quidditch.”

“No, I get it that’s her job. And I’m fine. Nothing to worry about. I just hope they can figure out how to fix the transfiguration I did on Lestrange.” Irene sighs.

It’s Thursday when Carrow finally comes out—or is forced out—of hiding sporting a pixie-length haircut. Irene isn’t lost on the irony that she makes it just in time for their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Since the courtyard incident, most Slytherins have been ignoring Irene. Either she’s below them, or not worth the possibility of losing more points. Lestrange’s posse did quite the number on their house first day back.

Irene shuffles into class. The DADA chamber is chilling to put it lightly. Gothic windows with grey curtains block out the light while scorched metal lanterns glow in ominous blue. Objects, most certainly cursed, are tucked upon the highest shelves that line the southern facing side of the room. Several specimen jars of all shapes and sizes preserving dark creatures are kept in a cabinet to its side. It’s positively macabre.

She takes seat next to Iris, taking out her textbook, and waits until class begins. Students filter in and Irene watches as a tall boy with dark hair and green robes walks alongside another with a brown mane of curls. She doesn’t need another glance to tell who they are. Tom Riddle and Renatus Lestrange. Irene shoves her nose into the DADA textbook. She’s been giving him a wide berth since Monday and plans to continue doing so until the rest of her stay at the castle.

She bites her lip and twirls her quill.

Thing is Riddle is very…human.

He looks, well, normal. So much so, it’s almost anticlimactic. Handsome? Yes. On the level of a model or actor? Absolutely. But upon closer inspection, there’s a slight bend at the top of his nose, one brow hangs just a smidge lower than the other, and his smile rises higher on the left side rather than the right. To her surprise, he’s not some perfect rendition of the golden ratio, or an artist’s masterpiece personified. Irene thought he’d be otherworldly in his appearance—Lucifer himself, a fallen angel.

Merrythought shuts her doors with a flick of a wand. “Now then, open your texts to page 175.”

And just like that, the two-block course begins. DADA is probably Irene’s second-best class past Arithmancy. The concepts are particularly difficult. If she had a muggle course to compare it to, well, it’s like gym class mixed with mythology. She begins notes on vampire bats. In the corner of her eye, she sees Evelyn sneaking glances at the future Dark Lord. Horrible taste. Irene grimaces.

Then again, she’s never actually held a conversation with him past what happened in the courtyard and corridor.

Sure, she’s heard him talk to the teachers and other students in the hallways, but that’s just a façade. For all she knows, he could be the second coming of Hitler himself behind closed doors, and chances are he actually is—the books had certainly hinted at that. After all, this man—well child at the moment—will rage a genocidal war in about twentyish years. He must have the charisma to match the monster inside. For the aurors to believe an acromantula killed Myrtle.

Maybe she should talk to Dumbledore? But then again it doesn’t sit right with her to condemn someone before they commit the crime. She sighs. She’ll just have to wait until the petrifications start, then she’ll tell a professor—probably Dumbledore.

Regardless, for now Irene should steer clear of him. Settling into her notetaking, the class goes by in a whirlwind.

“Okay, everyone great class today. Expect longer practical lessons starting next week. We will have a quiz as well, so don’t forget to read the chapter. Miss Irene Hill, please stay after class. As for everyone else, dismissed.” And with another flourish of her wand, Merrythought lets out the fifth-year students.

Irene gathers her things together and Iris promises to save a seat for her in the Great Hall. When all the students have exited, Professor Merrythought shuts the doors, this time with a locking charm.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Miss Hill. Flavian has sent such praise, surprising for an unhappy and bitter old man like himself.” She offers her hand and Irene shakes it.

“Is this about the upcoming Saturday meeting?” Irene asks.

“Oh, no. It’s regarding a letter I received from Flavian earlier this evening. If you’d follow me, please.” Professor Merrythought gestures to her office door and the two vacate the room.

Inside is much the same as the DADA classroom, with the familiar dark flagstone flooring, brick walling, and accompanying slate colored furniture. Behind the desk is a ceiling tall gothic window and to its side is a grand fireplace that blazes green.

“Flavian is waiting for you on the floo.” Merrythought gestures to the fire and then begins dispelling a series of intricate spellwork about the room. Irene only recognizes the anti-eavesdropping charms.

Irene obeys and walks to the fire. She’s never been on a floo call with someone and is not sure—

“Hill.” A head bursts from the flames. Irene startles. “You’ve received my package, correct?”

She edges closer to the mantle, leaning back and forth like a bobblehead. Fontius’s face is burned in 3D across the fire. He looks terribly unimpressed with her behavior.

“Sorry, a bit strange isn’t it—calling through a fire?” Irene straightens her posture. “But, yes. I received your first edition Tales of Beedle the Bard during lunch. Aki is a menace.” Irene stops pacing, turns, and frowns. “Did you really just call me to check that I received the fairytales you sent?”

“I believe you’ll find the chapter of The Village Boy particularly enlightening. But that is not the only reason why, no.” Fontius sighs. “I’ve reached out to an old study companion of mine. He lived on the border of Mongolia and China for a while during his studies. I’ve scheduled a meeting with him in the winter to discuss Ancient Magic of the East. It appears he returned to the European continent a little more than two decades ago to start work on a new project. We’ve had an expert in the field under our noses this entire time. But I guess I should’ve expected such poorly travelled news with the war about and all that.”

“Do you think he’ll know what my abilities are?”

“I’d say there’s a strong chance. From my memories, Ramhart was vexingly thorough. I doubt he’d leave Asia without securing at least a few hundred records and accounts. He was also quite the fieldwork enthusiast. He likely knows several magical enclaves as well.”

“Magical enclaves?” Why would that matter?

“Oh, yes. I’ve never explained this. Ancient Magic appears to have some hereditary link. We aren’t sure if this is because of nature or nurture. Excellent debates can be found in the field for either side. But, I digress.” Fontius shakes his head. “Some communities tend to seclude themselves from both the magical and muggle world to keep their magic within their group. Ancient Magic is commonly found to be practiced within enclaves.”

“I see.” Irene chews her lip. “And this study mate, will I have to meet with him?”

“No. I haven’t seen him in decades. It wouldn’t be wise to let him know of you. Europe isn’t the only country dealing with political discourse. The Asian continent has seen more bloodshed in the last century than we have seen since the time of the Goblin Wars.”

Irene nods her head, subtly relieved to know her secret is safe. “Thank you for taking my safety into account, sir.” She bows.

“Of course, my dear girl.” Fontius offers a rare warm smile. “Any matter, the meeting is scheduled for a little after Samhain. During this time, I believe staying in the castle would be for the best. I will inform you if I make any new findings.”

“Understood.” Irene smiles.

“Then I bid you a good evening. Oh, and Miss Hill, please do send a letter to Prewett, he’s been abnormally clumsy since Tuesday evening. I believe your incident with the Lestrange girl has reached his ears.”

“Wait, how do you—”

The face in the flames disappears before she can finish. Rude. Irene sighs. Footsteps behind her remind her that the Professor had been there throughout the conversation. She turns around. Merrythought is standing, no, hovering over her.

She coughs into her hand. “Flavian has taken the utmost precautions into sending you here. He has his own reservations about the security of the castle. It’s not so much so regarding physical harm as much as it is about espionage. You can never be too careful.”

“Oh.” Irene thinks back to the various DADA professors that will join the Hogwart’s staff just to harm poor Harry Potter in the future.

“Why don’t we get you to dinner now, Miss Hill?” Professor Merrythought lowers the privacy wards in the room. “I’ll see you bright and early on Saturday, then?”

Irene nods and leaves for the Great Hall.

“First week is over, it’s only going to get harder from here on.” Lillian sits atop her four-poster bed, her hair in tight buns.

“Week’s not over yet for me.” Irene rolls to the opposite side of her bed. Tomorrow at nine she has an appointment with Professor Merrythought and four cursed items.

“Oh! So, do we have any new crushes this year? We’ve had seven days to scope out the boys.” Gwendoline Vane pushes her chair out from her desk, forgoing her nightly study to talk about this as if it’s something of grave importance. “I’m guessing you’ve still got your eye on Desmond, Blythe?”

Lillian gets this faraway look in her eyes. “It must be true love to never waver.”

Ears half in the conversation, Irene opens her nightstand drawer. Books, quills, and trinket boxes shuffle around while she digs about. It’s only a week and she’s cluttered up her space.

“Haven’t found anyone yet, Lily?” Gwendoline asks.

“Nope, I think I might be incapable at this point. I’m afraid my parents might get me a fiancé if I don’t find someone in the next three years. Why can’t it be acceptable to grow old with a friend?” She sighs. “Do you have eyes on anyone?”

Irene frowns. God. The forties are insufferable. With her new future as a witch, she hasn’t given marriage much thought. Drawer properly disorganized, she withdraws The Tales of Beedle the Bard. It’s a good time to read the story Fontius tasked her to.

“I think Avery’s kind of growing on me.” Gwendoline says dreamily.

Two groans of protest spark from Irene’s dormmates.

“You know what? You can’t be saved Gwen. You’re doomed to have terrible eyes for men for eternity. If last year didn’t teach you anything, then you’re a lost cause.” Blythe Prang places her book down on the bed just to rub the point between her eyes.

“I don’t want to be mean, but I agree Gwen. You can’t just keep going after Slytherins. You’re gonna end up as the…‘other’ woman.” Lillian whispers the last part like it’s a scandal.

Irene checks the table of contents, settling back into her pillows. Page seventy-eight. She flips until the page rests on The Village Boy. A black penned illustration of a humble hut is positioned beneath the cursive title. The door to the hut opens—the drawing animated. Irene’s entranced. A man—not so much a boy—walks to the forefront of the page in strange robes. They’re high-colored and wrapped around him like a bathrobe. He waves at Irene with a sad expression across his face. Her hand twitches; she almost waves back.

“And you Irene?” Gwendoline asks.

“Huh?” She snaps her head away from the illustration.

“Do you have anyone you’ve set your sights on?” Blythe repeats.

“Oh, no, of course not. I’ve only been here a week. How would I get to know anyone in that short time?” She cocks her head.

“I respect that.” Blythe nods.

“Oh, pish posh. What about love at first sight?” Lillian’s got those stars back in her eyes. “When I first met Eve, I knew from that moment on she’d be my best friend.”

Irene feels the need to hide herself in her book. “Sorry. Haven’t experienced that.” Not even regarding friendship.

“All good things happen in due time.” Gwendoline smiles.

Again, Irene wants to draw the curtains and get to reading. If that’s something that’ll eventually happen, she hopes she won’t see the other person for another three years. At least until she gets herself together.

“Your Father…? Well, it was a long time ago, but the truth is it was hate-at-first sight….”

Irene smiles at the memory of her mother. Although the idea that someone she’d abhorred so adamantly had become someone she’d give her heart to seems a bit barmy. But perhaps it’s just Irene’s inexperience that makes it appear so. Love seems too complicated to involve herself in at her age.

She crosses her ankles and begins the tale.

When it finally comes to an end, the others have closed their curtains and Irene’s sitting in the dark with only the barest light flickering from her wand. She twirls her wrist in a spell to close her bed and tucks the book under her pillow. Her hand palms at her chest.

Frankly, finishing the story, she feels like utter shit.

She doesn’t even understand the moral of it all. There has to be one, right? Merlin. What is it—don’t help others?

She frowns and scoots under the covers. The plush duvet smothers her in warmth. It’s like it’s swaddling her in comfort. She bundles herself in tight as if it can take away the despair she feels deep in her soul. Her hand lingers on the book’s binding.

A melancholic dark tale of a foolish man. Or perhaps he was still a boy in the end. Either way the ending was nothing but regretful. Irene should’ve saved it for a morning rather than an evening. Terrible thing, to go to sleep with a mess in your head.

When she closes her eyes that night, she dreams, dreams of a boy with grand ideas and nothing but his own demise to show for it.

Chapter Text

Dear Overlo Fontius,

Next time you send fairytales, please select a more pleasant story.

With great disappointment,
Irene

Her quill plops into the inkwell with a splatter. With a lick and a pinch, Irene seals two letters destined for the Department of Mysteries—one for Fontius and the other for Evan. She pockets them to bring to the Owlery before her morning shift with Professor Merrythought.

There’s a scalding heat that consumes her whenever she opens her core. Irene’s grown accustomed to it throughout the long months of practice. It used to feel all-consuming—her body unused to magic—but now it soothes her into its dangerous lull. And perhaps that’s the most unsettling part.

Irene breathes out as heat builds on the tips of her fingers. All of her focus centers on the string of dark runes that run the expanse of the artefact’s base. It’s the fourth and last item on her list for the day. Although she has another three waiting for her tomorrow.

Cold sweat trickles down her back—her heated body resisting the cooler temperature of the DADA classroom. The cursed piece is a magnificent statuette of a qilin that was anonymously gifted to the Ministry after the Supreme Mugwump incident in thirty-six. The secretary who opened the package touching the object immediately fell sick and was hospitalized until their eventual death only two days later. It was determined he was hit with a life-stealing curse—a terribly dark form of magic difficult to break. Since the incident, they’ve kept the artefact in the archives waiting till they found someone able to dispel the magic, afraid of causing more senseless deaths.

Magic swirls in ominous whisps of black smoke about the carved symbols, proof of mal magic meant only to harm, maim. Irene swallows.

Her hands hover over the runic pattern at the bottom. She doesn’t touch it—it’s much too risky to risk with particularly virulent curses, though her magic is usually quick to protect her. Silvery tendrils stretch from her fingers. With great care and caution, they grab and latch onto the smoke. Irene shivers, feels the bite of the magic seeping through her skin. It writhes, kicks and contends her in every pulse.

The sensation is always strange, as the heat of her core smothers the magic and a fullness settles in her gut. But when Irene looks down at her body, she can only see a faint outline of something inside her. She’d expect a large collection of magic energy, but it looks quite weak. A stark contrast to the abnormal heaviness she feels in her abdomen.

She returns to the qilin. The runes have lost their blackened tinge and Irene can see evidence of something else underneath. It’s faint but incandescent in its glow almost reminding her of her own eyes. She leans in closer.

A rune?

Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen something like it. A sort of Chinese character perhaps? Maybe she could ask Professor Babbling next class if she has any information on Asian runes.

“Is something the matter, Miss Hill?”

Irene startles and leaps back from the voice. Professor Merrythought is once again hovering just over her. She swiftly pockets her hands. They tremble along with her pounding heart. She’s too close.

“No. No. There’s nothing wrong.” Her magic leaks out from her in her own nervousness. Irene takes another step to widen the distance between her and the Professor, her hands fisting the fabric of her pockets like an anchor.

“Are you sure? You’re looking a little pale, dear.” Professor Merrythought’s brows pinch in worry.

“Yes. Of course.” She takes another step back, closing her eyes. Calm. Settle your magic. She breathes in and pulls her magic in tight. It’s gradual, but the heat cools and her eyes blink back to their usual black hue. It’s been months of practice, but she still would prefer her space when working. Confidence. That’s what Evan said she lacked, but Irene doesn’t think it’s confidence she lacks. Her magic is inherently dangerous. If anything they should be less confident in her.

Irene exhales shakily. “Did Fontius say anything about what I can do? I mean I assumed, but I never asked.”

The Professor frowns. “He didn’t ask for your permission to tell me?”

She shakes her head.

Merrythought sighs. “Now that I remember who we are dealing with I don’t see how he’d even consider such a thing,” the words come out in an exhale. “Yes, Miss Hill. The inconsiderate nutter informed me of your magic absorption abilities.”

Irene releases her tight hold over her robes. “I-I can control it better than before, but I still don’t think it’s safe.” Her throat grows tight, she swallows. “If you could, um….”

“Give you space?” The Professor smiles understanding. “Of course, dear. Will that conclude your work for the day?” She leaves it at that.

She nods. “Yes, Professor. I’ll be back tomorrow to finish the other half.” With a swift thank you and have a good evening, Irene leaves the DADA class for the kitchens.

Irene’s feeling a bit jumpy like her magic is writhing under her skin—an unwilling captive in its cage. Maybe yesterday’s spell casting wasn’t enough. But what’s she supposed to do? Practice around the other students? That sounds like a bad idea, unless she plans on making a repeat of Lestrange who still sits in the infirmary with her bug appendages. Irene was right, no matter how much of a bigot the other child is, she still feels guilty for basically cursing the other.

She cards her fingers through her hair. She doesn’t want to sit with her friends right now. Her heart’s still pounding away in its cage, desperate and scared. Irene bites her lip. Nothing’s happened, she needs to move on.

To calm down, she just needs to be alone.

Her feet pad down the corridors and stairs. The sconces hiss while drafts of wind breeze by. Flames flickering on the walls cause shadows to dance and twirl in the dim light. When she glances about, Irene notices the students’ numbers have decreased as she nears the entrance of the castle. It appears that most vacate the Great Hall shortly after eating. Irene makes a note in case she needs privacy in the future. Loafers squeaking under her steps, she reaches the end of the corridor.

It’s quiet. Her shoes are the only noise echoing off the empty stone hallway. Irene steps around the corner to the final stretch. It’s dark she notes and looks at her feet.

Something large and dark skitters past.

Her heart jumps to her chest. She lunges back. The black figure speeds across the ground at an inhuman speed. She whirls around to track it. Her wand is out and drawn in a second. But there’s nothing there.

The dim corridor is empty, barren.

She points a Lumos into the dark corners of the hall. An ornate flag and suit of armor sit in the dead end—the only fixtures that could hide something as large as the shadow she glimpsed. Irene places her wand between her and the metal statue, approaching slowly with silent steps.

What if it’s a creature from the forbidden forest?

The hairs on the back of her neck stand. God, why didn’t Fontius put her in Care of Magical Creatures? Irene inches closer regardless, wand at the ready. “It’s more likely to be someone’s pet,” she comforts herself.

“Cistem Aperio,” Irene whispers.

A white light shoots from her wand and the armor bursts open, pieces clattering to the ground in loud clangs. She hesitantly looks into the suit.

There’s nothing, just the hollow iron shin guards and shoes of the knight.

Irene glances side to side. Not a single shadow monster in sight. Her brows knot. She must be tired. With a sigh, she murmurs another spell to mend the fallen knight. The sound of iron clicking together rings through the empty hall accompanied by the crackling sconces. Her tense muscles relax, and she turns.

A dark mass stands towering over her.

Irene whips out her wand, a spell on her lips.

“Woah, woah there. Didn' mean ter startle yeh.” The giant shadow backs up a few steps, hands out in surrender.

Irene recognizes the student robes belatedly. Her eyes trail up until her head is nearly leaning on her back to meet the other’s face. “Hagrid?” She blinks.

“Er, yeah. Tha’’d be me,” the half-giant says sheepishly.

“Oh,” she says absently while pocketing her weapon. “Um, sorry. We haven’t met, have we?” Irene rubs the back of her neck while offering her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Irene Hill, fifth year.”

The giant beams. “I know. Heard 'bout yeh from me friends an' saw your sorting. Rubeus Hagrid, third year.”

Third-year? Bloody Hell. She tries not to gape. “Any reason why you were right behind me?”

“Oh, er, yeah….” His eyes dart up and down and Irene thinks he’s very fidgety for a Gryffindor. “Thought yeh might’ve need some help with tha' there suit o' armor since it was in pieces, yeh see. But it seems yeh got tha' righ' under control.” He slaps a hand against Irene’s back. The balls of her feet dig into the ground to keep her from sweeping off the floor.

Oh. How embarrassing he must’ve seen her spooked over nothing. “Yeah, just a little clumsy that’s all. Thanks for trying to help though.” She smiles to hide the pain her back is under. “Anyway, I should be going, still haven’t had dinner and all that.”

“Yeah, yeh do tha'. An' i'll jus, er, stay righ' here an' watch this knight fer yeh.”

Irene blinks but doesn’t make any further comment, hurrying off to the portrait to tickle the pear and enter the kitchen for a meal.

Weird.

With two and a half weeks into the term, Irene’s starting to get into a pattern. She has morning breakfast with Iris and the company, classes where she sits by Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs—so far, the Slytherins and Ravenclaws are too intimidating to approach, especially the Slytherin boy who has a staring problem—and evenings back in the company of her house members.

Sure, she hasn’t been the best student. Not for lack of trying, but between choosing terrible grades over cursed classmates, Irene’s confident she’s made the better choice. And sure, she’s reasonably certain the pitying looks aren’t just because of her parents anymore. But on the bright side their interest in her is dying off at an exponential rate now, which is helpful even if that also means the Slytherins consider her fair game.

Irene sends a Finite and a Scourgify at her shoes that had been hexed with an oozing spell. She breathes in and heads down the quiet corridor to the Vice Headmaster’s office. No one ever heads down this way apparently. Something to do with the cursed classroom of a deceased professor? Rumors are that a man can be heard wailing at night. Irene’s not sure if such reports are just rumors when there’s magic involved and ghosts roaming about. But there’s also one about a monster that crawls across the corridors at night, climbing the tapestries to attack unknowing students. That one Irene has her money on being fake.

It’s probably a way to keep the students from breaking curfew. She pads down the hall quickly.

She’s a bit early—well maybe a lot early with thirty minutes left between the agreed time—but she doubts Dumbledore will mind. He requested to speak with her before lunch and although she’s not looking forward to it, she had at least expected it. She could only show such terrible results for so long until one of the teachers broke down and called her in—unspeakable apprentice or not.

As she nears the door, the sound of yelling pierces through, loud and unobstructed.

Irene freezes, hand reaching for the doorknob.

“—He’s in pain, Albus! It’s been six years! Six years of suffering and waiting for this so called ‘cure.’ Don’t you care?” the voice is deep, powerful, and trembling. She can’t tell if that’s because of the anger she can hear in every word or the pain that ebbs in every space between.

Dumbledore starts, “that’s why the Flamels have—”

Irene breathes in quiet shallow breaths.

“No!” A harsh thump bangs against wood. “No,” he continues in a snarl, “you don’t get to dictate this part of our life, this part of his life. This isn’t a game, Albus. It’s never been a game. Not then and not now.” The words are said with such venom and sorrow that Irene very nearly considers leaving and giving some excuse to Dumbledore the next day.

Then with the hiss of a flame the room goes quiet, as if the other’s presence had brought an intangible intensity with him.

“It’s…not a game for me either, Brother,” Dumbledore says in a whisper.

Irene drops her hovering hand to her side. If she goes in now, he’ll know she heard everything, and doesn’t everyone deserve their own privacy? She swallows and slowly slumps to the ground to sit. She can wait fifteen minutes before walking in. So instead, she thinks about the rest of the day’s schedule in the silence of the haunted corridor.

When enough time has passed, Irene knocks.

“Miss Hill,” Dumbledore opens the door and gestures to the seat in front of his desk. “Thank you for coming. Lemon drop?” He pops open the container of candies and plucks one out for himself.

Irene stares at the brightly colored tin. “Uh, sure?”

He drops one into her palm and she plops it into her mouth. Her lips pucker instantly; it isn’t terrible, maybe just a little anticlimactic.

“A tad too sour for your tastes, I presume?” He chuckles, but the laughter is too quiet to be genial, too painful to be amused.

Irene nods, ignoring that. “May I ask why I’ve been called in, sir?” She sucks at the candy trying to smother the sour out of it.

“Yes. I’m afraid it’s related to your performance in class.” He sighs and she can see the fine lines that are already beginning to carve themselves in the creases of his forehead and eyes. “You’ve been among the last to perform your transfigurations properly for the past two weeks. I believed it to be nerves, but perhaps there is something else bothering you?”

And he couldn’t be any more correct. Irene had never thought of what it’d be like to perform new magic in a room full of children. At the DoM it didn’t matter if her magic backfired or caused an explosion, with everyone used to such accidents a Protego could be cast in a second’s notice—not to mention the multiple safety wards in place. But here? She grimaces.

What if she accidentally sets her classmates aflame?

“I’m not great at controlling my magic, sir,” she admits a bit sheepishly.

“Ah, yes…the incident at the beginning of term. A curious case—a transfiguration made nearly inextricable from its new form. Miss Lestrange, was it?” Dumbledore massages his chin, brushing into the short beard he sports. “I can understand your resistance to performing spells, but please do not reject your magic. There can be dire consequences.”

Irene nods and thinks about Ariana, Aberforth, and Albus. If she had a sister, could she forgive her other sibling if he was responsible for her death?

“Perhaps you’d do better with a tutor then.” He considers, clasping his hands together. “I’ve already assigned the other students that are struggling with one. Would you be comfortable with that?”

She taps her fingers against her lap in thought. It wouldn’t be a terrible idea. Like working with the unspeakables, Evan’s help had proved irreplaceable. But it hasn’t even been a month, there’s still time for improvement. And she doesn’t want to bother anyone when she could possibly help herself.

“I think I’d like to wait another week or two, sir. See if I can fix the problem myself.” Irene smiles.

Dumbledore nods. “I understand, my dear child. But do not be afraid to ask. There is no shame in it.” He smiles and stands from his desk. “Now then, I believe lunch will start in another fifteen minutes. If you want to save a spot for your friends, you should hurry on your way.”

She bows with a thank you and leaves for the hallway to the Great Hall. It’s lunch so there’s a chance she’ll get a letter from Evan. Ever since the incident with the Slytherins he’s been sending more and more books on self-defense magic, and even a few on muggle self-defense. What does he think she needs to be prepared for—a war? She shakes her head and opens the doors to the Great Hall.

Iris’s curly hair acts as a beacon while she winds passed the other students crowding in and to the fifth-year Gryffindor. She plops in the empty seat next to her.

“Irene! How’d everything go with that silver fox?” Iris’s smile is a mocking smirk.

“Ugh,” Irene doesn’t even deign her with a retort. “We talked about my terrible performance and possible tutorship in the near future if I continue to fail.” She sighs.

“Oh dear.” Lillian blinks. “You might be settled with Minerva the spartan.”

Irene grimaces. God, she hopes not.

It’s only when she’s about finished with her meal that the letter comes.

Screech!

Irene groans. When she looks up the glaring rays of the afternoon sun accost her eyes in their offensive brightness. Her hand shrouds her from the light. She would recognize that owl’s screech anywhere. The bird swoops forward and lands on Evelyn’s plate, spilling porridge all over her robes. Irene winces.

She raises her wand and performs a Scourgify. “Sorry about that.”

Evelyn doesn’t say anything, just stares at the owl in front of her. Its feathers are raised and enormous mouth open in a display of dominance. It must be Evelyn’s hairstyle today. She’d taken to piling it atop her head with loose curls dangling like worms.

“Now Aki, that’s no way to act,” Irene chides.

Aki ruffles his feathers, menacingly narrowing his eyes at Evelyn before taking measured steps toward Irene.

“That’s an owl?” Edmund is looking at it with an expression twisted in both fear and interest.

“Yeah, I think Fontius called him a Pooto. Or maybe it was Potoo? I do remember that Aki’s from South America though.”

Aki turns his head in that sharp creepy way that owls do and glares at Edmund while holding his foot out for Irene. She sighs and unties the letter attached to his leg. “Oh, does anyone have any owl treats? I left mine in my trunk.”

Graham rustles around in his pockets. “Here.” He hands Irene a small treat.

She thanks him and feeds Aki, making sure not to get too close to his mouth lest he decide he’d much prefer to be a snapping turtle. “Thanks, boy.” Before her hand can pat his head, Aki lunges at her, beak clapping. Irene pulls her hand away. “Okay, okay.” The bird puffs out its chest then screeches once before lifting off. Like father, like son.

Irene sighs. It’s been three weeks since she sent her letter to Fontius. If anything, this must be regarding her work rather than that awful short story. Irene tries to open the letter.

“Ouch!”

She lets go—a stinging sensation burning at the tips of her finger. The letter flutters onto her lap flipping over to show its back.

“To, Irene,” it reads, “read in the privacy of your own room.”

“Barmy tosser,” she curses under her breath. Stuffing the hexed letter into her pocket, Irene shoves the last bit of soup in her mouth. With her bowl empty, she stands from the bench. “Sorry, have to read this in private.” She speeds off to the seventh floor and Gryffindor dorms.

When she’s kicked off her shoes and spelled the door closed, Irene hops on her bed digging out the letter. She opens it.

“To Miss Hill,

I am disappointed the value of the story was deaf on your ears. I fear that we may need to place you in modern literature courses to increase your reading comprehension. But I believe we can discuss such matters later.

In regard to the fairytale—which you so inaccurately deemed it—in my opinion the moral of the story wasn’t as important as the tale itself. A boy with the power to access another’s magic. Marvelous, isn’t it? Such an extraordinary power. Although a work of fiction, I believe this is what we were looking for regarding our current research project. Evan has already begun research. Please do discuss this with Galatea. I am sure she would find it absolutely fascinating.

Please do raise you grades,
Flavian Aurelias Dante Fontius

P.S.

If you are seeing this, that means the privacy spell was activated. The hex attached to the envelope is a simple stinging curse. The effects will recede in an hour. I should remind you that our correspondence is to be conducted in private.”

Of course, Fontius would do that. She’s not even surprised.

Irene reads it one more time and then thinks the letter’s three weeks late. A bit strange, that. She folds the letter and then lights it with an Incendio. Fontius had strict orders to destroy any correspondence regarding her abilities, and although she thinks it’s a little paranoid, she sets it aflame without question. Maybe someone’s intercepting our letters? Ha, sounds like the paranoia is contagious. It burns bright until nothing, but ashes are left. She vanishes the pile and scoots off the bed.

Opening her trunk, she rustles through the various items she’s hoarded within the expanse of it. Rough grained wood catches against her oversensitive fingers and she hisses. Irene grips the container carefully and presses the hidden button beneath—her savings bin now a jewelry box. The scorched and chipped jade bracelet she was wearing during the accident sits at the top of the satin-lined box. She pushes it to the side and searches for the necklace.

Knock. Knock.

“Irene? Are you done in there? I forgot my notes.” It sounds like Blythe.

“One second.” Irene pulls out the gold necklace and shuts her antique lock box. Stowed safely away, she closes her trunk and spells the door open.

Blythe opens the door making a beeline to her desk. After finding her journal, she turns round to face Irene. “Heading to the library?”

“Yeah.” Her fingers fumble on the tiny clasp, the burning sensation making her more clumsy than usual. “Do you mind helping me with this?”

Blythe sets her books down, walking over and gesturing for Irene to spin round. She does and Blythe gently grabs the clasps and hooks the necklace.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Blythe smiles, but then tilts her head looking at the necklace. “Is this from Asia? It looks familiar. I might have seen something similar while I was on vacation in Beijing.”

“Oh, I’m not entirely sure where it’s from.” Irene allows her palms to brush against the delicate metal that weaves across her collar interlaced with gentle jade accents. It cools the burning of her fingers. “It was my mother’s. I never got to ask where my father got it.” She tugs at her shirt’s collar and drops the necklace inside. The cold sensation of it gradually warms to her body’s temperature.

“You know, I never got to say this earlier, but I’m sorry for your loss Irene.” Blythe gives her an apologetic smile and it’s much too knowing, too sympathetic. “I might not understand what exactly you are going through, but I lost my father four years ago. With how Gryffindors are I’m honestly surprised he lived to hit his fifties.” She chuckles a little sadly. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here as are a lot of other students. War is never merciful.”

Irene smiles back. She’s grateful for the support she’s found throughout this. Even if it can’t heal the wounds, it makes it easier to bear the ache of it.

Dusk comes to pass and evening ushers in. The halls fill with shadows banished by the barest light that flickers from the sconces hammered to the stone walls. But their light is meager at most and so, like wraiths, the dark trembles and twists in the corners and crevasses of the winding corridors and empty chambers.

Tom walks the silent passageways. There’s a certain quiet to the Hogwarts’ castle at night. Footsteps and chatter carry in whispers rather than in raucous echoes as if the very walls are urging their occupants to sleep. He prefers this side of the castle; laced with ancient magic, it almost seems to breathe with life.

Coming back year after year is a strange feeling. Tom has never felt strongly but what he does feel carves its mark on him. In the four years here, Hogwarts has become a place to return to, a place to call his home. It’s a foreign thing—to belong—to sense that this is where one’s meant to be. Tom cannot remember ever having such notions, not in the arms of the nursemaids nor within the walls of the orphanage. He’d always had one foot out the door, and no one had told him to not do so otherwise. But being here, he finds himself fighting tooth and nail just to stay, belong. And along the way, it has made him understand what it means to be powerless, and to have power.

Banished and stripped, every summer he returns to his stagnant life as a muggle removed from all magic. There, there is nothing but war and fear. Palpable in the anxious minds of the weak and feeble that cloud and pollute the air. There, there is nothing but prayers and hope for the helpless. They scramble and hide, cry and wail, sleep in bomb shelters and wait for destruction while death whispers and croons at the faint of heart—ready to reap, ready to take. Nothing but animals with no reign over their own existence.

And Tom, despite all his resistance, feels the desperation, the helplessness. Feels the shadowy corners of his consciousness that tremble in fright with every quake of the ground from the destruction raining over London. He curses his own mortality. He curses his own powerlessness.

This ruin, it’s revolting in its destruction of the mind.

His path leads him to a dead end. But yet there’s a ringing of something, loud and panicked—human—on the edge of his consciousness. What he thought was a curse as a child has become his greatest weapon. His bleached wand slips down his sleeve. He rolls it twice round, points it, and senses the sting of panic.

“Homenum Revelio,” Tom whispers.

An outline forms and eventually color fills where there once was nothing but stone. It’s a fourth-year student, short and round, hair curled in obnoxious ringlets.  “Catherine Frimley,” his mind supplies. Must be out to meet someone.

Not that Tom cares. Although he savors the anxious panic that all but oozes from the girl. He glances at the student’s tie.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for being out passed hours.” He sighs in a mockery of disappointment he does not feel. “I expect you can make it back to your dorm without assistance?” He carefully taps his wand against his leg. “If I spot you again, and I will find you if you decide to continue wandering about, it will be double points deducted.”

It’s a lie of course.

He has no desire to invest time and effort into thwarting some hormonal teenager’s advances and could care less if the girl was out and about, as long as she doesn’t get in his way. But nevertheless, the girl swallows, pulse heightened and lips quivering.

There’s fear there, in the hastened breaths and fidgety hands. He can feel it brush against the back of his mind in anxious shivers. It sends a pang of satisfaction down Tom’s spine to know that he’s caused it, that he holds such reigns over another. His lip twitches, and he offers his most charming smile.

And at that note, the girl blushes and nods to scurry off back to her dorms. The speed is reminiscent of the other Gryffindor he’d helped little over a month ago. Tom tilts his head, wondering if all Gryffindors are as skittish as colts.

With a pivot of his heels, he makes for the lower chambers. He’ll search there before turning in for the night. So far, during his two months of perusing the castle at night he’s noticed several differences from the daytime. There are only a few of consequence. One being the shifting staircases, two being the active states of the portraits, and three being the remarkable lack of oversight the teachers have on the prefects. It seems that once lights out is called the teachers care little for what the prefects do, believing they’re exemplary examples and will never betray their responsibilities.

Foolish.

But, opportune.

Tom passes the Great Hall and reminds himself to check in with Nott regarding the transfer student. It could very well slip his mind with his interest waning day by day.

Miss Irene Hill has become somewhat of a disappointment. With her dwindling results in classes and failure to perform even the simplest of spells, Tom wonders how she even manages to manipulate her own magic at all. Or perhaps she is incapable, which truly is a marvel of its own—to not have the slightest control after seven or more years of holding it.

It’s a pitiful sight to see the teachers struggle to criticize her terrible performance all due in part to her enigmatic position in the Department of Mysteries. For all they know she could be a glorified pencil pusher. But still in its own way it brings a form of dark amusement to him. To think the teachers would bend to a mudblood.

Well, she is decent at Arithmancy and DADA. So perhaps some of the rumors are true and perhaps that’s what allows the little respect that is left to last. She could very well be a savant as her mental faculties are lacking in nearly every other department.

But then Tom remembers the incident in the courtyard—the strange pulling sensation he’d felt after touching the transfer student as if her magic had latched onto his.

His fingers twitch. There’s a rush of excitement, an intoxicating flush of curiosity. The delectable satisfaction of seeing Renee Lestrange lying there broken in hysterical sobs as her limbs cracked and clicked like the disgusting bug she is, was unparalleled, unforgettable. Looking into her eyes, Tom could sense the guttural terror that tore through her mind, that brought her to her knees, and oh, and how satisfying was that fear.

If he’d stepped in to reap a little petty revenge, well, only Tom would know that.

Lestrange and Carrow, the two trollops. He remembers his first year at Hogwarts in an unforgettable picture book; days and months that served to remind him what it meant to start at the bottom. “Charity case, urchin, bastard, mudblood,” they’d called him—the two girls being some of his most staunch castigators. Yet by year three, when his superiority came to surface through his consecutive hold of first-rank student, they’d all but fell at his feet—eyes holding a lustful want that drew nothing but revulsion in Tom.

It reminds him of Wool’s.

If Miss Hill is right about one thing, they aren’t much different than those loathsome, disgusting muggles.

Tom sighs. He’s almost certain that Nott’s inquiries into Hill’s work will end in disappointment or mild surprise on his end, but it’s better to be thorough.

He finishes his rounds and heads for the Slytherin dorms. His hands rest behind his back as his loafers clack against stone, prefect bag glinting in the lowlight of the sconces.

As it’s now well into term, it’s time to start his gatherings. With the loose guard of the castle at night, Tom knows the ideal times to arrange his knights to meet and just where to hold them. The prophet has given him information regarding the war with Grindelwald but information from the Rosiers would be more reliable.

There’s also the matter of his lineage. With access to the library’s restricted section, he should be able to locate the magical ancestry he’s from. Though he’s certain of his wizard ancestry—parseltongue being the uncommon ability it is—there’s still the matter of where exactly he is in the line.

And that may decide how easy his gradual takeover of Slytherin house will be.

It’s been a long time coming—each step forward made with the cautious planning of weeks to months in the making. Only now can he truly see the progress he’s made. His freedom, his followers, and their blind trust. Almost untouchable, almost.

But almost is not enough.

This pittance of reverence from Slytherin, from the professors—to separate him from his lessers—is not enough. To all those outside his loyal followers, he’s still the brilliant and talented muggle-born in the house of snakes.

Achievements, ability, power. He has them and will only secure more to his name in the future. Already performing higher than any other student of his age, second in his year cannot come even close to his results.

However, Abraxas Malfoy sits as his equal at the top of Slytherin house.

Wealth, status, lineage. The spoils Malfoy sits atop and will only hoard more as time passes. To the prideful and cunning house of Salazar Slytherin, they carry a weight equal to what Tom holds as his own, as it’s not enough alone.

Don’t they understand? Don’t they see that status and wealth come with power? That prestige is something gained not given? Tom is no muggle-born, no simple mudblood.

He is and will always be more, even if he needs to shed his name to prove so.

Marvolo. The name is unusual, unique and can be nothing other than magical in origin. Tom breathes out and announces the password to the Slytherin common room. His face relaxes into the calm mask he carries as his constant and with an air of control he opens the door.

Tomorrow he will check the library’s restricted section for more information on his lineage.

Chapter Text

It’s not unbelievable but perhaps surprising. The glass container sparkles and disperses the light from the sun. Afternoon sheds its unfettered rays through the arches of the stone logia. Stray beams of lilac and magenta diffuse against the clear crystal, bouncing and glistening off colorful opaque candies. Sea glass is what her mom called it. Irene hopes Iris will like it. Her fingers fiddle over glass. She’s nervous.

Having friends is something new, a bit foreign but welcome. The memories of the ‘other’ her attending movie premiers and events with others are familiar. So, she knows what it’s supposed to be like. Yet, she can’t stop the nervous flutters of her heart’s beats. It’s not like with Evan, who’s older—more like an elder sibling if anything. Having someone closer in age makes Irene feel all the more inexperienced.

She settles the bottle atop her palm. Hopefully Iris appreciates them.

“Carpe Retractum.” The jar of candies is snatched away from her and into the hands of a fellow fifth year. And it’s not a surprise that he’s a Slytherin.

Irene sometimes regrets making such a public scene against Lestrange.

Davies’s face pinches in confusion. “What’s this? Glass in a bottle?” He chuckles. “You must be more stupid than rumored.” He tosses the container in the air, once, twice.

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. He’s at the bottom of their year alongside her. Irene’s finger twitches with the need to spell a curse at the git. She props herself off the wall and crosses her arms. “I think the only intelligence that should be under scrutiny is yours. Give it back, Davies.” She holds out her hand.

“You could ask nicely, you know.” He licks his lips, and something about the action sets her on edge.

“Please, could you return it to me,” she manages to say without any irritation, but the monotonous nature of her voice pisses him right off even more.

“Is that the best you can do?” He leers at her, eyes tracing her body, and suddenly the lip licking makes sense.

“Yeah.” She grimaces unable to hide the disgust. “So just give it back already,”

“No, I don’t think I’ll do that, Hill.” He throws the jar into the air, higher this time as the sun’s light refracts against its spinning colors. But this time, he makes no attempt to catch the bottle.

It hurtles to the floor.

“Immobulus.”

The bottle freezes and behind Davies is Iris. “Prat,” she hisses. She kicks his ankle before stepping around him to grab the glass container.

“Cow,” he grumbles through gritted teeth while clutching his foot.

“Get lost, Davies. Before you get yourself a free trip to the hospital wing.” Iris sighs and just shakes her head as he gets up to scurry away. “Goodness, it never ceases to amaze me how persistent these idiots can be.” She hands the bottle to Irene.

“Thanks.” Irene smiles and Iris returns it. The two begin walking down the corridor. Irene inspects the bottle for any defects while Iris stares out at the courtyard.

If it weren’t for her, Irene is sure she would’ve wound up in the hospital wing a few times herself. Even now, as Iris walks her to the library, she knows that she’s there to keep her safe and away from any undesirables that would want to attack her.

“I’m guessing that was the business that had you in the kitchen. So, what are those then, if not glass?” Iris asks.

“Some sea glass candy. The elves let me borrow some sugar, lemon, and corn syrup. Even gave me some edible flowers too. That helped with the color.” She hands it to Iris.

She takes it and turns it round in her palm, looking at the collection of pinks, purples and greens in the bottle. “You cook?”

“A little. I had to help my mum around the house and eventually fix meals for myself. But, what about you?”

“Never. My pureblood parents seem to think they’re above it.” Iris shrugs and holds it out to hand it back.

Irene opens the doors to the castle and shakes her head. With all that Iris has done for her, even in this small gesture she wishes that some of her appreciation can be conveyed. “I made those for you. I’m glad Davies didn’t ruin it.”

“Oh.” She looks a bit taken aback, maybe hesitant, and Irene can’t help but think she may have overstepped.

“Sorry, a bit heavy, isn’t it?” she splutters. “You don’t have to—”

“Relax. I’m thankful, really.” Iris brushes her fingers through her mess of curly hair. Her cheeks are a faint dusting of pink. “It’s just, you know, I’m a bit blunter than most prefer. I’m shocked you’ve tolerated me thus far.”

Irene only cocks her head. Sure, Iris is prickly like a pin cushion, but she’s not a bad person. That’s proof enough in the fact she’s stuck by her side despite the trouble with the other purebloods.

Iris snorts through her nose. “Yeah, I guess you’re not the type to care about that. Anyway thanks, Irene. Mind if I have one right now?”

“Not at all.” She hums as Iris twists the cap off and grabs a pink peony glass candy to pop in her mouth.

“Oh, these aren’t half bad.”

“Yeah, I know.” She smiles cockily. “House elves are geniuses. I never considered adding flowers before.”

It’s only a few more passages until they arrive at the library doors. Iris makes a quick getaway not wanting to meet with Minerva and it’s a bit weird how the two avoid each other like the plague. Maybe they have some type of grudge against each other, or even more likely they are just complete and total opposites.

Irene sighs into the table. God, why have you forsaken me? Parchment crunches and her ink bottle gyrates until her frustrated stretching stills. Maybe it’s because I’m a witch?

“Are you done, Irene?” Minerva has the audacity to look affronted when she’s the one who had spent the last two hours force-feeding Irene information.

“Yes.” Irene lowers her head. And she’s thankful for Minerva’s help, really. If the teachers didn’t saddle her with the second-ranked student, she’d be doomed to face their never-ending scrutiny till the end of her three-year enrollment. Still, it sucks to tag on tutoring to her already endless schedule almost two months into the school year. Maybe she should ask Evan to send some Pepper-ups her way.

“You see it now, right? I’m a lost cause, just let me fail. Expulsion would be a mercy at this point.” Her twelve-inch parchment for Astronomy on star signs glares at her. It’s a horrible thing these wizards and witches have created. Who would have thought to combine astrology and astronomy in one horrible, chaotic class? These people, that’s who. And Merlin, it’s just as incomprehensive as it sounds. Spiritualism mixed with science?

Kill her now.

“I understand that the more…intuitive areas of Astronomy…and Transfiguration and Charms…and Potions—” Minerva massages the point between her brows, “—do not come naturally to you. But I am apt to believe that is due to your spotty background with theory.  It’s like you went straight through practical applications and skipped everything else. Godric, what sort of enclave did you grow up in?” She gathers the books they’ve accumulated from the library shelves and with a flick of her wrist they begin the trip back to their respective homes.

She stares up at Minerva. “One that prioritized survival,” she mutters. Irene bets that if she had to deal with daily, deadly explosions at her work she’d prioritize defensive magic over theory. But a small part of Irene wishes she didn’t choose short-term memorization over long-term knowledge. “Anyway, tell me flatly, how bad is the damage?”

Minerva sighs and slumps into the seat beside Irene. “Truthfully?”

She nods.

“You aren’t nearly as terrible as the teachers warned. Perhaps it’s their expectations of someone in your particular situation that makes them so critical of your performance.” She crosses her arms in thought. “With some extra studying over the basics I believe we can change your below average performance in charms and potions to above average in no time. Though I can’t say much for Transfiguration or Astronomy. Why don’t we just focus on your career goals, that way we can work towards those O.W.L.s? I don’t know what occupation you’re aiming for.”

Her lips form a grimace. Irene doesn’t know either. “Maybe curse-breaking?” It’s going well for her so far.

Minerva’s face twitches. She breathes out, slow and calming. “At least you have the Arithmancy grades to give us a better start.”

And with Irene’s thoughtless decision, Minerva starts her long-winded speech regarding the difficulties of passing O.W.L.s required of curse-breakers as they leave their sequestered corner.

When Irene threads past the aisle, she catches a glimpse of wavy black hair peeking from behind a book titled, Rare and Riveting Inherited Magicks. She stares at the heading and then turns back to Minerva. She’s prattling on about the importance of improving her transfiguration skill, but all Irene can think about is the book Riddle’s holding. Bloody Hell. Has he already figured out his parseltongue relation to Salazar Slytherin? She swallows and stumbles alongside Minerva.

What if the Chamber is supposed to open this year? There are only three years left for him to murder a muggle-born student and then his muggle family. God. She wishes her ‘other’ self was more obsessive over the Harry Potter series rather than fantasy in general.

“—so we’ll have to start from Gamps and continue to,” Minerva stops walking abruptly.

Irene blinks at her dazedly.

“I think I’ve cooked your brain, Hill.” She sighs and shakes her head. “We can discuss the matter further when we start the next tutoring session.” Minerva shakes her head, and they continue onward.

Irene follows, mindlessly.

Her stomach sinks, dread settling in. It’s an easy thing to forget this danger that sits on the horizon. Unlike the starvation she faced after her mother’s death or the fear of not making rent for the store and apartment, it’s not nearly as personal, as eminent. Her ‘other’ memories from the novel seem so far removed at times, like a picture book she reads occasionally marveling at the parallels it makes to her life. Irene rarely thinks of them unless she’s upset with the inconvenience of her current life. And with the currently very alive state of Myrtle Warren, the uproar of Hagrid’s weekly detentions, and Tom Riddle’s utter normalcy, she’s felt safe and secure in her own ignorance.

Irene grimaces. That should probably tell her something about what type of person she is. Stuck in thought, she barrels face first into something hard.

She bounces off and stumbles back, but before she can hit the ground a firm support wraps—wait wraps?—around her waist. Irene blinks up.

The angular face of a man—er boy? Merlin he’s huge, not as big as Hagrid but still—is staring back at her with his dark blue eyes and honey colored hair. Bright rouge pinkens the skin across his cheeks. His hand smooths up her waist. The skin on her back breaks into a cold sweat. She pushes away from him.

“Cadwallader.” Minerva bows her head in greeting.

“M-Minerva.” He mirrors the same action.

Irene smooths out her robes. “Sorry for bumping into you. Um, Cadwallader?”

“Oh, n-no. That was my mistake. I should’ve said something before ste-stepping in your way.” He scratches the side of his head.

“Still as clumsy as ever outside the pitch,” Minerva shakes her head.

His face pinches apologetically. “Sorry,” he stutters into a bow. “Idris C-Cadwallader.” His hand is poised and offered.

“Irene Hill.” Irene places hers in his and bites back a face as he kisses her knuckles. “Thank you for catching me.” She bows and then steps around him.

Cadwallader blocks her way.

She frowns.

“S-sorry,” he quickly says. His shoulders are pointing inward. Timid despite his overwhelming bulk. “It’s just, um, I wanted to-well.” He glances at Minerva then away. “During the weekend, I know you’re busy with your work and all. A-and I don’t want to be a bother, but if you have the t-time, I wanted to ask—” his breath catches in the midst of his fumbling, and he swallows before restarting “—would you j-join me at Hogsmeade this weekend?”

That’s right, this weekend is the first Hogsmeade trip. And isn’t that a mystery. Time seems to pass in—

Irene’s brows skyrocket to her hair line. “You’re asking me on a date?” she says incredulously. Her brain stops functioning for a second. Thoughts of whatever she was stuck on slip away as she reboots.

Cadwallader winces.

Minerva pinches Irene’s elbow with a glare.

“Ow!” Irene frowns, but then sees Cadwallader’s downcast face. Huh. She blinks. Oh. “Uh, sorry. I don’t have work since it’s a holiday—you know Samhain and Halloween and all. I’m just surprised someone asked me to Hogsmeade, honestly. Thought that would never happen to tell you the truth.”

Minerva is looking at her like she’s some idiot.

Irene ignores that. “We don’t really know each other though. Is that alright?”

“I’d be d-delighted to get to know you, Miss Hill.” Cadwallader smiles, lips pulled up so high his eyes narrow into half-moons.

And isn’t that adorable? “Sure, why not then?” She shrugs. It’ll be nice to spend her free time with someone else.

It’s at the end of classes when they’ve filtered out of the Great Hall that Tom heads to the seventh floor. He has a meeting with the Knights of Walpurgis tonight. He casts a wordless and wandless notice-me-not before heading to the corridor with the tapestry. It’s eternally empty in this area of the castle. He worries for the curiosity of the other students. Do they not think the castle may hold secrets lost to time?

The door appears just as Tom wanders past the hall. His knights have already prepared the room for him. He makes his appearance, two hands pushing through the iron doors in a grand entrance. They lower their heads not looking up and stand from their chairs waiting for Tom to take his seat.

His robes billow past them as he leisurely settles into his chair. “You may sit,” he allows, “we have much to discuss.”

And in a single sentence, they all lower themselves around the round table, flanking Tom at his side.

“My Lord,” Lestrange bows his head in deference. Unlike the rest, Renatus joined them last year. His loyalties are held through merit and ability, proof that Tom’s achievements have reaped some success, but as someone that failed to see his value at the beginning he sits in the farthest seat from Tom. “I have secured several books regarding Slytherin’s line as you requested.” He floats the tomes over to Tom and remains seated at the table. Impatience glints in his eyes. The need to have Tom confirm what they all believe lurks in between Lestrange’s words.

Tonight, they’ve forgone their usual dueling to discuss matters, political and magical in nature. Which means the results of their various investigations should shed light on a few matters. The room has mirrored Tom’s desires in the ornate and regal design of a king’s war room. Gonfalon flags line the oval shaped chamber while they sit around the table seated in the center. Flames crackle and dance casting the walls and floors in verdant green. Tom’s chair shadows the light at the head of the table while his knights look to him for guidance.

“As tasked, I have also ordered the spell books you requested. They will arrive within the next month as delivery will depend on our smuggling routes,” he continues. Lestrange must be festering inside restlessly as he now must bow to a mudblood. Tom can only sense faint pulses of impatience—courtesy of the pureblood’s experience in the Mind Arts—but it’s enough to read through his calm façade.

Perhaps he should put Lestrange in his place before he comes upon any distasteful ideas. Afterall, there is no room for disloyal thoughts among his followers.

“And you Rosier?” Tom asks.

Jacques Rosier waves his wand and several chest pieces positioned on the map at the center of the table shift about. He sits to Tom’s right. Where he belongs and where he will stay for as long as he remains the most competent of the group. Even now his mind is quiet. His temperament is even, unchanging, similar to Tom in ways that almost make them inhuman.

“Grindelwald has gained control over the Ministry in Greece. Newly appointed Undersecretary Alecto Hasapis was captured by the press wearing this watch since attending the Swiss’ Commonwealth of Ministries Convention in early spring.”

He slides a photograph to Tom. A tan, brown-haired man stands atop a platform waving to his supporters as he campaigns. On his wrist sits a metal watch of sophisticated design. The Dark Lord’s forces grow more powerful with every tick of time passing. It places quite the damper on Tom’s future plans. His hand taps in trills across the old wooden table.

“We believe it’s the work of a renowned horologist, Aeon Hahn, who resides in Germany. Grindelwald has been caught frequenting his place of business. Upon further investigation into bank records and past movements, we believe the current Minister of the Greece is a figurehead.”

Tom slides the photo back to Rosier. The only equal to Grindelwald regrettably is Dumbledore, and the cowardly lion sees it fit to stay hidden away in the safety of Hogwarts. “Avery?” He allows himself to rest onto his palm, his other hand still rapping against the table.

“Unlike his elder cousin, courtship with Orion Black has been fruitful.” Dominicus Avery says.

Tom easily feels the tense anxiety that lingers under Avery’s thin Occlumency. If he must be honest, Avery is the least magically impressive member out of his five knights. He’s only talented at being brutish. Only fit to be a bully before Tom offered purpose to him. As the least difficult to subdue, simple power had shown Avery that any further ‘attempts’ against Tom would end with a more permanent solution to their disagreements.

“He’s expressed interest in joining our ‘dueling club.’ As for Abraxas, I advise waiting until the results concerning your lineage are within your grasp. Malfoys are foolishly prideful and it is in my current belief that he finds his own name to be the crux of pow—”

“Oscausi,” Tom hisses.

The violet spell rolls over Avery—his mouth no longer there, only skin in its place.

“If you cannot mind your own words then perhaps silence would be more fitting, Avery.” Tom’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You shall postpone any additional recruitment conversations regarding the knights until further order.”

Avery lowers his head.

“Now Nott.” His frigid tone cools into one of indifference. “What can you tell me of the transfer student?”

All knights swiftly shift their attention away from Avery, not wishing to invoke further anger from Tom. However, Amedeo Mulciber is staring at Nott with an intensity he’s only seen in flashes. Tom refrains from focusing his attention on the mind of a madman.

Nott—the meek thing he is—withdraws documents from his pouch, alongside a roll of parchment. His fear is always so terribly palpable in the air. A sour note that only befits inferior men. “Irene On Hill, muggle-born witch born in Pennyfields, London to an unnamed Asian migrant worker and a muggle named Grace Elizabeth Hill.” He gathers them and presents them to Tom with a bow. “I…I admit it was difficult to acquire any information regarding Hill. Muggle educational records, coven registration information, and even medical records were partially found or not at all.”

With a flick of his wrist, Tom sends a vanishing spell at Nott’s chair. As his knight tumbles to the ground, he quickly prostrates himself.

Tom rises from his chair. “You disappoint me, Nott. Unable to find information on a mere mudblood.” There is no wild fury, or rising anger, just cold judgement that reflects in his voice. Yet all the same, Nott shivers, trembles in front of his Lord. Tom smiles disarmingly whilst his arms gesture grandly to his table of followers. “Let us see how you’ve failed me. As you will be my first subject, hope that your mind will remain in one piece.”

In a flash his yew wand is brandished at Nott. “Legilimens.”

It’s a heady rush of power—his mind forcing itself upon another. He feels Nott’s fearful submission, his trembling consciousness and revels in the power he holds. But he has no desire to stay in another’s head for long. Tom rips through the unimportant memories that surround him. There is no mercy or gentle touch as he rakes across Nott’s thoughts, pulling and tearing at his mind for the information he desires.

When he withdraws, Nott is left limbs quaking on the stone floor. But his eyes are clear and filled with reverence.

But Tom, Tom is unable to dwell on the sight—his mind left in a new more intriguing puzzle. Irene Hill. He feels his lips curve into a smile.

He looks back at his follower and with a calculated gentleness, holds Nott’s chin to tilt it up. “I have made a mistake, Nott. You have not failed your Lord,” he croons. “Sit, rest. Allow me to relay what a service you have been to me.”

He offers his hand, but his knight dares not to place any burden on his lord, placing his hand onto Tom’s palm but bearing all weight onto unsteady feet. He bows once more, maintaining his lowered head until his shaky legs guide him to his chair.

“It appears the transfer student is of value to us. Nott, although persistent, was not able to gather all the pieces to Irene Hill’s past; however, we must not let this opportunity slip us by.” Tom sweeps his robes back towards the head of the table but makes no move to sit. “Mulciber, you will be tasked with watching Miss Hill. I trust that you can gather a thorough dossier on our little mudblood. Rosier, if you could gather residential information on every enclave and coven within British borders. Nott…”

The conversation he overheard between Hill and McGonagall may be more than just a passing fancy of Hill’s. “Check the Ministry for any newly contracted curse-breakers.”

“My Lord, if I may,” Lestrange lowers his head. “Why use such resources on such an…inadequate mudblood as Hill?” His arrogance knows no bounds.

“I do not appreciate such questioning, Lestrange.” Tom smiles in a baring of teeth. “However, I can…understand your particular resistance to such attentions on her. Miss Hill is a special case.” He places his hands behind his back, watching the other’s expression carefully. It’s not familial love that brings such disdain in Lestrange’s eyes and mind, but the resentment of his family’s name being besmirched by a mudblood. Tom casually tosses the parchment of Miss Hill’s medical records to him. “This is the reason your squib of a sister was nearly transfigured into a bug.”

Lestrange unfurls the scroll, head lowered. “A red-level core,” he breathes. “But that would mean—”

“She’s the most powerful witch at Hogwarts,” Nott remarks, unable to tame the swell of pride he’s brimming with from Tom’s praise. “Her performance in class is likely a result of her poor control and resistance to using such volatile and dangerous magic.”

Power.

Power is intoxicating, alluring, and maddening. Not a single person in the room is resistant to its temptation. So, Tom doesn’t overlook the manner in which Mulciber’s fingers twitch upon hearing Nott’s words, instead quietly observing the treacherous desire that burns in the back of Mulciber’s mind—simple infatuation growing to unnatural obsession.

“Hold her down!” Gwen shouts.

Lillian’s hands on Irene’s shoulders are gripping her with such inhuman strength Irene’s starting to wonder if she’s actually a Gryffindor beater rather than seeker. Lillian presses down trying to keep her in the torture chair she’s been subjected to for the last two and a half hours.

“I’m trying,” Lillian says through gritted teeth. “But Godric, she’s stronger than she looks.”

Irene bucks and writhes. The conjured ropes are loosening. With every twist she can feel her arms pressing farther away from her body. Freedom. She’s so close she can sense it.

Gwen holds some strange contraption in her hand, standing only centimeters away from her. It’s golden and speckled in small runes. Another one? Irene struggles against her bindings.

“Now Hill, there’s no need to resist. You’ve done such a great job so far. Just a little more and you’ll be perfect. So don’t struggle. We’re doing this for you after all.” Gwen smiles.

Irene breaks free. The ropes burst into light—the conjuration unable to withstand her force. She presses to her feet, pushing Lillian off her. In the corner of her eye, stands the brown dorm room door. It’s only a few meters away. She just needs to get there.  

Gwen widens her stance, blocking the exit.

They stare at each other locked in a stalemate.

“Give it up, Gwen. You’ve already had your fun. Now let me go,” she hisses. “And Lillian, don’t even think about it,” she glares back at the slowly approaching Lillian.

The three glance at each other, and Irene is sure something passed between her two treacherous roommates.

Knock. Knock.

Their attention splits. Irene flicks a door opening spell at the door before they can stop it. It opens with a slam.

Standing in the entryway is Blythe accompanied by Minerva. Surprised, they stare at the group. Moments pass whilst they stand in silence. Irene is the first to break the trance and uses the moment of weakness to speed to the safety of Blythe’s side.

“Why do I sense tension?” Blythe asks as she walks to her trunk.

Both Irene and Gwen try to speak at the same time.

“She’s trying to torture—”

“She won’t sit still—”

They lock eyes in a glaring match.

“One at a time, please.” Minerva looks entirely unimpressed as usual.

Irene and Gwen meet in another staring match.

“They’re the ones who so rudely held me captive—”

“You can’t blame us! She’s always dressed so—”

“—If you can’t communicate in a civilized manner, I’m afraid I’ll have to treat you like toddlers.” Her face is a chastising glare. “Gw—”

“I wouldn’t trust Minerva’s judgement if I were you.” The rustle of robes brings forth another visitor. This time it’s Iris. “She’s always biased when it comes to romance. Such rose-colored glasses for someone so terribly bitter.”

“Hmph.” Minerva turns the other way as if hoping Iris will disappear from ignoring her. “Says the one who becomes nothing but an ogling oaf the moment you spot Longbottom. The vast contrast between personalities is positively disgusting, Fawley.”

“Yes. Yes. Tell me more about how I have multifaceted emotions like a normal person unlike someone who only ever shows any when you’re beating another player senseless in quidditch.” Iris rolls her eyes.

“I suppose any amount of diligence would make a person droll to you,” Minerva clips.

Both Gwen and Iris swallow thickly under the tension.

Blythe sighs. “Speaking of which, don’t we have something to do before heading to the pitch?” She pats Irene’s shoulders with a lipped, soundless, “sorry about them,” and a subtle nod to Gwen and Lillian. “I’ll just grab my gear so we can go.”

“Irene,” Iris says sharply. “We should also hurry along unless you plan on walking alone to Hogsmeade.” She twirls round and makes for the exit to the stairs.

Without an utterance of complaint Irene gives her begrudging thanks to both Lillian and Gwen before grabbing her hat and running off after Iris.

When the two make it out of the common room and start their descent to the entrance to the castle, Irene steps a little closer to Iris. Her loose hair—still unmade from earlier’s dispute—flutters about her face. With a gentle brush she threads it behind her ear and fixes the beret to angle it back down.

“So, what was that about earlier? I know you’ve never been a fan of Minerva, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you start a fight with someone who didn’t deserve it.” Irene thinks back to the Hufflepuff bigot who’d been foolish enough to approach her with Iris by her side. They’d earned a curse or two both verbally and physically. Her brows knit.

Maybe the two have some sort of unfortunate past.

When she looks at Iris, her face is doing some intense contorting and Irene can’t understand what emotion that’s supposed to show. “Uh, if you’d rather not talk about it that’s alright.”

“It’s nothing really. An old story. We’ve just hated each other’s guts since second year and that’s all that’s important.” Iris frowns and hastens her steps.

Irene drops the subject and hurries to catch up.

Chapter Text

It’s cold.

That is the only thing running through Irene’s head at this moment. Wind howling around her while colorful leaves dance and swirl, it’s the picture of autumn. Cinnamon, cardamon, and rich chocolate scent the air mixing with the nutty aroma of fresh chestnuts.

It couldn’t be a more perfect day.

But here Irene is, standing in front of Honeydukes, in disbelief that she wore this horrible abomination to humanity. She looks at her reflection in the window. The person who looks back is unrecognizable, especially with the makeup that’s been plastered across her face—a testament to the skills of both Gwen and Lillian. Begrudgingly she admits that maybe Gwen has a point. Her morning routine consists of combing her fingers through her hair, splashing some water on her face, and brushing her teeth. Irene’s never bothered to buy any cosmetics before since it was just a waste of money and at her age it never really mattered. She smooths her wrinkled shirt.

A form fitting plaid pencil skirt hugs her waist. The accompanying loose blouse and half-shoulder cape accentuate the meager chest she carries. Both aren’t particularly disagreeable, although she isn’t a fan of her foot length horizontal at the moment, and the heeled knee-length boots are quite the pain.

What’s she to do if she has to run?

“Miss Hill?”

Irene turns, cape spinning wide to flutter and settle at her side. “Cadwallader, er, should I call you Sir Cadwallader?”

Cadwallader fiddles with his hands. He’s wearing an equally stuffy outfit like hers—a tweed three-piece suit with a traditional open clasped wizard’s robe instead of a muggle jacket—and looks just as uncomfortable as she feels. “J-just Idris, if that’s comfortable for you.”

“Then you can call me Irene as well, Idris.” She smiles disarmingly.

Idris beams and offers his arm. Irene awkwardly threads hers through before they step into Honeydukes. Her heart is an obnoxious thing in her chest as it panickily beats away under the pressure of a first date.

The scents are overpowering upon entrance to Honeydukes. Rich chocolate, spiced bonbons, sharp peppermint waft in the store while shelves upon shelves dangle the most enticing sweets Irene has ever set eyes upon. They rise to towering heights that leave her squinting at the top rows. The few employees dressed in pink striped aprons flick their wands and float candies about the space to gather them for the students that giggle and smile awaiting their delectable treats. Irene’s mouth waters greedily. She wipes at her lips to rid the saliva that coats them, then freezes.

Is Idris looking?

Isn’t it unbecoming of her to salivate like an animal? At least she’s certain some people think that way. Her mind spins. She’s a woman, er, girl and aren’t girls supposed to be delicate, sweet, meek? Oh, God. But that shouldn’t matter if someone likes her, they should like her for who she really is, right? How embarrassing. She feels her palms heat under her nerves and glances to her side.

But Idris is none the wiser over her display of gluttony, too busy burning holes in the sugar quill display.

Great. Now she’s overthinking.

Irene sighs and that’s probably the wrong move as Idris’s entire body tenses. “Haha,” she chuckles in a nervous display more than any actual humor. A minute or two since entering, hey are still standing off to the side of the door’s entrance. Is this normal? But she’s certain it isn’t. Her perusal of date night memories tells her as much and does she wish memories equivalated to experience as they stand there like two idiots. Neither of them has moved a centimeter more into the store, and neither of them are feeling courageous enough to intrude the silence.

But isn’t she the Gryffindor of the two?

“Anything you were looking to buy today?” she asks to distract them from the uncomfortable atmosphere.

“Uh, yes,” he stutters out. “A present for a friend. She likes the cinnamon bonbons here.”

“Then why don’t we head that way.” Irene begins walking towards the closest display shelf, but Idris doesn’t move.

“They’re, um, actually this way.” He points behind him.

She goes a bit red and follows him quietly with her head down, her chest drumming away, her nerves still wound tight.

The rest of the Honeydukes affair holds that awkward tension in a vice grip as Idris gathers his two dozen bonbons and wanders to the checkout. Irene patiently waits to the side with her own meager selection of sweets—some treats for Evan, Iris, her roommates, and Minerva as a thanks for helping her study. From this distance, she can’t hear anything apart from the music and chatter. However, Irene notices the teasing smile on the clerk’s face as she wraps Idris’s chocolates with bright pink wrapping and encloses it with a rose. The cashier glances at Irene with a wink but as she turns back, Idris is shaking his head and soon the clerks face turns into a frown giving him a weird look.

Irene’s stomach flips. Maybe she’s just overthinking things.

They leave the store and begin walking through the rest of Hogsmeade passing a few other students as they make their way to a small café for lunch. It’s when the bell rings to announce their appearance and after they take seats at an intimately small round table that Irene realizes they haven’t said a word to each other since Honeydukes.

She hurries to fix that. “Have you been here before?” Irene picks up a menu, “Penelope’s Pies,” is written on the front in flowing cursive. She thumbs through the various dishes and selects a simple chicken and mushroom pie with sides and places it back down.

“Only once before with a friend. She got the chicken and mushroom, said it was the best thing on the menu,” Idris manages to get out the entire sentence without a stutter.

Irene wonders if it’s the same friend he bought the bonbons for. That would be awkward. She makes no comment though instead wondering why she’d think it awkward. “That’s what I’ve decided on. It looks good.”

The waitress comes round the back and wanders to their table floating a quill at her side. She takes their orders with a sluggish distracted demeanor before returning from whence she came.

Idris makes no further comment, and the conversation ends as soon as it began as the two wait for their food so they can at least stuff their mouths with something if they can’t manage to talk.

Both of them are a horrible bundle of nerves.

With the last bite of the pie shoved into her mouth, Irene can factually state that one’s mental state can truly affect the taste of even the most delicious foods. Despite the savory, salty, perfection of the dish she can’t remember enjoying it at all. Given the bill, she reaches into her pouch and pulls out the precise amount of her meal.

Idris opens and closes his mouth like a fish then ultimately decides to stay quiet as they walk to the front to leave. It doesn’t occur to her until later that men are usually supposed to pay for the meal in this day and age.

“What should we do now?” she asks as their feet clack against the uneven cobblestone road that paves Hogsmeade. Around them various pagan runes and decorations litter the outside of houses and shops in celebration of Samhain. Even Evan had sent some juniper to decorate her dorm with as a gift for the holiday.

“Would you like to take a walk? It’s S-samhain tradition after all.”

Irene nods her head, but the burning sensation on the back of her heel protests. She ignores it and walks alongside Idris, threading her hand through his elbow once more. Despite the intimate action they remain quiet all along the path and too the Black Lake’s edge.

It’s an awkward affair, dating.

She’s not sure when to speak, when to not speak, what to say, what not to say. At some point Irene’s pretty sure she’s spoken maybe the total of a half a paragraph to Idris throughout the thirty minute long walk so far. God. If this is what dating’s like maybe she’s not cut out for it. They head for another look around the Hogsmeade facing bank, but Irene has to stop when they’re about fifty meters round.

She slumps into the grass. It crunches with crisp snaps beneath her body. Screw modesty and damn her crushing nervousness. Loosening her boot’s laces, she removes her leg and spells an Episkey at the blisters that have formed. They flatten but stubbornly remain. Damn her control.

“Sorry, terrible company, aren’t I?” Irene sighs.

“N-no. I should be the one saying that.” Idris settles down beside her, his large body hilariously contrasting with her small one. “Bad suggestion, walking by the lake.’ He looks at her blisters with a frown and pulls at his collar.

Upon closer inspection, he’s gained quite the rash from his shirt. Perhaps it’s ill-fitting? But that would imply he doesn’t wear such outfits often which, now that she thinks about it, is likely true, seeing how uncomfortable he looks.

Irene chuckles. It seems they’re both putting on a show. “Say, what do you actually enjoy doing—hobby wise?”

“Oh, w-well, I guess quidditch.” He shrugs.

“You know what? I’ve never actually ridden a broom before.”

Idris’s focus snaps to her quick as a cat. “You’ve never ridden a broom? Never flown, never played quidditch?”

She blinks. “Yeah. No, never.”

“Let’s fix that.”

And Irene is sure she’s never heard him speak with such confidence.

The adrenaline is unparalleled.

It frees her from the tremulous anxiety that had taken her hostage earlier in the evening. Both Irene and Idris weave and wind between each other, Irene a bit unsteady in her control, but Idris clearly secure in his skill. Wind tunnels past them as they pick up speed and her fingers twitch with the want to go faster—feel the breeze rush by. If only she didn’t have to sit to the side on her broom.

Curse her skirt.

Irene twists her brooms handle and heads back down to the pitch. There’s someone waving them down on the field. As she grows closer, she notices its Minerva and Blythe. Right. They mentioned something about quidditch earlier.

Idris makes a sharp horizontal loop around her before settling at her side as they land. A bit showy, but not in a bad way. He smiles widely at her, and Irene can’t help but share the expression. She guesses this is what Minerva meant when she said he was the opposite on the field.

“Cadwallader! What in the world are you think about sending Irene up there in that.” Blythe throws her hands towards Irene in exasperation. Her broom swings wildly in her hand, dressed in full quidditch gear.

Irene looks at her clothes and shrugs. “It’s not that bad, especially from that height. At worst I’d break an arm or leg, that’s all. Plus, I’m not bad at cushioning charms.”

To her surprise Idris just shrugs as well. “Like Irene said. She’s got good reflexes for a first-time flier.”

“First-time flier? God, Irene,” Minerva, entirely beside herself, sighs while slipping out a muggle curse. The silver Gryffindor captain’s badge glints on her quidditch robes. She pulls out her wand and points it at Irene murmuring a spell.

It’s like Minerva’s her fairy godmother, transforming her unwanted skin-tight clothes into something perfect for the occasion—her blouse now a t-shirt, her pencil skirt a loose-fitting pant, and her death-trap boots now heelless.

“Brilliant!” Irene turns round in her clothes and can definitely see the future transfiguration professor that Minerva will become in several years. “Thanks, Minerva!”

“Let’s get back in the air then.” Idris’s broom speeds forward and he swings his leg over it before it lifts off.

She follows along without waiting.

Flying is beyond compare to anything she’s ever experienced before. Cadwallader barrels forward—his broom spinning with him on it—as he loops high into the space above Irene in an arch. He smirks and hovers just out of her reach riding backward.

“Show off,” Irene snarks without any venom.

“Jealous?” Idris makes a lazy vertical loop.

And, well, yes. Perhaps she is a tad envious. “Can’t help it. If I’d known flying would be like this.” Her arms wildly gesture around her. “I would’ve tried it sooner.”

He chuckles. “Can’t regret the date now, can you?”

“I wouldn’t have regretted it anyway, no matter how awkward the two of us are.” She nods.

“Really? That’s good to hear.” He moves in closer to bump her shoulder.  

Irene bumps him back. “So, any tips for the newcomer?”

“Hmm.” He crosses his arms, completely comfortable with taking his hands of the metaphorical reigns while they glide high above the Hogwarts’ grounds. From this distance, she’d do much worse than just break a few bones if she fell. “Riding a broom is not so dissimilar to riding a steed. I believe that is common for muggles, correct?”

She nods, but doesn’t clarify that only a few have that experience.

“Then take notes from jockeys. When the body is tightly pulled inward—made smaller—speed is your ally. Remember to engage your core to keep balance. However, swift banks and turns require a more flexible laxness to the shoulders and arms.”

Irene thinks that makes sense. Her body has already naturally clung to such instinctual movements, but there’s always room for refinement.

She looks down. The quidditch pitch is the size of a watermelon in her view. On the field, she can spot Minerva flinging something at Blythe while Blythe dips and dodges. A drop from this height would garner some high speeds.

Before her mind can commit, Irene relaxes her shoulders.

“Race you to the pitch.” She smiles at Idris.

Her broom dips forward. And Irene’s falling towards the green. Hands tight around wood, the velocity of her descent forces her to close in lest she be thrown off. Wind cuts through her hair. Her speed, exponential, the pitch grows closer.

The glint of metal goals catches in the light.

And she’s heading for a head on collision into the stands.

Irene places all weight to her right. Her core clenches—muscles seizing under the pressure. The broom buckles and bucks under the force of her strained turn. Air whistles past until she banks. Her broom rounds above the stands, her robes grazing the chairs. Relaxing her shoulders, she weaves through a disgruntled group of Gryffindors while maintaining speed.

Irene slows to a stop on the quidditch field adrenaline pumping in her ears.

Idris is still in the midst of descending. She smiles and waves.

Blythe is the first to pull down to the green and hop off her broom, quaffle still in hand. Meanwhile, Minerva is lagging behind her looking positively impatient, a bat lazily twirling in her hands while a bludger sits in the other. A beater? Irene eyes the combination in surprise.

Walking to Irene, Blythe drops the quaffle on the pitch. “Good flying, Irene. Did you mean to do that?”

Irene shrugs. “Kind of.” If she’s asking whether or not Irene had it under control, she did, but there wasn’t really any plan when she decided to drop.

Blythe glances back at the stands, one hand cradling her eyes from the sun. “You gained some decent speed despite your Cleansweep. You should consider practicing on the weekends with us.”

No. Definitely not. She’s busy enough. “Sorry, I’m a bit full with everything at the moment.” She rubs the back of her head.

“Oh,” Blythe blinks. “Yeah. I wouldn’t want to tag on practice to that schedule of yours.”

Minerva taps her bat against her shoulder. “Come on, Blythe. We still have more agility practices to run through. Don’t interrupt Irene’s date.” She nods in the direction of Idris who’s touched ground a few meters behind. A group of young Gryffindors have surrounded him.

Blythe groans. “Minerva, if you hurtle a bludger at me one more time, I just might hex you. Do you know how many welts I’ll have tomorrow?”

“If you learned to dodge, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

Irene wisely chooses not to get involved and makes for the direction Idris is in, broom in hand.

“—but it’s Samhain!” Bright blonde ringlets bounce and restlessly tumble about the young girl’s shoulders while she clings onto Idris’s arm. Irene recognizes the hair from the common room. She’s either a third or fourth year. They’ve never spoken, but then again, Irene hasn’t spoken to many other students.

“I know. I kn-know. But I have a prior engagement.” Idris’s eyes glance up to meet Irene’s meekly.

She smiles, albeit awkwardly, and doesn’t miss the glare from the girl currently latched onto Idris’s side. Irene extends her free hand to the girl. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve—”

“You don’t even have a few hours for me? Is she really keeping you from your friends on a holiday?”

Irene’s mouth is still open, words cut before they could leave. The girl’s gaggle of friends snicker under their breath. Did she just….

“N-no. It’s not that.” Idris seems to shrink in on himself, looking a bit more flustered than he was on their date. Irene’s not exactly fast on the uptake but she gets the feeling he’s not flustered over the closeness and more over having to explain himself to his friend.

But why?

“Then can’t you at least give me a few hours?” Curls twirl before the girl sets her determined eyes on Irene. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

The question sounds more like an order. Part of Irene wants to say no out of spite. She watches Idris, but once more offers her hand to the girl. “We haven’t met yet as I was trying to say earlier. Irene Hill. And you are?”

“Catherine Frimley,” she tilts her chin up and curtseys instead of shaking Irene’s hand.

Irene drops it and watches the curious pinch of Idris’s features like he’s watching his worst nightmare playing in real life.

“As I was saying,” Frimley snaps Irene out of her observations. “Would you mind letting go of Idris for the evening? My parents are hosting a small banquet this evening and have asked me to bring Idris along as my escort. Surely you wouldn’t mind?”

And Irene blinks again, a bit dazed from the whole situation. Frimley’s staking her claim and unfortunately Irene is not clueless enough to miss that. Then it hits her.

The pink packaged chocolates. The meal at Penelope’s. That friend that Idris had mentioned. Her attention flickers to the pale pink hand that wraps itself around the sturdy arm of Cadwallader. She bites her lips. He doesn’t say a thing, just stands there intimately attached to Frimley while he’s on a date with Irene—expression anxious but awaiting her answer.

And it seems wrong.

But Irene doesn’t know how to explain it. It’s not like she has a stake or claim over him. Or perhaps that’s how dating culture is. Her stomach flips. However, Irene can’t come to place her chips in. People are free to do as they please. Yet—despite her own resolution—it digs a pit in Irene’s chest to be on this side despite it being their date. And suddenly, she’s exceptionally tired from the day’s ups and downs.

“No, in fact I have some matters to catch up on with Professor Merrythought this evening.” Irene smiles despite herself. “I should leave you two to it. Have a blessed Samhain.” She bows and excuses herself, walking towards the tunnel not listening to any words that may or may not have anything to do with her.

Maybe she’s just not cut out for this.

For fifty years, Galatea has maintained her professionalism and perfection at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was hard at first. She’d always loved children—wanting to dote on the cutest little first-years that come in with their eyes sparkling in wonder. She’d even wanted a few of her own many moons ago. A child to raise, take care of. But life isn’t kind to all and does not give with gentle compassion.

So just like life, Galatea limits herself behind the veneer of the pristine and strict DADA professor of Hogwarts. What children want…no, need is not a soft kindness. From her they need someone that will guide them, someone that will teach them how to survive despite the harsh truths that will be thrown at them, that are being thrown at them in this very period, rife with war and destruction.

She sighs into her desk, pen sternly checking in bright red all the imperfections that were handed to her. The topic of discussion is boggarts—a dark creature that feasts off fear. With that in mind, it is a sensitive matter to cover in class. Place the boggart curriculum too late into a child’s Hogwarts’ career and risk the chance that a true horror will take form. Place it too soon and the child is unable to respond to such raw, unadulterated fear.

Third year has been the golden zone for decades. A precarious balance between childhood and overcoming obstacles. But in the last five years, Galatea isn’t so sure that the careful balance hasn’t tipped. sShe still remembers Sir Bulent’s boggart from last year. A muggle-born who lived in Britain in the off season, his fear had taken form in the dead figure of his youngest sibling. Even though it was held in the privacy of a one-on-one session, the damage had already been done. Sir Bulent was sent to the hospital wing for the day and given a prescription for calming draught as the boggart followed him into his dreams.

Knock. Knock.

Her head quirks. It’s rare to have a visitor on the weekends and she knows that both Albus and Armando are busy this noon. With a flick of her wrist the door is open with an even call of, “come in.”

And to her surprise it’s Miss Hill. Such a sweet child. Gentle, and quiet but underneath all of that seemingly meek silence lies a lion so terribly Gryffindor she can’t even be envious that the child did not make it into her house of badgers.

Galatea smiles. “And what brings you here on your day off?” Word travels fast around the castle and even she has heard of little Miss Hill’s date with one of her best Hufflepuffs. Her appearance here doesn’t cast a positive picture of their afternoon walk. Cadwallader must have run back to Miss Frimley. Galatea stifles a sigh.

“I, uh,” Miss Hill fiddles with her robe’s hem. Always so nervous around her teachers. Galatea wants to pinch those rosy cheeks. “Just thought I could use some more practice since I haven’t performed many spells this week.”

Oh, yes. That. Her regular release of magic as recommended by Margarite. Galatea stands from her desk. The quill floats back into its holder. She runs through her mental schedule of the fifth-year classes. Reducto, Deprimo, and Fumos are a few spells they are currently reviewing that can vary in their magical consumption, but the dangerous nature of the first two makes her hesitant to suggest them.

“Allow me to get the practice dolls out.”

They walk out of her office, and she clears the space vanishing all the desks. Miss Hill stands patiently to the side.

“There, all set. I will be working in my office with the door open if you need any assistance.” Galatea bows her head.

“Is it okay if I lock the door?” Miss Hill asks. “I wouldn’t want anybody walking into a disaster.”

There’s a wry smile across her face, and Galatea wonders. Miss Hill’s always so terribly afraid of hurting others. Despite excelling at DADA her defensive magic is what gives her that edge, her offensive spells are constantly reigned in tight with a control—or perhaps more accurately, a suppression—that weakens them greatly.

What would Miss Hill see if she faced a boggart?

Pressed silk glides across his fingers as Evan straightens his tie before shifting his robes. The meeting with Ramhart Hewitt is in a few minutes, and currently Fontius and Evan are at the Floo’s entrance awaiting their guest, both standing rather than taking seat at the table.

The evening’s plans have been organized in one of the several conference rooms in the Ministry. Evan glances at Fontius. This particular chamber is a special case. One that Fontius was personally in charge of designing with the utmost security in mind. Protection runes and wards are established in the four directions of the Earth’s poles, while the room itself is round to supply the perfect circle to build magic.

Evan tilts his head in thought. It’s a bit concerning that his boss has chosen this location to host a supposedly good friend of his. But who is he to ask why? His boss is quite the cynical sort and people do the strangest of things.

The floo sparks bright, green flames building and eventually opening to allow passage.

With his head still cocked to the side, Evan quickly stands straighter placing his hands together in front.

“Fontius, my friend, it has been quite some time.” The stranger offers his hand as the flames around him shrink back and he steps through the hearth. Hewitt is a short man, not too tall in size but with broad shoulders and a thick build. Dark tanned skin gives a clear indicator to his Mediterranean ties while grey curled hair lazily dangles over sharp wrinkled features.

“Yes, it has, Hewitt.” Fontius shakes the other’s hand while placing his other over their clasped finger. Evan knows this shows familiarity so he’s certain he overthought matters earlier. “I heard you got married during your travels.” He lets go.

“Well, one of us old men had too. I don’t plan on dying alone and bitter like someone here.” Hewitt smirks, then glances at Evan. “And is this the apprentice you’ve been keeping tightly under wraps?”

Evan twitches. He’s not Fontius’s apprentice he’s Caelestis Ectorius’s protégé—the Lead Unspeakable in charge of the Space Chamber. Irene is Fontius’s apprentice on paper, but it’s under an Arcanus charm so the only one that should know of such matters are the HR employee Langdon and some unspeakables.

He meets the other’s gaze. Eyes so sharp, judging, and cold latch onto him. Their color almost steal into his soul. He never knew green could look so grave, so unlike his own.

Evan swallows. He’s not sure why Hewitt unnerves him so.

“Ah, yes. That would be Evan Nerian Prewett.” Fontius gestures to Evan while Hewitt offers his hand.

Evan takes it and shakes. A strong grip meets him in return.

“Ramhart Berenike Cymone Hewitt.” Hewitt bows and offers a tentative smile.

“It is of no consequence.” Evan returns it warily.

“He’s quite young, Fontius.” Hewitt turns his attention from Evan and back to his old friend. “A testament to just how talented, Sir Prewett must be considering you hired him despite his youth.”

“I have no complaints as to Evan’s competence. He’s a smart young man, with a head above his peers,” Fontius easily replies and ushers the group towards the table.

Evan takes a seat beside Fontius with Hewitt across from them.

“Well, shall we get to business then?” Fontius smiles and flicking his wand a parchment along with a few quills appear.

The papers between them carry information spanning back centuries, since the formation of The Book of Ancient Magics. Most of it regarding unfinished research and case studies. Hewitt picks up the first document, scanning over the information with a plethora of, “hmm’s,” “ah’s,” and “oh’s.” When finished he reaches into his case to pull out some of his own research.

Evan glances over the draft’s title, “Lost Magicks,” as Hewitt places the cut and pressed papers onto the table. It’s still unbound decades past Hewitt’s return to Greece.   

“Evan, if you would.” Fontius glances at the draft and back to him.

He does as ordered while Fontius begins to explain his stack of research papers.

The loose papers bound by a clip flop in Evan’s hand before he begins to flip through the preface. According to the brief except there are at least one thousand recorded unique ancient magics native to the Asian continent included in Hewitt’s work. Checking the table of contents, everything appears to be in perfect order. Chapters are organized by regions and sections by rarity. An appendix is included for quick definitions for Asian concepts found throughout the tome. He notices a large amount of bone script translations kept in the back.

He glances back at the two older gentlemen. They’re engaged in some sort of discussion regarding unique versus elemental magic. Evan uses the time to start his search through the appendix and chapters on unique abilities. Irene’s skills have something to do with absorption, so he makes a mental note on any skills related to enchanting, curse-breaking, and healing. By the time they’ve finished conversing, Evan has his nose so far in the book he doesn’t even notice.

“It’s a pleasure to know you’ve found such strong interest in my life’s research.” Hewitt has his knees and hands folded atop his chair.

“My apologies. It’s a fascinating piece.” Which makes him wonder how it hasn’t been published as it appears to be a polished work. “This could easily win research accolades if it was released.” Evan closes the book and slides it back on the table. “It’s already properly organized and edited from what I’ve seen.”

“Yes, well, perfection is a difficult bar to strive for and although polished more can always be done.” Hewitt thumbs through the piles of papers. “I’ve found several studies that I could assist in.” He organizes a few parchments out for Fontius to look through. A couple on enclaves, a few regarding elemental ancient magic, and only one on unique abilities.

“Ever the perfectionist, Hewitt,” Fontius chuckles whilst fingering through the titles. However, there’s something strange about his movements. They seem a bit tense, maybe even irritated and it’s quite rare to see Fontius in such an expressive state. Perhaps Evan missed something during their earlier conversation. “So how should we go about this? Will you be offering us a copy? Or shall you forward the relevant data?”

Hewitt places his hand beneath his chin in thought. “Why don’t I let you keep this draft? Doctorate to doctorate I have full confidence you’ll keep my manuscript out of unscrupulous hands, as you’ve always been quite paranoid, and I have plenty of copies at my office. I don’t see the harm in letting you have this one. Although perhaps I should mention I expect proper citations in your research if my work proves useful.”

“Of course. If any papers are finished with these additions, I will add your name into the references as well.”

“Then it is all said and done.” The bright smile on Hewitt’s face causes Evan a moment of confusion. It looks to be the most genuine expression on his person since the moment he arrived. “If you don’t mind me asking, why now? I couldn’t help but think that this was quite out of the blue. Clearly this research has been centuries in the making. Is there something to worry about with the upcoming Dark Lord? You’ve made me consider packing my bags and moving out of the continent, Old Friend.”

“I won’t say that the war hasn’t lit a fire under my…less pressing projects, but it’s regarding my possible retirement.” Fontius’s fingers tap across the table in trills and Evan can’t help but wonder how lying comes so easily to his boss. “I can’t very well work in the Ministry for my last hundred years. That’d just be sad now, wouldn’t it?” The short bun his wiry hair is gathered in bounces around as he tilts his head. “Though perhaps you should come to Britain. I’ve heard Grindelwald has been spotted in Greece.”

“My channels might be in need of updating as I haven’t heard such rumors. But retirement? Surely not. You’ve always dreamed of a position as Head Unspeakable. I’d imagine they’d have to pry it from your cold, dead hands.” His laughter is loud and ringing in the small narrow space of the room.

“Yes. Well the years change us, don’t they?” It’s a curious tone that lifts Fontius’s words. Evan can feel something building.

“Perhaps,” Hewitt says, eyes unwavering from Fontius’s. “But, perhaps the change is only us coming into ourselves.” With a squeak of his chair, he stands, brushes off his robes, and offers that same porcelain smile. “It was nice to catch up with you, old friend. Even if it was through our work. But maybe that’s to be expected with our relationship.” He offers a hand. Fontius shakes it after standing and Evan follows to do the same when the gesture is pointed at him. “It was nice meeting you, Prewett. I wish you all the best during your apprenticeship at the Ministry.” Hewitt bows and steps through the floo without another word.

There’s something heavy in the air. It burdens the two left standing in the empty chamber as the green glow of the fire dances across their skin. Nothing particularly disturbing has been said or done, but all the same Evan can feel a prickling against his skin—his senses screaming at him. He’s not sure what it is, but he’s missing something.  

“Evan,” Fontius turns round to him, effectively pulling him from his thoughts. “Your fiancé has just finished her round tour of Britain’s dueling competitions, correct?”

He nods. But why are they talking about Gladys out of nowhere. Isn’t there a more pressing topic at the moment such as the draft that sits on the table?

“How opportune. Please send letter to Miss Macmillan that she is needed for a meeting at her earliest convenience.” Fontius turns to the door, robes always flowing behind him.

Evan flicks his wand at the papers sitting on the table. They float and follow after them as he hurries to follow behind Fontius. “What of the meeting, sir? Should I start looking through the book or contact Irene?” He gathers the papers and manuscript in his hand while pressing past the door.

“Both. I have another matter to handle at the moment. But, please meet with her after reading through the research Hewitt has handed to us. Then inform her of our suspicions.” And on that last statement, Fontius conjures a Patronus that’s destination is curiously destined for Professor Galatea Merrythought.

Chapter Text

“As we are nearing the end of class, it’s time for our bonus material. If you’ll turn your attention to the board, I have a graphed function displayed.” Professor Vector points to the aperiodic, oscillating graph that hovers about the Jera axis. “Can anyone tell me what this is?”

No. Not aperiodic, quasiperiodic perhaps? Irene scrambles through her mind trying to remember the abnormal shape. Her mind flashes through the hills and valleys of other phenomena until she comes to a match. She raises her hand albeit unwillingly. She doesn’t want to speak up, but this is one of the few classes she can receive points in to make up for all the accidents that occur in her other courses. Irene nervously brushes her hair back.

“Yes, Miss Hill?” Professor Vector says.

“It’s…a graphed quasiperiodic function modeled from Sa'di Farouq’s theory on balance. Some countries have used it for predictive divination. It is said to determine one’s unbalanced and balanced years or days.”

“Perfect as usual. Five points to Gryffindor for knowledge above and beyond expectations.” Vector lowers her measuring stick towards the bottom equation. “This class is the closest equation we have to predicting—divining—our change in balance. These points.” The tip of her stick dances across every crest. “Are considered moments of overabundance. While these.” Her ruler dips to every trough. “Are what the Japanese call yakubi or yakudoshi depending on your scale.”

“For extra credit, I want you to find your unlucky days or unlucky years and their inverse. You can find all the information to solve this with what I have written on the board.” The professor pulls at the curtain to show another board covered in mathematical scrawl.

A third of the class groans in response.

“Don’t groan. The bonus won’t be due for another three weeks. Muggle-borns, please remember that we run x through the symbol of the Jera and therefore your y is Eiwhaz.” Professor Vector walks to her desk and sits. “Next week we will discuss series and the theory behind predicting the limit on one’s luck or unluckiness in life. Dismissed.”

Irene’s quill is already hard at work copying the information on the board through her orders. She’d received the charmed item early this month as a gift from Evan in hopes that her studies would improve. Fortuna’s blessing can only do so much. She sighs and begins to pack up her things. When the quill stops moving, she stows that away as well and leaves.

If it were a Tuesday or a Thursday she’d have tutoring at this time, but with Minerva in Care of Magical Creatures with Iris and the rest Irene is left all by her lonesome self. Well at least she can make use of the time. After her date with Cadwallader, she’s spent a fair amount of time in the DADA classroom decompressing so there’s no real need to expel her magic. But too much practice is never a bad thing.

She stops her walking and brushes a hand through her hair. It would be a good time to check out that room she’s been eyeing.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” that’s what they say. At least that’s what Carrow always prattles on about in some vain attempt to soothe herself.

A child born with defects. A curse they had called it when Amedeo had bothered to listen in to the whispers of the adults. His unfortunate cousin Agnes Carrow had been born deformed with a face only a mother could love. A mandibular prognathism they called it—said to be a side effect from lack of magical power amongst purebloods. Yet, through the miracle of modern magic, she’d been saved from the shame of wearing that deformity, instead growing up average with a pampered life that supplied every spoil she could wrap her spidery hands around.

It did nothing to help what was buried beneath.

The plain truth is that her past disfigurement is not something easily overlooked as Carrow’s ugliness festers underneath the physical. Her soul is marred and distorted, only serving to weaken the mind she carries.

Amedeo charms himself in a silencing spell. His feet soundlessly tap against the stone floor as he follows his target from a safe distance. Long inky hair flows like silk around the corners of the castle—a cloak of blackened night. The pulse of his heart pumps in steady beats.

“Stunning,” he thinks.

And this is true beauty, not just on the outside as her pale skin warms to the afternoon sun and blush red lips darken like the evening’s closing, but on the inside as well. He can feel it just as he can feel the cold callous power in Tom Riddle, just as he can feel the tainted envy that stains Carrow. She’s unbearably warm. Being next to her is like swaddling oneself in the sun. Warm from a distance but scalding in its brightness as one gets closer. He can see it in her obsidian eyes and fluttering lashes. Everything she holds as hers is pure, untainted, innocent. A star in the night sky.

And it’s a mercy that Cadwallader’s date with her went awry.

For Irene Hill is compassionate, patient, fierce, tenacious, brave. All things good and proper. All things weak and unappreciated by his house. But that is where her beauty lies. And it’s a pity they can’t appreciate such a marvel. Someone that holds a softness so comforting one worries they’ll smother it. And thus, she is worth far more than what that whelp of a Hufflepuff can offer.

It’s good that he’d shown his unworthiness.

She begins her ascent towards the upper floors. Her skirt bristles with every step up the stairs, ivory white peeking out from the ends of her long socks. The flesh of her thighs dip as her stockings cling to skin. Merlin. He knows she’d be so soft underneath him. Amedeo’s tongue darts over his lips as he follows carefully behind.

Over the last week, he has posited different methods in which to approach Irene.

He was tasked to watch her, but wouldn’t that be more efficient from a closer distance? With Irene’s hours split between her busy schedule and house common room, that leaves too much time unaccounted for. Therefore, inserting himself amongst her closest confidants would only be wise. “A tactical decision,” he could say if ever asked why. Even though he knows there are nothing but impure motives that urge him on. His pulse hastens.

Perhaps a peace offering as a Slytherin who empathizes with her filthy blood? His fingers tap against his robes. What better introduction into her life other than a display of humility and kindness?

Then again, he could also offer to help in Potions. Her consistent failures have often left her expression dimmed, dismayed. And although just as charming as her other reactions he’d much prefer a smile pointed in his direction. To see her bright black eyes filled with that gentle gaze she grants her closest confidants, on him and him alone would be everything.

His hands pull the fabric beneath taut as his breathing accelerates. To be with Irene in a classroom empty aside from the two of them.

Amedeo shudders—face a deepening shade of rouge.

Irene exits the stairway and stops in the corridor. He pauses to take a step back, allowing shelter behind a wall. She looks around. Her eyes trail the halls and corners. He pulls his head back just as their eyes meet.  

Did she notice?

Amedeo’s heart drums erratically. A raucous beating in his chest. It feels thunderous in the quiet of the seventh floor. His pupils are blown wide, stuck in a state of heightened sensitivity. Is it the act of watching her, following her, or the mere closeness of her presence?

He’s not sure. Amedeo’s never felt so lost in something so intoxicating as she.

It reminds him of when mother had presented him with a boomslang—a gift for his excellent Potion’s performance in first year. The tanned snake had edged out of its box then curled around his arm affectionately, possessively. Amedeo had felt the tinge of fear—as all dangerous things provoke—travel through him as cold brick red scales shifted against his heated skin. Its sick bitterness coated the back of his tongue and brought the hairs of his arms to stand.

Yet that wasn’t the only sensations that seized him. A profound excitement had all but consumed his senses. This snake was paralyzing as its white stomach slithered up his arm and coiled in rings, red scales shimmering in the low lights of his room.

And that treacherous, beautiful thing was his.

Biting his lips, he peaks around the corner.

Irene is already down the hall—her long doe-like legs striding confidently to turn the corridor. So animated, alive.

And that’s why when Amedeo sees her, he wants.

Because unlike the snake, Irene is human—is magical. And yet also a mudblood. It’s cruel. A betrayal of all his family expects of him. He covers his mouth in a laugh. His eyes curve in his elation. It scares him how little that matters in the face of something so covetous as she. A shiver of heat slithers down his spine. Salazar. The desire he has, it burns.

Amedeo steps out, but not before spelling himself with a notice-me-not and follows, a smile pulled ear to ear.

As he tracks her, steps soft and light even with the spells weaved over him, he notices this isn’t the way to the Gryffindor common room or even the Astronomy Tower. His eyes follow her, and Irene passes a familiar tapestry. He takes a step back into the safety of the shadows and watches, curious. Her robes flutter about as she paces, and paces, until….

Oh?

His head tilts, owlish. Dark eyes bore into her. An ornate door materializes against the once blank wall. Irene takes one last glance about then opens it to step inside. It shuts with a soft click.

My, isn’t that surprising? How did she know of the Come-and-Go-Room? He taps his finger across his pulse point.

It’s elevated.

His chase has taken on a new urgency. Amedeo straightens his tie and turns back for the stairs. He’ll have to report this to his Lord. Another dangerous thing that makes Amedeo shudder at the thought of him. But maybe this news can wait a few weeks? That sounds wonderful as he’d like to keep his new findings to himself.

As he walks the halls, he thinks of his beloved pet. A pity the snake didn’t survive the week.

But his love isn’t a gentle kind. He hopes Irene lasts longer.

It’s after dinner, while Irene’s sitting next to Iris and laughing, that Minerva approaches her in the common room. It’s a surprise to see. Although Minerva is perfectly kind to Irene, and Irene the same, she usually avoids Iris like the plague and so therefore Irene as well. Strange to see her approach the group of her own volition and more surprisingly without a look of disdain across her face.

“Minerva,” Irene says while lowering her head. “Is there something you forgot during tutoring?” She tilts it to the side.

“No. The Headmaster wants to see you. I’ll take you to his office.”

“Oh? Not here to stay and talk Minerva?” Iris cocks a brow. “Irene here tells me you’re an absolute tyrant when it comes to studies.”

Irene gives Iris a dubious look.

Minerva sniffs whilst raising her chin. “Well, she clearly needs someone to help her in Charms, Fawley. She can’t very well rely on your brains.”

“And she can’t very well survive yours.” Fawley glares.

Minerva rolls her eyes. “Oh, please if you had half the intellige—”

“—Didn’t you say the Headmaster wants to see me?” Irene’s on her feet and ready to go.

She gives Iris a stern look and luckily her friend gets the message. She lets relief breathe out as Minerva and her leave the common room and head for the Headmaster’s office. While they breeze past the painting and sconces, Irene thinks about the Arithmancy problem Vector has given them for the week. She’s actually having a fair amount of trouble with this one. It should be easy with the plug and chug idea behind it, but it seems the Professor has added several red herrings and side equations to work through. Irene rubs her neck. She’ll figure it out eventually.

The pair come to a stop in front of the gargoyle statue.

Minerva hesitates and sighs before offering the password. “Irene, you know,” she says, “I don’t like getting involved in this petty drama, but you should know Cadwallader really is apologetic for the whole evening. Frimley has been chasing off any women that come within ten meters of that poor boy.”

“I see.” Irene cocks her head. Is that what it looks like from the outside? She’s not really mad about the whole incident, but she can clearly see there’s something more going on between the two students.

“Yeah, I thought you’d say that.” She sighs again. “Listen, just talk to Cadwallader by Monday. Make peace with him. The poor oaf’s walking around like the end of the world is upon us. You don’t have to date him, hell, everyone knows just how terrible that date was. If you tell him off, I don’t think anyone would mind. But Cadwallader is a good lad and needs some sort of absolution.” Minerva pats Irene’s shoulder. “And remember before Monday.”

Removing her hand, she turns to the statue and says, “I am young; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another.” Then leaves.

That’s the password? Fucking hell.

Irene blinks as the stone wall rumbles and opens to a stairway. A bit dark, isn’t it? Her brows pinch as she ascends the stairs.

What greets her is a room of simple design and simple decor. There is no clutter, there is no excess. And maybe that’s the real reason Dippet and Dumbledore didn’t see eye-to-eye. Irene stops her gawking and walks to the desk only to see familiar red hair and freckles.

“Prewett?” Irene asks.

Evan turns around and smiles. “Am I Prewett now after two and a half months?” He cocks his head.

Irene beams.

And Dippet coughs to bring her back to the matter that brought her there.

“Headmaster.” Irene bows her head. She frowns. Is something wrong at the DoM?

“Miss Hill,” Dippet says. “Sir Prewett is here on business related to the Department of Mysteries. I have been told is a matter of great discretion so I will not pry into the subject. If you do not mind, he will accompany you to another location in the castle to discuss whatever concerns brought him here.”

“That’s fine.” Irene nods.

Dippet dismisses her and she follows Evan down the stairs to the corridor.

Irene’s mouth is open before they can make it to the end of the hall. “Did something happen? Is there something wrong at the department? Or is this about—”

“Relax, Irene. Nothing has happened other than what has been discussed.” He turns, unbothered and continues walking.

She follows after him dutifully. It doesn’t take long to understand their destination. The Astronomy Tower? How Ravenclaw of him. They ascend an absurd amount of stairs ending in an empty room after they break in. Evan locks the door with a few spells then removes a silver box from his coat pocket. Irene watches as he sets it in the middle of the space. A shimmering gold barrier expands from it, eventually encasing them in its dome. At the center, the box itself remains open—its lotus-like cover spread like petals.

“A device we recently had commissioned from the aurors. It’s enchanted with various protection wards,” Evan explains simply and in probably the best way that Irene can understand.

She plops herself down on a cushion next to the singular round window in the room. The chamber is a circular space with windows spanning each compass direction. Telescopes and other strange artefacts lie organized against a shelf near the entrance, while the cushions and chairs remain placed in disarray about the room.

“So why are you, with that, to talk.” She gestures to the glowing container at the center of the chamber.

Evan sits himself by her looking out the round window. “The meeting with Ramhart Hewitt was this Wednesday. We have much to discuss.” He curls one knee up while letting his other leg lay out flat. “However, let’s discuss your schooling first.”

Irene groans.

As Evan sits near the window, he listens to the excuses Irene seems to think necessary to blurt out. He’s not upset, and he’s fairly certain no one but Fontius would be with her academic performance. She tells him that she’s been set up with a tutor and her grades are steadily improving. Frankly, Evan’s not particularly concerned with those matters. It’s to be expected that Irene’s grades would be less than exceptional. Cramming a half decade worth of studies in seven months is impossible despite what Fontius insists.

At the moment he’s particularly bothered with the information funneled from Merrythought on the subject matter of Irene’s social and emotional well-being.

It’s easy to forget how prejudiced children can be.

“…So I’m making an effort. Minerva says I’ll likely be able to bring up my semester results to at least a 70% in most courses. Which is much better than what I had before,” Irene continues.

“Irene. I’m not upset about your grades.” Evan tilts his head. “How are you adjusting? You mentioned everything is fine, but Fontius’s sources say otherwise.”

She blinks. “Just how are you…. You know, never mind that isn’t important.” There’s a long sigh that breaks her thought. “I’m doing well enough like my letters said. You can stop sending those books. I haven’t even finished reading through The Art of War you sent me, better yet the three other texts. I’m in Gryffindor, remember?”

It’s Evan’s turn to sigh. “I heard about the bullying.” This sparks a laugh out of Irene and all he can do is stare with a frown. This is hardly a laughing matter.

“I wouldn’t call it actual bullying.” She shakes her head with a smile. “It’s more like attempted bullying. Iris has been guarding me like a dragon would to treasure since the first incident in the courtyard, and the other Gryffindors have picked up her habits.” The casual shrug of Irene’s shoulders does nothing to quell the worry that has built in Evan’s chest.

“The attempt still qualifies this as bullying,” he pointedly says. “And what have the professors done about this?”

She cocks her head, her eyes looking up at the ceiling. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think they’ve done much apart from detentions and points taken. But I guess there isn’t much they can do. I made more pureblood students mad than I thought when I said those things to Lestrange. Comparing her to a muggle probably wasn’t the smartest decision.” The grimace she makes tells him Irene regrets whatever she said in her heightened state.

Merrythought mentioned as much. Headmaster Dippet prefers not to punish children if he can, the belief that all students must not be removed from opportunity through punitive measures. Evan isn’t sure if he can completely agree with that methodology. Children are creatures that must make mistakes to grow, and yes, that much is true. But aren’t there times that things go too far?

Memories of the cruel pranks his peers would pull on the muggle-borns cycle through his mind. They spark fear and worry. A crushing blend of emotions that tend to blind rational thought.

He shakes his head.

He’s no headmaster, no professor, no—what did the muggles call it?—child psychologist. How can he have any hold over what those experienced judge as truth? But the balance between bullying and assault is always teetering.

With another exhale, he turns to Irene. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Irene.”

Her expression freezes, perhaps it’s the tone of his voice that takes her aback. He’s not sure, but Irene grants a stiff nod in reply. “So…mind telling me what brought you all the way here? I thought Fontius would just floo call regarding the Samhain meeting.”

And that effectively snaps him back to the reasons for his visit. Hewitt’s cold, calculating eyes haunt his thoughts. “Yes. Well, it went well.” He swallows. “We have found some promising information in respect to your unique magic. I read through the manuscript Hewitt provided. Out of the several Ancient Magics mentioned there was one group that drew Fontius and I’s interest. The Qian Enclave.”

Evan draws the characters using his wand. The air lights in red flamed script forming three parallel lines and what looks like a house with a man in it. Oracle bone script. He should probably start learning Chinese runes to familiarize himself with it.

“This group existed around 1600 - 1045 BCE. We know that they specialized in something Hewitt claims as Vitality Magic—though he said that was a redundant moniker. They were rumored to be able to bend the vitality of other things or beings. So it could be related to blood magic or soul magic.”

“Uh, what?”

“Unfortunately, there wasn’t more Hewitt could offer in his book. According to his records, the enclave was eradicated by neighboring groups and so were most of the historical texts. I’m under the assumption that vitality is the term for magic in this enclave. Perhaps I should take up Chinese in my free time,” Evan mumbles and shrugs.

She threads her fingers through her hair. However, the action does more to tangle her locks then straighten them. “So then is that it?” her voice is curiously high pitched.

“No. Now we have a name to add to our investigations, and we can begin researching more into the phenomena. Bending vitality magic is a very loose description, but perhaps the addition of the enclave name and characters will assist with narrowing down our inquiries.” He turns back to the window. “Once we have a better picture, we can work out some tests during the summer for you.”

Irene’s nibbling on her lips. It’s a sign of anxiety. Evan furrows his brows. Why would the answers make her nervous? Wouldn’t knowing be more reassuring? But when they make eye contact, her gaze quickly darts away.

Very well. He won’t discuss the matter now. However, he has the feeling it’ll come up some time or another.

“So tell me again, why we are in the east wing while we could be back in the common room playing exploding snap with everyone?” Iris exhales heavily.

It’s the beginning of lunch. Thanks to an absent Professor Kettleburn—due for some sort of international Magical Creatures convention—Care of Magical Creatures has been cut short. The replacement substitute prefers a hands-off style of teaching according to Iris. And so, class was brief, and most students took the time to eat a bit earlier than usual.

The extra time has opened the window of opportunity for Irene.

“I have some business to handle. You can just wait for me here.” Irene peers down the hall.

The students have just been excused for their noon meal. There’s a collection of blue and yellow that gather in the wide corridor. She pushes off and onto the balls of her feet as she leans to see over the cluster. Her target should be easy to spot out.

“Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs?” Iris says with a frown. “Godric. Don’t tell me you’re here to see Cadwallader?”

Irene shrugs. “Yeah.”

She grabs Irene’s shoulders and spins her round so they are facing one another. With a serious and stern expression, Iris breathes out. “Have you been potioned? Is this how you are on Amortentia?”

“No, I have not. And how would I know?”

“According to Witch’s Weekly nearly one out of three witches have been dosed with some love potion in their lives.”

“God. That’s horrible.” Irene blinks. Glancing about, she spots Idris. He’s standing and talking with a few other Hufflepuffs.

“Yes. Be careful with your drinks. I’ll teach you a detection spell later so that you can keep yourself safe.” Iris nods sagely before dropping her hands. “Now, since you’re rather sane, I’d like to know why you are trying to see that blubbering oaf. And just to let you know, if you’re here to do anything other than hex him, I whole-heartedly disapprove.”

Irene’s not quite sure how to tell Iris. It’s not exactly that she’s keeping it a secret, it’s that she knows her friend won’t like this, but she’s giving this some thought and—

“I’m here to make peace and apologize for leaving like that. Idris is the type that needs a conclusion apparently,” she blurts.

“What!?” Her voice carries down the hall and Irene shushes her. Iris lowers her voice with a glare. “I was wrong. You aren’t sane. Clearly, you’ve lost your mind. Shall I bring you to Madam Weber?”

“I am perfectly cognizant.”

“I doubt that,” she hisses. “Please explain why you should apologize when he is the one who made you a third wheel on your date? And I say let him suffer. It’s not your job to make him feel comfortable with his horrible decisions.”

And Iris has a point, but Irene’s given it some thought over the week. She owes nothing to him. Yet at the same time she knows that the shy giant will likely ask out another series of girls before he learns his lesson. “That’s the point. I should have talked or even argued things out, rather than leaving upset.”

Iris is rightfully a spluttering mess after hearing her explanation, this gives her the perfect chance to step away to handle other matters. She hears heavy steps echo behind her and an angry grumble of, “I’ll curse the height off that oaf,” under Iris’s breath.

They continue down the hall crowded with students to accost the giant Hufflepuff that’s more slippery than she’d have thought. After two days of trying to flag him down during her rare free moments she’s taken to figuring out his schedule as well. Bobbing up and above the sea of students, she sees him at the end of the hall. He’s in a hustle, stopping and stepping around the tinier students.

He must have heard Iris. She sighs.

And Irene knows he has a free block after this, which only proves one thing she’s thought. He’s avoiding her.

“Idris!” She shouts.

And he hesitates, his back facing her. She hurries on through the crowd, taking advantage of his moment of weakness. When Irene makes it over to him he doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders are pointed inward and posture slouched.

“Do you have a minute? I wanted to talk about Hogsmeade.”

Idris the meek giant he is, nods while biting his lip, eyes nervously glancing to and away from Iris.

“You try anything, and I hex you.” Iris points two fingers at her eyes then his.

Irene just shakes her head and urges him away from the staring crowd and to a quiet area of the castle. They find their rest in a walkway that borders the side of the castle. Here the windows are nothing but open archways allowing the chill of late fall to rustle under the weight of their cloaks. And luckily her friend is willing to give them a dozen meters distance to talk in semi-private.

“I wanted to apologize for leaving suddenly on Saturday.” Irene bows.

“Oh. Uh, no! I-I sh-should have warned you about Catherine. I forget that she can be r-real mean with people.” He swallows.

And that confirms her thoughts regarding Catherine’s permanence in Idris’s life. “That’s not your fault. You aren’t responsible for her behavior,” she pointedly says.

Idris winces.

“No, I get it. You can’t help but feel accountable for people you care about.” She offers a half-smile. “Tell me, that friend of yours that you were talking about during the date, was it Frimley?”

 He shuffles from one foot to the other. “Yeah.”

“Do you guys often go to Honeydukes and Penelope’s Pies together?” She cocks her head.

“We’re good friends.” And although his tone isn’t defensive, it gives Irene a good picture of what might be going on.

She laughs, not at him—well maybe a little at his obliviousness—but not meanly. “That clerk at Honeydukes, what did she ask?”

“What?” He stares blankly at her until it clicks. His face turns bright red in embarrassment. “She s-snuck in an extra bonbon as a Samhain tradition for couples and a-asked if you liked ap-apples. But the gift, it wasn’t… You weren’t….”

And they both know where he’s going—she wasn’t his intended—so the words are left unfinished. Irene stares out of the arches and to the forest below. A thin blanket of white dusts the peaks of evergreen trees. A new season will soon arrive. She wonders how long Catherine will remain single.

“I-Irene.” Idris says, and they meet eyes. He bows low and apologetic. “I am truly sorry for my discourteous behavior during our outing. It was entirely within my chosen actions that the day ended in such a way. I would not fault you for regretting our outing and finding me detestable.”

It’s good to know she hadn’t misjudged him when they first met. “I don’t regret the date. It was a good experience to have, since now I can tell if someone truly likes me or not.”

He winces again.

And she can’t say she doesn’t take a little vengeful satisfaction in that. She smiles a little wider this time and offers her hand. “But I don’t dislike you as a person. Friends?”

He shakes it with a smile that Irene remembers seeing when they met.

There’s a pep in her step today. One made lighter by the fact she’s made up with Idris and can now attend her tutoring sessions with little grief. It’s great. Sitting under Minerva’s judging gaze while trying to understand complex science spiritualism is not exactly easy. Irene slows her excited steps to an acceptable sound as she nears the library doors.

Today should be potions and charms. Nothing too terrible. Recently she’s gotten the hang of potions so that should make the disaster of charms theory easier to stomach. Irene weaves through the aisles and straight to the sequestered corner they always occupy. Her smile is wide and weightless. But when she turns the corner it’s not Minerva standing beside the stack of books.

Fuck.

She whirls around, unable to stop her instincts that are screaming, “run.”

“Miss Hill, right on time.”

Irene closes her eyes, reaches deep within herself for an ounce of that peace she felt earlier. When she spins back around, she’s not sure if she has it. Because, well, there’s the Dark Lord in his pressed robes and pristine prefect pin, hair coiffed to perfection.

She feels faint.

“Riddle, er, Sir…Riddle?” Irene feels her head spinning and for some reason she’s chosen to focus on his use of honorifics and her absence of them. Merlin.

Voldemort chuckles, and despite its pleasant sound she can only tremble—albeit subtly. “Why don’t we just skip the surnames and honorifics entirely. After all, I believe we’ll be stuck with each other for the rest of the term.”

“Wait, what do you mean? What about Minerva?” She blinks.

“She sends her apologies; however, with Cadwallader in the best shape she’s seen in a while, Minerva has taken to adding extra scrimmages to the Gryffindor quidditch team schedule. As her replacement for Tuesdays and Thursdays we should do our best to get along and not let her down.” He smiles a charmingly disarming smile.

Oh. Right. The Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff match was the other Monday. Irene swallows.  Minerva has forsaken her. Has sent a villainous maniac to her door. Is this punishment for the Iris and Idris incident? And now she can’t stop thinking about their similar names and dissimilar reactions from Minerva. Oh, God. But he asked a question.

No. Asked permission.

And who’d turn down Tom Marvolo Riddle? “Someone who catches his attention that’s who,” whispers her mind. And well, Irene sees the validity in that statement. He seems the creep who’d find resistance intriguing. Ugh.

She takes a long breath. “Sorry, a bit shocking all this.” Her hand takes on a mind of its own gesturing to him rudely then the books. “Let’s get along, Tom.” She offers her hand in a shake while her throat constricts at the end of his name as if she’d swallowed something bitter or poisonous.

Riddle takes it but doesn’t shake. He bends forward, coiffed hair spilling in front of his dark eyes, and brings her hand to his lips, hovering it there—breath catching against skin in warm puffs. “I wouldn’t dare do otherwise, Irene.” His eyes arch into crescents as his lips brush against her knuckles, but the sharp pupils of his eyes hold no kindness.

God, have you forsaken me? She repeats in the library a second time. And Tom Riddle’s presence is enough to remind her that she’s a witch of course.

Chapter Text

Irene’s racking her mind for an out, any way to escape this mess, as she settles into the chair Voldemort offers. “I can’t imagine tutoring me will be easy for you, uh, Ri-Tom.” The name is unnatural on her lips.          

“There’s no need for any concern. If I couldn’t handle additional responsibilities, I would not have extended myself,” Riddle says. He stands next to the seat adjacent, not bothering to sit.

“But surely you’re busy being head of our class, a prefect, and having a full twelve blocks,” she tries again. Maybe she can find a replacement? It wouldn’t be too difficult. Edmund’s a genius at charms, Evelyn creates potions as if she breathes them, and Iris could help beat the herbology into her. “Some of my friends—”

Riddle pulls the chair out and seats himself, facing Irene. The old wood squeaks and squeals under him, while the hazy grey of winter filters through the window. Here in the daylight, here in the peace of the early morning library, he looks harmless. A cautious hand brushes against her own, fingers settling atop hers. Irene’s breath catches. Not because she’s struck by the intimacy, but because he’s warm and his fingers, rough. And she does not appreciate that thought passing through her mind. She does not want to know the body temperature or sensation of Voldemort’s skin against hers.

“Irene, as expressed, I volunteered. It is my wish to assist you. However, I can understand if it causes discomfiture. There have been several incidents between the Gryffindors and Slytherins since what occurred in the courtyard.” Riddle’s brows pinch and pull downward, concerned and caring.

The expression is jarring in how earnest it appears. It unsettles her. The simple demonstration seems to bring her stomach into a twisting fit.

“If you’re hesitant because of my house, realise that I will do you no harm and wouldn’t dare to as a prefect,” he continues.

Irene doesn’t meet his eyes, her attention drawn to the bony, calloused hand that sits atop hers and the saccharine sweet voice that trickles from his lips. She feels her skin prickle and itch, as if it’s come in contact with some irritant. A part of her speeds with adrenaline, a fight-or-flight response.

For some odd reason, he’s trying to appear considerate. And can Tom Riddle even care for others? Absolutely not. He wants something. Or else why would he be acting so terribly charming?

She shutters. Something vaguely similar to fear creeps in. “I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” the words are tentative, weak.

“How considerate. However, unnecessary,” Voldemort rises from his seat—his palm still spreading warmth into hers—as he steps to her shoulder and leans into her ear. “I want to help you, Irene,” he all but purrs, and the hairs on her neck stand.

Irene’s hand laying hidden under the table tenses into a fist. Godric, give her strength.

She pulls away, unable or perhaps unwilling to hold his touch any longer. Too overwhelmed to hide the emotions playing across her face, she thumbs through the collection of books on the table. Leather and linen bindings scratch and catch against skin. A distraction, if she allows. Modern Magical Theories. Affinity or Aversion? Why Some Elements Work While Others Do Not. She reads through the several titles gathered. All curated by the Dark Lord himself.

“Has”—Irene’s tone is shrill under the tension—“has Minerva informed you where we left off? Or are you planning on starting from the beginning?”

“Yes, she has. Yet either way I would not force that upon you,” Tom replies, his voice gentle, lulling.

From her position seated, she’d have to crane her neck to meet his eyes, so she keeps her gaze trained on the various tomes and bookshelves of the library. Hopefully, the anxious palpitations in her chest calm. Absent-minded, she wonders if he prefers looking down at others while speaking.

“I will be assisting you in Potions, Charms, and Magical Theory. Minerva has been kind enough to summarise where she left off in those subjects.”

“I…see. So, what’s the schedule for today?” She taps her fingers against the books’ spines.

“Today is Magical Theory. I have taken the time to organise our tutoring sessions. There will be a priority on the courses you perform weakest in. For now, let’s get started on this worksheet.” He slides a parchment across the table to her.

She takes it, scanning over the list of questions that seem to go on and on for about twenty inches totalling to a horrid forty-five problems. “Promise you won’t curse me if my results are less than acceptable?”

Riddle chuckles and Irene can’t help but look. His eyes are curved in actual amusement, and she wonders if he finds it funny because he is the type to do such a thing.

“Now, why would I do something so terrible, Irene?”

She frowns, keeping her head down. Maybe because you’re a psycho? Irene doesn’t answer, afraid that she’ll let her distaste slip into her tone or words.

Sunrise is a tranquil affair characterised by the rising of the sun and the silence of the early morning, but Irene is anything but calm. In the quiet of this tiny corner of the library, both Voldemort and she are isolated from the rest of Hogwarts. Vast arrays of books line the shelves, linen and mahogany scent the air. It’s similar to what the antiques store smelled of—old wood, paper, leather, and dust. A place of sanctuary. However, the peace it usually supplies is nowhere to be found, as the shadow that casts over her shoulders reminds her, she’s not alone. And that knowledge prickles at her skin in an itch she’s unable to soothe.

Irene works on the questions, but as time goes on, her mind is eager to wander. By problem thirty, she’s all but blanked out.

Why is Voldemort here? Why would he volunteer himself? She never imagined him to be the charitable sort. Furthermore, he seems the kind to do favours with a return that borders on highway robbery.

But perhaps he was ‘charitable’ in a sense. A façade Voldemort pieced together to endear himself to his peers and professors, and maybe this is part of the reason he snaps and kills a student. Then if his intent is to charm, who is he currently playing—who is he angling? Minerva? The professors?

Her?

Her quill cracks under her tight grip.

“Are you alright, Irene?” Riddle’s fingers smooth across her shoulder. Bloody Hell, when did he get that close? “If you have questions, you need only ask.” There’s that smile again and a strange throbbing at the back of her head.

It’s the same expression that greeted her when he healed her ear months ago. “Fake and hollow” would be an apt description. She swallows, shakes her head, and turns back to her parchment.

It’s alarming—this show of superfluous care. His gentle, encouraging touches, soft, soothing voice, and kind, caring reassurances. They are all so perfectly executed, both quelling and raising her hackles.

It’s twenty minutes to freedom when Irene finishes her worksheet. She double checks, then triple checks her answers, if only to delay handing it over. Her quill cleans itself with a built-in charm, and she places it to the side of her parchment. It’s a wonder she’s finished her work at all with the added pressure of Voldemort watching her every move. A testament to Minerva’s teaching ability, perhaps.

“Shall we have a look?” Riddle settles into the seat opposite of Irene.

And then begins the longest five minutes of Irene’s life. Riddle is exactly the sort of teacher one would expect of him. He makes no comments as he goes, but the precise and swift scratches of his quill on parchment tell her he leaves no question unmarked.

She brushes an anxious hand through her hair.

“Let’s start our review, then.” Riddle places the parchment out in front of him and beckons her to his side.

She sidles her chair over and sees that the number of corrections nearly matches the length of her answers. The grimace across her face is there before she can stop it.

He places his hand atop her shoulder. “It’s all right. Everyone starts from somewhere.” He smiles, kindly.

This is absurd. She’s lost her mind. Surely, she’s found herself in some fever dream. Irene swallows and shakes her head. Her eyes dart back to the paper after a nod. Yeah. Let’s get this over with.

It’s a tough review. Irene can’t seem to force herself to ask questions at first, wound tight and nervous like a spring. She’s ready to pop, burst out of the library—and maybe even Hogwarts—to never be seen again. However, as the questions drudge on, Irene grows distressingly more confused. First, he’s mentioning something about not having a stroke diagram—what even is that? — for problems ten through twenty. Then he asks how she forgot to mention moon cycles in question twenty-three—which she hardly finds relevant regarding spell power. By problem thirty-five, she’s certain he’s speaking an entirely new language.

Tom sighs. “I’ll admit to some disappointment regarding your last written answer. The point of adding this problem was to supply an easy point. However, somehow, you’ve forgotten the first step in performing a spell.”

Irene reads over her answer, “To execute a spell, one must say the incantation, supply magic power, and use the correct wand movement….” That’s exactly how to perform a spell. So, where’s the mistake?

Seeing her confused look, Riddle exhales, tiredly, “Intent, Irene, intent.”

“Intent? You’re telling me I have to mean it? Emotionally?” She tilts her head, quirking a brow.

“Don’t tell me.” He drops his head into his hand. “Do you not visualise your spells?”

“Like imagining the outcome?”

He nods.

She shrugs. “Sometimes, like for the simpler ones. But I don’t really see how I can make a mental model of other spells. Dilaborus is supposed to be the rapid decay of something, yeah? And Orchideous is supposed to conjure a bouquet of flowers. The first is kind of hard to picture while the second…well I’m not a florist, so I only know like four flowers.”

“Merlin, how’ve you been performing magic at all?” he groans. Then perks up, hand on his chin in thought. “What do you think magic is?”

“Er, it’s…magic?” She gestures vaguely.

He just looks at her, unimpressed. Irene’s not sure if she imagined him murmuring muggle-borns under his breath.

“Fine, fine. It’s a force that does…stuff? Um, little particles that make things, change things, or fix things, I guess?” Her hands are mussing up her hair again, but she can’t seem to make herself care. “God, I don’t know. Like I said, it’s magic! It’s not science or math, where there are rules and laws. It’s not supposed to make sense. And yeah, sure, there’s Gamp’s. But we can create something from nothing—it’s called conjuring. So apparently even that law is ‘conditional’, which, mind you, should make it not a law!”

Irene breathes in and out heavily. When she’d learned the basics from Fontius, there was always this hope that somewhere along the way it would make sense. Something would appear in a textbook or lecture they rushed through that would connect the so-called dots. But God, if there is an answer, Irene hasn’t found it. She’s not sure what’s more concerning at this point. The idea, there’s no sense to it; or despite all her studying, she just doesn’t comprehend it.

Riddle only stares in mild bewilderment. “You have kept up with sciences as well?”

“Er.” She blinks. “Yeah. I find it easier to understand. You know chemistry, biology, arithmetic. There are unchanging diagrams, calculations, laws.”

His reply is slow to arrive, but based on his tapping finger, there must be plenty of thoughts whirling around. However, the finished product of all his silence is only a simple sentence. “Perhaps we should review the basics.”

She groans. “Didn’t you say earlier that you wouldn’t force that upon me?”

“Well, earlier I was misinformed of the severity of the situation. You lack a solid foundation. Magic is not nonsensical. There are clear boundaries that it works under and the ‘exceptions’ are logical.” He chuckles, then raises his wand.

Irene flinches from its sudden appearance, concerned she’d earned a Crucio for her complaints.

Tom ignores it. “Accio Merlin’s Mysterious Magical Theories.” Faint rattling from somewhere in the library echoes. He outstretches his arm, waiting. The book eventually floats around the corner and gently positions itself in his palm. He hands the text to her.

It’s a bright garish blue with a considerably childish illustration of a kid with a wand on its front.

“We will start with Merlin’s Theory. It simply defines the limitations of magic and its nature. However, with the time left, I can only offer a bastardised summation. At its core, magic in essence is latent energy. It intermingles and is entangled with the physical. Which is both what creates Magicals—those that hold magic—and what allows them to bend it to their will. To put it in muggle terms, you can think of magic as a sort of particle and the magic inside us as another nervous system.”

Her face scrunches up. Merlin’s Theory? “That one actually sounds familiar. I think the over-um-seeing boss at my, uh, work might have mentioned it once.” Fontius had said something about Merlin when explaining how to feel her magic, but never expanded past a second’s worth of explanation. She purses her lips. He would be a great example of intelligence impairing teaching ability.

“Did your boss help you study before Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. He enrolled me here and prepped me for courses—though it doesn’t seem to be working out too well.”

“Perhaps there wasn’t enough time?” He hums, fingers tapping against the table once more.

“Maybe.” Irene shrugs. “I guess seven months is a little steep.”

“Hmm.” Tom pushes back into his seat to cup his chin with his hand in thought. “We should return to the subject. I believe that was the last question to review; however, do you have any further concerns? You appeared to be frustrated earlier.” His lip quirks up on one side in a smirk.

“No, that’s all.” She smiles and blanches.

Merlin’s tit.

How did she get so chatty with Voldemort, of all people? “It’s the absurdity and the contrasting normality,” she convinces herself. “We should get going since it’s late. I wouldn’t want to keep you out any longer.”

“Alright.” He rises from the chair and flourishes his wand, sending the tomes back to their respective places in the library.

There are no wasted movements as she’s on her feet in a flash, arms like afterimages gathering her textbooks, quill, and scrap paper. While she’s stowing them in her bag, with no care for order, Irene can’t help but admonish herself. Reminders to not trust Voldemort are blaring in her head. Clasping her bag, she scans the table and floor. She hasn’t forgotten or dropped anything.

She pivots to the exit. However, there against the shelves, leans Riddle casually waiting for her.

“Um,” Irene stops and bows her head. She still should mind her manners. “Thanks for today’s lesson.”

“It was my pleasure, Irene.” He tips his head. “I will see you on Thursday, then.”

“Where is Amedeo?” Malfoy asks over the boisterous noise of the Great Hall.

“He’s off skulking about the castle,” says Nott.

It’s late in the evening. The windows that rise high above only shed the barest twinkle from the night sky. Students and professors alike have gathered to eat dinner and converse among peers. Around him sits Rosier, Avery, Nott, Lestrange, Black, and Malfoy engaged in chat. Tom, at the moment, has no such interest in conversation. He sits, one hand occupied with his Mind Arts book and the other mindlessly stirring soup that has already gone cold.

“A natural Legilimens is a rare occurrence. Only one in fifty thousand is said to be born with such skills, and only one in one hundred thousand is said to hold the ability to maturity…. Masters of this craft are few as the subtleties of Legilimency are difficult to grasp.”

Tom sets his spoon to the side and vanishes his bowl. Drawn to the Hufflepuff table, he watches a blonde student talk whilst filling his mouth with food. His nose scrunches with distaste. Doyle may be the only other natural Legilimens within the school, but he won’t be approaching him anytime soon. 

“—I’m upset with the behaviour of the mudbloods. It seems having one speak up is enough to affect the others.” Malfoy huffs and places his utensils to the side.

His plate is perfectly cleared, towel neatly folded to his side, and posture composed and straight. The picture of a pureblood in all mannerisms and appearance.

“You’ve got a point there. The other day, Brown snapped back at me. Brown.” Avery slams his knife down to his side. “That absolute wimp had the nerve! It’s unbelievable. I nearly forgot to break his arm.”

“There has been an increase in boldness from the muggle-born students.” Rosier makes an offhand remark and returns to his food. “Even Warren attempted to send a hex back at her tormenters. Hornby’s been a nightmare since.”

Lestrange groans. “She’s always a nightmare, but Warren doing something other than whining? Impossible.” He rubs the point between his eyes. “This is a shame. No one seems to respect the hierarchy anymore. Purebloods associating with the muggle-borns is becoming a regular occurrence. It wouldn’t surprise me if they did away with our traditions in the coming years. We have to do something.” He shoots a scathing look at Tom.

Tom ignores it and continues to read his book, ear half in the conversation.

“Do what? Involve ourselves in petty squabbles like how you and Jacques prefer to act?” Malfoy scoffs.

It earns him a glare from both Avery and Lestrange.

“Typical cowardice from a Malfoy. I can see why the Dark Lord has never bothered to court your family,” Lestrange sneers.

Tom nearly rolls his eyes. Lestrange and his thugs seem to connect their senseless violence with purpose. Laughable, really.

“Are we back to this once more? Separation based on the support of Grindelwald?” Malfoy, pretentiousness as ever, quirks a challenging brow.

Nott bites his lip. “Dominicus. Your family is split as well, aren’t they?”

Rosier nods his head casually. “He wants to reveal magical society to the muggles. My aunt might find it wise, but the rest certainly do not.”

“Well said.” Malfoy smiles at Lestrange mockingly.

“Oh, come off it.” Lestrange’s eyes narrow to slits. “We need numbers—labourers, serfs. Wizards waste their time on mundane tasks. Muggles solve this stagnant system. They have enough intelligence to understand basic language, multiply like jackalopes, yet lack magic. We’d never have to worry about resistance.”

So short-sighted and lacking vision. That’s precisely the problem with the muggles. They are many and with intelligence. A house-elf is useful because they have two distinct opposing qualities: power and idiocy. Without their foolish generosity, it’d be impossible to take advantage. However, the higher intelligence of a creature, the less compliant they become. To have so many non-magical intelligent beings aware of another smaller competitive group would be disastrous, especially considering their rabid nature.

Two apex predators can’t exist in the same ecosystem.

“It doesn’t matter. A war to prove us superior is not worth the magical blood spilt,” Malfoy says.

And as if reading from Tom’s very mind, the youngest Black enters the conversation.

“But you can’t deny the muggles are beneath us,” Black says.

“Yes, but we are few and far between. Even twenty deceased would be a loss. We need to focus on building our numbers,” Malfoy says.

“You should take up your concerns with the Gryffindors. I swear at least one dies a week,” Avery scoffs.

“Speaking of which, what is the betting pool looking like for next year’s Weasley Population Wager?” Rosier asks.

“Oh, uh, Flint just added a ten-galleon bet for plus five and Greengrass put two on minus three. There are only seven slots left if you’re interested,” Nott says.

“No, that’s alright, just curious,” says Rosier.

Lestrange tosses his dinnerware on his plate in a clatter. “Sacrifice is change and change is foundation to opportunity. But I guess Malfoys sit and watch as others pave the way.”

“Yes, I guess serving on the Wizengamot is a primary example of not enacting change. Please tell me more about how my family maintains a line of successful politicians drafting legislation that will revolutionise the foundations of our society while yours has lost their last viable contender to scandal.” He smiles in that polite, demeaning way that purebloods never seem to tire of. “By the way, how is your brother doing? I heard his wife has left for Egypt. That wouldn’t have anything to do with the Prophet’s piece on that little black-haired witch he was seen with, would it Lestrange?”

Lestrange’s face takes on an irate shade of red. He draws his wand, twirling it in his hands while debating on doing something, frankly, exceptionally stupid.

 Malfoy only watches with one brow raised to provoke.

Tom sighs.

“What about you, Riddle?” Black asks, not bothering to pay attention to Lestrange’s commonplace outburst. “Do you support Grindelwald?”

Tom claps his book shut with one hand. “It doesn’t matter if I support him or not. Regardless, by the end of this war, one side will be the victor and the other an aside in history.”

The rest finish eating, and Tom rises from his seat, nodding to both Nott and Rosier. They shadow him at his sides as they exit the dining hall.

“Riddle. Wait!”

Tom comes to a halt, recognising the voice. Faint lights flicker against the walls of the corridor and cast the group in an amber fog. Students pass by unhurriedly to get to their dorms.

“Black.” Tom glances at Nott, who carefully steps away to allow their new addition into the group. “Is there something you wanted to discuss?” Both hands are behind his back, lax and clasped.

“Yes,” Black easily occupies the space to the right of Tom. “Shall we continue to the dorms?”

He nods and they begin the walk to the dungeons and Slytherin Common Room. Gradually the students’ numbers dwindle, leaving their group the only occupants in the wide hall.

“Is privacy important to our conversation?” Tom asks, eyes still forward.

“Not necessarily. I came to offer you a gift in exchange for permitting me into your duelling club.” Black flourishes his wand, summoning a brown leather-bound book. “This is a copy I had made of my family’s records on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. We’ve taken to keeping our own documents, as many of the most powerful families have hidden their most unsavoury relations.” He holds it out to Tom.

That would explain why the Blacks are doing something so insane as to wed their own heir to a cousin. He offers a smile without taking the gift. “This is quite the generous trade in my favour.” The Black Family’s private records surely aren’t loaned better yet, given without price.

“Let’s just say, I do not appreciate being Lestrange’s junior. Unlike him, I see little more than power when I assess an individual.”

Hmm. Orion Black watches him, long-dark hair spilling over his shoulders, grey eyes assessing, cataloguing every twitch and shift of Tom’s body language. He’s ambitious, wants assurance regarding his importance among Tom’s members. If he considers the matter, Tom doesn’t mind putting Lestrange in his place by offering Black a better position in his Knights. His eyes trail to the book, still outstretched towards him.

Tom accepts the tome. His fingers graze leather, covetously. “I look forward to your attendance on Friday.”

Black bows. “Then I will see you at Duelling Club, Riddle.” With a rustle of his robes, he continues to the Slytherin dorms, leaving Tom with his two knights.

He flips the book round in his hands. A simple design, a circle with twenty-eight knots and embellished in gold, sits a fraction’s distance above the centre. Black is no fool. He would not present this to Tom unless he was certain of its value. There may be information on the branches that stem from Salazar Slytherin. He carefully tucks the tome in his grasp and begins the walk to the common room. With this, he has one matter crossed off his growing list.

Now onto another issue.

“I need you to look into something, Nott,” Tom announces in the dark of the dungeons.

Nott nods his head.

“I require Hill’s muggle educational records you provided previously. Also, I have discovered another lead. If you could check her citizenship information—the date and name of her sponsor. It should be publicly available.” 

Chapter Text

There rarely is such serendipitous opportunity.

Tom walks the halls of the Hogwarts Castle heading for the library. It’s a Tuesday morning just after breakfast and before classes. The sun rests low on the horizon, it’s glow weak in the winter’s frost.

With a clack of his heels, he arrives at the double doors to the library. Yet, he has no intention of wandering in and finding rest in their isolated nook. No, today Tom has more interesting plans.

Tutoring with Hill has been nothing short of fascinating. The restless twitches and twists she makes, clearly uncomfortable with Tom, are something he has yet to pin down. She’s a troubled combination of emotions that makes her mind harder to sort than her peers. Tom has discerned a fair amount of apprehension, incredulity, and wonder ebb from her thoughts, but nothing to pinpoint her opinion of him.

Right on time, the echo of steps bounces off the stone walls. Hill has her eyes down as always when she walks. Yet there is no hunch to her back or timidness to her strides. She’s lost in thought.

To emphasise just this, Hill walks right by him, placing both hands on the doors.

“That won’t be necessary, Irene,” Tom says.

She jumps, light on her feet, but no scream on her lips. When she recognises who he is, her brows furrow and there’s a pulse of something familiar.

And perhaps what he thought earlier was incorrect.

Distrust has been the largest factor that seems to characterise her reaction to him.

“What do you mean?” Hill frowns.

“Today, we are going over Charms. If you’d follow me, I believe the library wouldn’t be the best location for such practice.” Tom fans his arm out, gesturing to further down the hall.

She, however, stays rooted to her position. “Can’t we just work over the basics like Thursday?”

“As your tutor, I insist otherwise. Charms class should provide enough proof practical lessons are just as important. You are in need of correction with many of your spellcasting techniques.”

Her hand brushes through her hair. “Where will we go then? It’s too cold to wander outside, and the DADA chamber is busy with the second years.”

“I believe the Duelling Club has an open room on the second floor.”

“Duelling Club?”

“Yes. Professor Merrythought restarted it nearly fifty years ago. They have meetings every Friday evening. Have you not heard?”

“Uh, no. I don’t pay attention to things outside of my routine.”

“Hmm.” Tom thinks this must be how she’s managed to ignore most of the scathing looks the Slytherins shoot her way, despite being in a rather social group of Gryffindors. “Shall we then?”

Hill sighs. “Fine. Just promise, no duelling please. I don’t think I can keep up with the DADA class’s star student.”

“I cross my heart, Irene.” Tom places a hand on his chest. This will certainly be exciting.

They traverse the castle to the duelling hall on the second floor, a dark chamber similar to the DADA classroom but decorated with rather ornate colours and designs. With little less than an hour and a half left for tutoring, Tom chooses three spells for Irene to practise Descendo, Silencio, and Locomotor and swiftly readies the practise dolls and targets.

All set, he finds his spot at the entrance side of the hall. Irene stands facing the target that dangles from the ceiling. The first spell, Descendo, is a simple whip-like movement and an even more straightforward magic that spells objects to fall. Tom watches as Hill’s movement mimics the perfect whip shape; however, the speed of her cast needs improvement. With each attempt, her magic seems to whizz out in pitiful sparks.

“Faster wand movements, Irene. Descendo is based on a whip, therefore your speed and motion must match one,” Tom orders.

Hill nods and tries again. She fumbles for a bit, but quick to listen, she performs the spell perfectly in another couple of tries. Onto Silencio then.

Tom flicks his wand to the practise doll at the edge of the field. It whirls out to face Hill and begins making a ticking sound. She readies herself for the next spell.

Again, her magic sputters into pitiful sparks. He knows this isn’t a matter of inadequate power despite her problems’ appearance. He deduces it must be either confidence or fear of her own magic. Tom decides it’s a mixture of both.

He takes his time examining her magic more closely this time. Cast after cast, her power sparks but doesn’t catch, yet she makes no attempt to change her strategy. Eventually her Silencio quiets the doll, but with thirty minutes wasted, Tom can’t say her methods are efficient. Strangling her own power till it takes seems to be her approach.

Tom slips his wand into his palm. “Locomotor,” he spells. With a rattle, clay targets float from their position on the shelves to the centre of the chamber. Hill looks about, shifting her weight from foot to foot, surveying the discs. They float round her, then settle an adequate distance away. He clasps his hands behind his back and steps over to the centre.

This would be a suitable chance for him to charm her.

Though Tom finds it unpleasant to use such methods—both for his pride and general sensibilities—he can’t deny they have expedient results. He slides behind her, just to the side of her casting arm. “May I?” he asks, one hand palm up adjacent to hers in question.

Her brows press together. “Wha—”

Tom doesn’t give her the time to refute. He sidles up to her, chest pressing against her back and arm lengthened to wrap his hand around hers. Their skin touches as his hand settles to cup hers in his palm, fingers carefully entangling with her smaller ones. Tremors ripple into him. Hill shivers like prey, and Tom, the predator he is, delights in the sensation.

“Let yourself sense my magic,” he orders.

A spark of power nips at his fingers. It’s fierce and defiant, pulling at his own magic in ravenous waves. Untameable, unquenchable.

At least that is what Tom senses from it.

Hill’s magic is a strange thing, much like her. Tom noticed it from the moment they met. A tugging sensation akin to gravity. It’s gentle in its draw when there’s clothing that separates them, but when it’s skin to skin? It’s not unlike a cavernous well that sucks one in. He noticed it drain him when he’d placed his hand atop hers weeks ago.

Unusual that not one other student has noticed. 

“Do you feel it?” he asks. His magic flowing from his core and into her.

“Ye-yeah.” Hill licks her lips, eyes darting away from his in a blush.

“Good, Irene,” he purrs into the shell of her ear. He lifts their conjoined hands, wand still settled in the palm of hers. “Now then. Locomotor.”

Her wand kicks and protests against him as he swirls it. Larch? A fickle thing. Tom grits his teeth and forces it to obey. Interesting how Hill has found her partner in such a stubborn tool when she, herself, is so terribly agreeable. With a hiss—if wands could show such behaviour—it complies, courage and indignation roiling inside it.

The discs rise and follow Tom’s orders to circle around, then snake out into a line. However, his focus lies elsewhere. The pounding pulse and heavy swallow of Hill ripple into him. Her eyes are dark, dilated. Tom feels his own pulse pick up, excitement rising. Skin-ship has never failed before; he knows she’ll be eating out of the palm of his hand in time.

“It’s even. No force applied. I allow my magic to circulate from my core to my wand. When learning a new spell, surrender is vital.” He drops the discs to the floor. Every action calculated and prepared. With an ear and mind to Hill’s magic, he monitors her tells. Cautiously, his hand reaches towards her chest. But Hill’s hitched breathing and irregular thumps tell him to cut his losses. Instead, he allows it to hover there, just above her heart.

“You see, magic is in our nature. We must allow it to grow unfettered, unrestrained, if we are to reach the height of our potential. Do not limit or suppress it. Our core must decide how much magic to release. In time, you will grow to understand and control it.” His hands fall from their positions, and he brings them to her shoulder instead. “Now, once more, please.”

Hill bites her lip, and with the flick of her wrist, she murmurs, “Locomotor.”

What comes to fruition is unanticipated.

It’s not just the clay discs that rise, but the multitude of furnishings spread across the room and trinkets that lay about. All rattle, dangling in the air. Hill’s body shakes at the sight while Tom’s hands grip her shoulders covetously. A red core? No, this is something much stronger than that.

“How…unexpected.” Tom trails his hands to her collar. “You may cancel your spell. We wouldn’t want to leave the chamber in disarray now, would we?”

She eagerly nods her head, dropping the furnishings down gently. Her expression isn’t strained, nor exhausted. A testament to just how much magic must be hiding inside her.

This power, so easily shown, is nothing short of enthralling.

“Wonderful, Irene,” he compliments, his thumbs carefully caressing the base of her neck.

Tom steps away from her and withdraws his own wand to wordlessly float the targets back to their position in the cabinets. However, as the distance between them grows, so too does something else. Overwhelming in its intensity, an emotion so raw rears its head.

It’s Hill. Still as stone, she stands, not a muscle on her face revealing the feelings she holds inside. Around her, spreads a relief so palpable it clouds the space, radiates from her.

He narrows his eyes. It tastes of fear and distress.

Tom sighs, closing his Mind Arts book and placing it on his nightstand. Obliviation, Occlumency, and Legilimency can wait for now. Uncrossing his legs, he sweeps off the edge of his four-poster bed. The gold embroidered emerald curtains close behind him, rustling against the dark walnut posts as he settles in his desk chair. He withdraws the documents from their place tucked beneath the daily newspaper.

Hill’s muggle school grades. It appears she kept up with her studies until seventh year. He taps his chin in thought. That would be roughly two years after she supposedly joined a coven. Her recorded classes are the common spread for any publicly schooled child. Though, upon examination, there is one interesting non-pattern. Her grades seem to deviate vastly from year to year. What she received an ‘A’ in she received a ‘D’ in the following year. However, what is also shocking is that, unlike what Hill had mentioned, there are no biology or chemistry courses.

Interesting.

He tucks the paper back underneath the newspaper and turns his attention to the other person in the room. “Rosier, what is your assessment of Hill?” Tom asks.

The green of the lake is brighter in the morning, allowing the windows to soak the chamber in its light. Ripples of opaque viridian oscillate against the stone walls and wooden furniture.

Rosier turns his focus to Tom, shifting in his seat at the desk. He has that usual apathetic expression he carries—an absence and emptiness that swallows the light. “I admit she seems average, regardless of her power, always tailing after that Fawley and hiding behind her. Hardly seems brave like other Gryffindors.”

He hums. Perhaps that is what he would have thought if he wasn’t witness to the incident in the courtyard. “How do you think one should appeal to her? I find that she is not swayed by baser methods.” The palpable relief that flooded from Hill’s mind shows he holds no physical sway over her.

Rosier’s face scrunches in distaste. “You’d be better off asking Nott. He’s good with that emotional drivel.”

Confirming what he suspected to be true, Tom exhales. Why must all Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs be insufferable? To be leashed by weighty conscience sounds exhausting and, worse, unpredictable.

“But,” Rosier uncharacteristically continues—usually a man of little words. “Now that we’ve seen her strengths, it’s almost Slytherin of her to hide in plain sight. She avoids performing offensive spells in almost all her courses. And as for Nott’s investigations….” His fingers twirl his quill in thought, the green of the lake turning grey against his pink skin. “Strange to have an Arcanus Charm for a simple apprentice.”

“Yes. Her power and this concealment spell keep me from moving past her.”

Rosier hums, and they lock eyes, Tom sensing the considering tick of Rosier’s thoughts. His natural Legilimency is not nearly as invasive as Doyle’s magic, but perhaps he can force out more. He crosses his legs and considers, considers a test of sorts. Practical applications to magic are necessary. With a stronger push and a wordless, “Legilimens” Tom urges Rosier’s thoughts to the forefront of his eyes. Tom sees the rapid calculations and theories flickering in his knight’s mind. To his surprise, Rosier does nothing more than breathe. By his nonchalance, he hasn’t noticed the subtle Legilimency.

A good sign. He leans back in his chair. Soon, Tom will be able to use it on others.

“Regarding the need for this charm, do you have any theories?” Tom asks.

“Hmm, there are many reasons someone would need one,” Rosier says.

“Tell me, what are your thoughts?” He rolls his wrist, urging Rosier to expand.

“The most common use is for bastardised children.” He places his quill down and clasps his hands between his spread knees with a sigh. “You’ve noticed that Ravenclaw that sticks to Carrow and Lestrange?”

Tom nods. “Renatus has made her…difficult to ignore.”

“Yes, well, that would be in line with the rumours.”

He quirks a brow. “Her relation would be to the Lestranges, then?” That Ravenclaw, a bastard child?

“And a half-blood at that.” He smirks.

“How does she hold the last name Hornby then? Adoption?”

A nod confirms his thoughts.

Tom smiles. He can use this. His fingers tap against the nightstand. Lestrange should know better than to reveal his cards to others. “So, Hill could be an illegitimate child of an unspeakable? Have we found any members from the East?”

“No, not at the moment. But that means little. She could have insisted on an unspeakable position. Whoever is her father might be tied to administration.” Rosier shakes his head. “The next possibility is that she’s an asylum seeker. The war has displaced many witches and wizards. One would be wise to pick up some of the more capable orphans.”

Tom’s jaw tightens. He knows this well, sees it every time Slughorn or one of his many guests makes an offer almost too good to refuse. But he knows such opportunities have invisible strings attached.

“There are other possibilities, but the chances of that are slim to none. My favoured scenario is that she’s an orphan displaced by war and snatched up by an unspeakable.”

Slim to none? But not impossible. His fingers tap across his thigh in impatient trills. “Why don’t you humour me? The unlikely does not mean impossible.”

Rosier drags a hand through his hair. “Yes well,” He sighs. “There is one thought that I’ve been humouring. It fits well enough, but is a tad bit fantastical.”

“Go on.”

“It’s possible she’s in relation to someone important from the Eastern continent, a fugitive.”

“A fugitive?” He blinks. “Why harbour a fugitive’s child?”

“To shelter an informant, perhaps? There is a reason my mother and father refuse to travel to any of the Asian countries. Something is happening there, and no one has noticed with all our eyes and efforts placed on Europe.” His fingers clench around clasped hands. “Over the last several decades, there have been some unusual laws passed in several of the ministries in the Asiatic Union.”

Tom cocks his head and leans onto one knee. “Unusual in what ways?” This is the first he’s heard of such matters—like Rosier said, eyes are always on Western society.

“We’re constantly under threat of exposure since the incident in the States. Publicly isolation strategies have been the centre of international efforts, yet the East is working in opposition. Laws passed to work around the Statute of Secrecy. Harsh punishments for magic exposure have been whittled down to barely a slap on the wrist. Some programs even encourage integration with the muggles. There’s currently a national effort in China to spread out magical society and increase numbers. But none of these actions garner significant attention. It’s baffling.” Rosier unclasps his hands once more to comb through his hair. “Of course, that brings us to the dissenters.”

“And those dissidents are treated as criminals?”

He nods. “Quite a few become fugitives in some roundabout way, either accused of terrorism or treason, but even more have just disappeared.”

“So, you believe Hill’s a child of one of these criminals?”

“It’s a possibility, but an improbable one.” He shrugs. “There’s no proof that the British Ministry has got wind of Asia’s actions. And on record, there’s little to no proof that these dissenters existed. My family only knows because of Grindelwald’s ties to a few Asian diplomats.”

Tom taps his fingers against his lap once more. From his History of Magic courses and electives on World Magicks, the East has had a tumultuous past with their muggles. Often drifting from near integration to complete isolation over the course of thousands of years. Culturally, it seems to be nothing new.

“Could this just be a natural course from centuries of intermingling? We both know Britain would push in that direction if not for Grindelwald and the current muggle war. From what I’ve read on the East, there hasn’t been a single dark wizard recorded in the last two centuries or more, just radical revolutionist movements.”

“Yes, it appears so. But does a wizard need to be dark to destabilise the Statute?”

It’s night. The light of the stars shimmer behind the tall windows of the Gryffindor Common Room. Irene’s eyes stare unfocused into the blackened sky. Her head is a tangled jumble of thoughts and has been since Samhain and tutoring with Riddle.

There’s the numbing reality of what Evan said that seems to trickle in through every crack in her defences—despite her attempts to stave it off. What he’d called her magic is something she fears she may have already known instinctually. The churning of her stomach, unsettled and hungry, reminds her of the energy it takes, craves.

She brushes a hand through her hair, trying to think of something else. “There’s only a few more days till the weekend,” she thinks. The haven she’s sought in Merrythought’s empty classroom supplies some relief, but cannot remove all her stressors. Half-thoughts and anxiety whirl around in a tempest. It’s a Wednesday meaning tomorrow is Thursday. Her fingers tug at her hair.

How did she get herself into this mess? How did she land herself lessons with Tom Marvolo Riddle?

She’s cursed. That’s the only explanation for why she’s been assaulted one after another with bad news.

Irene slumps further into the plush loveseat. Her fingers rub circles into red jute fabric. There has to be a way to get out of this hole. A way in which she does not catch Voldemort’s attention and simply fades into the background. She knows it must be possible. Her first thirteen years have taught her people are willing to ignore things they don’t much care for.

“…Irene!” Evelyn nearly shouts.

The sound is enough to snap Irene out of her mind. “Uh, sorry. What were you saying?”

“We’re about to play a round of Truth or Hex. Would you like to join?” she asks.

Irene glances about. There’s Edmund, Graham, Iris, Blythe, Lillian, and Evelyn. All of them gathered in a circle in front of the hearth. She stares. She doesn’t remember when they all arrived. “Uh,” she stammers. “I’m a little out of sorts. I think I’ll just watch.” Her attention flickers away once more.

“I don’t think you’ll see much if you stare out the window, Irene.” Lillian cocks her head.

And she’s right, of course.

Iris pats the area left of her—an order for Irene to come and sit. Irene complies just in time to witness Iris crossing her arms and leaning towards her. “Do you want to talk about it? You’ve been off recently.”

“No. Not now.” Her answer is prompt. There’s not much she can say without alerting Iris. And if Iris got a hold of what an unfeeling megalomaniac Tom Riddle is, Irene’s certain she would insist on doing something about him herself. That’s really the opposite of what would be best at the moment. “But if I do later, I’ll let you know.”

Iris nods and returns to the game.

Lillian was right. Irene shouldn’t just stare out the window, lost in worry and her concerns. She’s got to keep a level head, got to keep her wits about. If not, she’ll only make things worse for herself.

The group makes their first few perfunctory rounds in their game of Truth or Hex. Irene observes in fascination. They’ve been playing it safe with mostly harmless truths. However, by the end of the current cycle, both Graham and Blythe have been hexed—Blythe sporting a bright green head of hair and Graham struggling to keep his head up with the weight of his engorged ears. Irene’s glad she sat this one out.

“Okay, Blythe.” Lillian smiles, looking a little devious. “Truth or hex. How far have you gone with Bell?”

“Truth. Snogging that’s it,” she replies promptly.

Lillian groans in protest.

But attention already locked onto Edmund, Blythe sets her target, her head turning as sharp as a hawk’s. “Truth or hex. Second year potions, did you drop asphodel in Davies cauldron?”

Edmund blinks slowly. “I did, in fact.” Then the ends of lips pull ear to ear in a smirk. “How did you know?”

Evelyn and Lillian gasp.

“You were the one responsible for that explosion of silver dust!” Iris gripes. “I spent weeks trying to Scourgify the sparkle off of my robes and hair!”

He only shrugs in reply whilst Graham doubles over laughing.

Blythe smiles cockily at Edmund. “Afraid you’ll have to ask me when it’s your turn if you want to know.”

“Fine,” he says. “Evelyn. Truth or hex. Girls or boys?”

Evelyn blanches at the strange question. “Truth. Girls,” she grumbles.

Confusingly, her reply sparks a cackle from Edmund.

“Graham. Truth or whatever. Mind telling us why your little brother has been ignoring his house members this semester?”

“Uh…. Hex?” Graham sighs. “Please be merciful.”

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding a bit apologetic in doing so. Evelyn hits him with an eyebrow growing curse. The hairs above his eyes sprout like plants growing to hang just over his eyes.

Irene snickers. Graham looks like some sort of mountain creature—ears oversized and eyebrows like bangs. Iris pinches her side, and she yelps. Iris’s fiancé is only fair game if it’s her snickering, it appears.

Graham surveys his targets. “Lillian. Truth or hex. Girls or boys?”

What’s with this question? Irene tilts her head.

“Truth. Um, girls? Because I’m a girl?” Lillian answers, mirroring the same body language as Irene.

Almost all members of the group sigh in unison, excluding the two bewildered members.

Lillian ignores that and marches on. “Iris! Truth or hex. Is it true you used to be friends with Minerva in first year?”

“Depends on Minerva’s definition of friends,” Iris says with a fair amount of venom bleeding into her voice. “I thought we were, but obviously I was wrong.”

The group cringes with the shift in tension, but Lillian looks positively sympathetic. “You know, Minerva’s a really good person. Maybe the two of you should sit and talk it out.” Lillian sticks her whole foot in her mouth, completely oblivious to the mounting anger that builds to Irene’s side.

Irene places her hand on Iris’s crossed knee, trying to quell her growing irritation. But when she observes the tight clench of Iris’s jaw, she knows it’s done nothing to soothe her.

“See, I find that when I’m angry with someone,” Lillian continues, “it’s because I care so much about them. When Evelyn and I got into a fight last month, I was stubborn and didn’t want to speak with her. But she made me realise that it only hurt so badly because of how much I love her.”

This time, Irene doesn’t miss the bright red blush across Evelyn’s face that’s paired with a hesitant smile.

“As my best friend, it only makes sense that the smallest of fights could mean so much.” Lillian nods sagely and Evelyn’s smile becomes a little pinched. “I think you and Minerva must mean a whole lot to each other to still be angry about whatever happened, kinda like me and Evelyn.” She places her hand on Evelyn’s and that breaks the tension.

Edmund is on the floor, rolling in laughter alongside Graham, who can’t seem to breathe.

“Yeah, Iris. You must really love Minerva.” Blythe’s lip twitches in mirth.

“Oh. Bugger off, Prang,” Iris hisses.

Blythe loses it as well, bursting into giggles like the rest. Iris drags a hand down her face, grumbling at the group to stop laughing, to no avail. Meanwhile, Lillian sits pleased and holding a very, very red Evelyn’s hand. Their interlaced hands linger in the corner of Irene’s eyes, and eventually, she puts two and two together—or perhaps she should say one and one together.

So, they, uh…. No, from what Irene’s witnessed, it’s only Evelyn. She likes…. Her eyes flicker to Evelyn’s, who offers a shy smile. But didn’t she catch her making eyes at Riddle?

“Come on, Irene.” Iris stands, exasperated. “Don’t expect me to counter-curse you, Graham.” With a twirl, she walks towards the stairs and dorms. Irene follows behind dutifully.

Minerva is a sore spot, as usual. Irene feels thankful enough that Iris is able to be peaceable with her friendship with Minerva. They do spend one to two hours, five—no, now it’s three—days a week together, and she’s always nice enough. Despite Minerva’s gruellingly strict teachings, at least her grades have improved somewhat. Maybe sometime next semester the professors will even call off her tutoring. That’s….

Probably the best way to move forward. Irene stops walking and looks up from her feet.

If she scores well, then the professors will end her tutoring and maybe Tom Riddle will have no choice but to leave her alone.

Irene makes a mental note to talk to Dumbledore during his office hours.

There’s a chill that wafts through Hogwarts’. It doesn’t breeze through the wind or circulate in the air. It doesn’t wind through the corridors or extinguish candles. Winter’s touch simply remains in everything. An endless frost that lingers in the very walls and furniture of the castle despite the strongest of warming charms.

“Are you joining us this weekend?” Evelyn shivered. “Saturday’s open mic at The Tickling Teacup.”

“Ah, no. I have work on Saturday,” Irene said.

Surely it must be snowing. And surely Hogsmeade must be a beautiful sight this time in the year. It’s a pity the others will be out enjoying the town while Irene is stuck in here. Busy with tutoring, busy with work, busy with class, busy with homework.

Recently, it’s like Irene can’t get out of the castle.

The shuffling of feet and chatter signal the end of class. Irene jots down the last bullets from Professor Polaris’s lecture. It makes some sense. The day and month’s star alignment can determine the power of certain elemental magic. Irene can follow that well enough; however, the fact that the alignment of one’s birth can determine one’s magical affinity is beyond her.

Once she’s copied the information, Irene gathers her books in her bag.

“Miss Hill,” Professor Polaris calls her to the front.

Iris cocks a brow.

Irene gives her the signal to leave. It’s been rather tame recently. No crazy cursing bigots or anything like that, so Iris nods and takes her exit. Swiftly, Irene shoves everything else in her bag before shuffling to the Professor’s desk, apprehensive. His expression doesn’t spell any good news. Oh, no. What has she done now?

The Professor levels a stern glare. He’s one of the younger teachers at Hogwarts—somewhere around forty, Irene believes. His blonde hair is peppered with sparse silver strands and face is a kind sort even with the wrinkles between his brows. What did Fontius call them? “Do you know why I called you to my desk?”

Oh, right. Frustration lines. “No, Professor.” Irene stands a little straighter.

He places a parchment on the desk. “This is your star chart’s assignment. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

She scans her work. There are the eleven constellations in the Bayer family. She looks at their rotations, luminosity ratings….

“I see that it evades you.” He sighs. “Your spiritual descriptions. How did your connections fare? Did the veil thin or strengthen? Were you in tune with certain elemental spirits? I need to know more than if you felt hot or cold on some nights or happy or sad on some days.”

Irene’s face twitches with the need to scrunch up. God. She fudged most of the charting at that end, not because she didn’t try but because she didn’t feel a thing during the rituals. “I’m sorry, Professor. I couldn’t get in, um, tune with the stars.”

A rough hand massages at the point between Professor Polaris’s eyes. “Did you attempt more than once?”

She nods. If she wanted to be exact, it was a soul-crushing fifty times for the eleven constellations. But if she tells him that, he’ll probably get that hopeless look in his eyes.

“I understand that muggle-borns are less…intuitive; however, you have certain reputations to uphold as an apprentice at the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries. Do try to assimilate into our culture, as you are one of the rare few to make it through.”

With another nod and apology, Irene grabs her bag and rushes out of the classroom to the spiral staircase.

“Irene,” Tom says.

And she stops to look at him. Bathed in the grey of the winter sun, Riddle leans against the beige flagstone wall. He’s in a thicker ensemble today, wool robe and Slytherin green scarf wrapped around his neck.

Ugh. Why is he loitering on the stairs? Clearly a traffic hazard. “Tom,” she greets. “Are you waiting for someone?” She can only hope.

“Only you.” His head tilts in the calculated way she’s seen him do during their sessions.

Is it supposed to be charming? Or is it simply a quirk of his? “What for? Tutoring?”

He chuckles. “Must it be about our sessions? Couldn’t I simply enjoy your company?”

What rubbish. Irene shrugs. Frankly, this Prince Charming façade is starting to freak her out. Just the night before, she’d had a nightmare about her date turning into Snake-face. “I don’t see Minerva waiting for me after class.” She starts down the stairs. They have Magical Theory soon. There’s no time to stand and chat.

“I believe Fawley acts as repellent.” Tom follows her, steps echoing behind like some unwanted ghost. “With what Professor Polaris discussed with you, I thought I’d stick around.”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And nothing out of the ordinary means?”

Irene opens her mouth then closes it. She wants to say something. She wants to talk about the heaviness in her chest that had borne its weight on her as she left the Astronomy Chamber. To know why she’s feeling so awful even though it was only a minute’s long conversation that held her after class. Alone, she can’t seem to piece together the reason. Or maybe there are no rationalisations for her feelings. Maybe this is the culmination of building stress.

But that does not mean she wants to talk to this budding Dark Lord about it.

“Just the usual, ‘please live up to expectations,’ and ‘your work needs work.’”

“The Professors seem to hold you in high regard.”

Irene thinks she might have heard a sarcastic tilt to the last words. “Their disappointment.” She shrugs.

“You can’t fault them. Your work with the unspeakables has led them to hold you in higher esteem than other students.”

“Yeah, well, nearly three months of mediocre grades should be enough time for them to figure out that my employment is of little consequence concerning my performance.”

“Oh? Are you perhaps a personal assistant of sorts?” he asks as they exit onto the seventh floor.

Irene barks out a laugh. Imagining her life as the Overlord’s assistant is most definitely worse than what she has going on. She wipes the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Then sees Riddle staring, waiting.

That pulls the mirth out from underneath her. “Er, what I do isn’t that important.” It’s outrageous that she has to remind herself not to let her guard down. Why does he have to look and act so normally?

She tries not to grimace when Voldemort hums in response.

The corridor they entered is lengthy and straight. No corners or curves and its wide passage carries their steps, amplifies the absence of words. Irene brushes her hair back, fidgeting. They have another two floors to go in this stifling silence.

“So…what about you, Ri-Tom?” She mentally chides herself for that one. Trying to appear as if you’re comfortable with someone when you really aren’t is hard. “Do you have any expectations to live up to? You’re top of the class; I can’t imagine that doesn’t come with a number of responsibilities and pressure.”

There’s a pause that draws on long enough to force Irene to look at her odd company.

Riddle smiles a disingenuous and hollow smile. “You need not worry, Irene. The pressure that sits atop my shoulders is invariably of my own making.” Somehow, the words seem biting—a slight at her.

The cold slithers up Irene’s spine. She tugs her robe in tighter and nods. Where did Prince Charming go?

That uncomfortable silence drifts back in, as they have yet to make it down two sets of stairs to the fifth floor.

She glances at Riddle a few times, wondering if he will strike up conversation, but nothing of the sort comes. Instead, there’s this edge to him she’s never seen before. Irene frowns. She’s not sure what she said wrong, but he’s miffed. Her mind zeros in on that as they walk to the other side of the castle. Is it because she assumed he was under pressure, or because she assumed he had expectations to live up to?

But why would that…?

A kaleidoscope of colours shimmers their rays upon them as they descend the last set of stairs. It’s bright, blinding. Irene shields her face from the lilac glare of the stained-glass window. Tom ignores it and moves onward, his black hair catching the stray azure and magenta from the light. She follows him, quiet and considering.

Maybe it’s because she has never bothered to analyse Voldemort that it doesn’t come to her naturally. He’s always been the monster that goes bump in the night, the madman that plans to destroy the city, or the killer that enjoys the cruelty. Yet, when she thinks back to her schooling, her time in London as someone of Eastern descent, she realises that maybe she and Riddle have something in common. He’s an orphan. And she’s an undesirable. Nobody ever sees them and expects anything other than failure.

“I said something rude,” Irene blurts as they turn the corner to the Magical Theory classroom. “I apologise.”

Riddle’s legs almost come to a halt—pace stuttering before the next step. “I’ll see you this evening, Irene.” He nods and leaves for the door.

Classes fly by that afternoon.

Irene plops down on the pile of cushions and pulls out her Arithmancy book. She flips pages—the leaves rustling—until she rests on the list of practices for class. There’s only a few left to finish, so she gets to work.

In her trance, the mound of pillows shift—another body flopping down.

“Irene, don’t tell me. Have you been in here this whole time?” It’s Iris, fresh from her dance class, and by ‘fresh’ Irene means foul.

Irene checks the time with a Tempus; nearly two hours have passed. She points her nose to her notebook. “Yes. Tutoring starts in another hour. I should study up on what I can before I get stuck there longer than necessary.”

“I thought you ‘liked’ Minerva.” Iris smiles, excited to see if Irene hates her as much as she does.

“She does. Thank you again for those lovely sweets, Irene. However, today I’m not her tutor. Tuesdays and Thursdays are now with Tom as I am busy with quidditch.” Minerva hovers above her, so close that Irene nearly screams in shock. “What is that? Two, twenty-seven. Twelve, twelve. Six, nineteen.” She points to the tail-end of the equation Irene had finished despite the grief it had caused her.

“Merlin, Minerva. Please give warning if you’re going to magically appear.” Irene breathes out to settle her pounding heart. “It’s the equation Vector gave as a bonus. Had a dreadful time solving it.” She shakes her head.

“Wait. Tom? As in Tom Riddle?” Iris is so surprised she doesn’t even take the time to snark at Minerva.

“Yes, who else could it be? Tom from the Leaky?” Minerva cocks a brow. “And what equation? The last bonus I remember was the questions for the theoretical model for predicting natural disasters.”

“I don’t know.” Iris crosses her arms. “But surely someone other than Riddle, since Irene clearly dislikes her tutor. Well, maybe….” She rests her chin on her fist in thought. “Helga. You do hate Riddle, don’t you!”

“I don’t hate him. I just find him…unpleasant.” Like a ticking bomb. Irene exhales and hopes she didn’t piss him off enough earlier to place her on some sort of Voldemort blacklist. She turns to Minerva. “Not that one. The one two weeks before.”

Minerva flips through her mental calendar.

“Sure. And I am best friends with Minerva. Which do you think is more unbelievable?”

“That you’re best friends with Minerva.” Irene replies. Because truly, future Voldemort’s a madman, but she’s finding Tom more tolerable than what she predicted. So yes, she doesn’t hate him, but certainly wants to stay clear of this budding tyrant. On the other-hand, Iris and Minerva have been at each other’s throats since Irene’s been at Hogwarts. And that means they’ve been in this cold war since whatever happened in first-year.

“The one on lucky and unlucky days?” Minerva’s eyes are wide.

Irene nods. “Yeah, that’s the one—”

“Oh, come off of it. You glared daggers into the back of his head the first and second week you arrived. It was some mixture of horror and determination, like you were staring down the mouth of a lethifold. I was sure Perfect Prefect Riddle had offended you after the Lestrange and Carrow incident. But then you just went back to normal, ignoring his existence as if you never crossed paths. So, I thought I’d imagined the whole thing.” Iris’s eyes narrow into suspicious slits.

Now Minerva’s staring at her too, a cross between worry and interest to know what the golden boy of Hogwarts did to her.

“I well, uh,” Irene stammers. Memories of Voldemort placing his hand on hers, tucking her hair behind her ear, holding her tight to his chest resurface. Her face screws up in disgust, heart pounding. “He’s just very, uh, physical,” she whispers.

“Physical!?” Minerva all but shouts, her voice rising with indignation and shock. “Has he done something to you!?”

“No. No.” Irene waves her hands disarmingly, urging Minerva to calm and quiet. “Nothing like that,” she whispers and looks at Iris. “You know how he offered to spell the counter curse and heal me?”

She nods.

“He had to touch my hair and place it behind my ear. And now during lessons he’s all ‘handsy,’ for lack of a better term. He rubs my shoulder, or back, even held my hand the one time.” Irene shivers. “It just felt—” like my skin was crawling with bugs “—wrong.”

“Oh, my stars. Riddle is a pervert.” Iris blinks. “I never would have imagined,” she says in an echo.

“Um, I don’t think so. His motivations are….” Well, what are they? Oh, yes. Blatant emotional manipulation for some odd reason. “friendly, I think.”

“Either way, I don’t think it was right of him to touch you without permission.” Minerva says.

Iris nods, and an unusual moment of agreement passes between the two.

However, as it’s prolonged, the atmosphere grows awkward. Minerva coughs and changes the topic. “Regardless, if he makes any more uncomfortable advances, please do tell. I believe he’s the best tutor available at the moment, but I would not be opposed to finding another. Now, what was that about you finishing the impossible bonus assignment?”

Irene groans and flips her notes back to the start of the equation. Minerva scans it with avid interest and, to Irene’s surprise, so does Iris.

“This horrible two pages of scratch led you to the answer?” Iris cocks a brow and Irene nods in assent. “And you found your lucky and unlucky days or years through this?”

“Yeah, theoretically.” Irene swallows. She’s almost certain she came to the right answers, at least on her unlucky years, as it had confirmed age thirteen for one, which well…was the year everything went to hell. The war, the store, her….

Her throat tightens.

Irene breathes out, trying to smother her fear regarding the other numbers she’d found. “I’m not sure about my Yakubi calculations, but I’m positive I got the right Yakudoshi.”

Minerva flips through the pages. “There’s another thirty minutes until scrimmages. I believe it’s only fair you explain this, since I’ve been helping you with tutoring.”

“I agree whole-heartedly with Minerva. You must teach us.” Iris bats her lashes.

Irene sighs. Why do they have to agree now?

She finishes her explanation haggard and neurons fried. “This is no way to start a tutoring session with Riddle,” Irene thinks as she walks despairingly to the library. What was a cosy corner sequestered in books now exists solely as a torture chamber. She massages her temples, already fearing the headache that seems to accompany their sessions recently.

Irene passes the shelves that smell of distressed wood and old parchment into the throes of the Dark Lord.

“Irene,” Tom Riddle greets with a smile. “Shall we get started?”

He’s standing at the table, a perfectly curated set of books regarding potions stacked in front of him. Sunlight peaks in through the round window high above them, scattering against the cherry fixtures. It illuminates him in a violent shade of red that makes his dark eyes appear aflame.

And suddenly, she has the inadvisable impulse to tell him to bugger off and leave. Damn tutoring, damn her future.

Instead, Irene takes her seat without complaint, pulling out her notebook and corresponding texts.

“You are a bit later than usual today. Perhaps our discussion earlier made you apprehensive to show?” Riddle says.

“No, no.” She shakes her head. “Minerva and Iris held me back. They needed help with the Arithmancy bonus,” Irene says.

“The disaster probability matrix?”

“No, Sa’di Farouq’s work.” She fingers through her notes, focusing on working. “What are we covering today?”

So, she solved the divination equation. Even Tom hasn’t finished it. Working on it the night previous, he’d come to an impasse. He hums.

Two weeks into teaching Irene Hill, and Tom’s doubting her incompetency. Her learning curve is much too steep for an idiot and much too gradual for a previously educated student. It’s almost as if she’d never received the teachings. Which would be absurd if a coven or enclave had properly taught her, but what if she never was?

What if she has just started her studies? What if the ‘seven months’ Hill referred to was a complete comprehensive review of years one through four at Hogwarts?

It’s perhaps a stretch, but what if the guardian she was under prioritised certain studies? Rosier’s theory that Irene Hill may have been on the run with a fugitive is improbable, but he can’t discount it in its entirety. It would supply the perfect excuse as to why Hill fairs well in DADA and Ancient Runes while she fails in the more theoretical courses.

He settles to stand behind her chair, checking on her answers to the potions questions he gave her to solve.

Their corner of the library is an intimate one. Sequestered in the back by towering shelves. It grants Tom the privacy and freedom to do as he wishes if he so pleases. His fingers brush across the wooden back of Hill’s seat—palm catching against rough, worn wood. But that isn’t the sensation he’s focused on.

It’s the odd case of Hill’s anxious pulses.

During the courtyard incident, he’d assumed her mind to be stuck in a state of hyperarousal, or stress, due to the nature of her encounter. However, as the weeks pass, and he grows familiar with Hill’s regular mental state, Tom has concluded that her mind’s nervous panic is unique to his added presence. The relief in the duelling chamber being the nail in the coffin. So, to put it plainly, she’s acutely aware of him.

And isn’t that curious?

Tom leans against the chair’s back, two hands placed behind Hill’s narrow shoulders, fingers just grazing her robes. Her quill twitches. And he smiles, relishing in the bitter restless pulses that press against his mind.

There’s a brief pause as Hill rubs a finger against her temples. But soon, her quill is back on parchment. Black ink crests and slopes into a series of fine cursive letters. The current problem she struggles to solve is the procedure for a Strengthening Solution. She’s done a fine job with the ingredients and mixing, but as usual, she lacks the proper preparation. Her chosen cauldron and tools are of the wrong material for the proposed potion. Destined to react adversely with the ingredients.

She’ll need to review second-year texts before the weekend.

Again, it’s remarkable how the information Hill lacks is really within the basics. They’ve spent the last few lessons simply reviewing first-year texts. And he predicts her grades will rapidly improve if only her foundation solidifies. His fingers tap against the chair in impatient drums.

Where was she before Hogwarts? What work does she supply for the Ministry? Why does he provoke such panic in her?

Tom wants to rip it out of her. Tear her mind apart piece by piece till there’s no questions left unanswered. But Hill is close-lipped despite her meek demeanour, despite the sheep’s clothing she dons. Nott’s assurance of two weeks only serves to heighten his impatience.

He places a hand on her shoulder, feels the instant pulse of wary distrust accompanied by stiffened muscles. He smirks, wondering where the reaction stems from. “A pewter cauldron?” He cocks a brow and Hill gets the message quick enough.

Her fingers fumble for the potions text and one chapter after another, she finds the section on alchemical processes. Within due time, she fixes her pewter cauldron to a copper one. “Perfect, Irene.” He smooths his hand down her shoulder.

Tremors ripple into him from Hill, although the action is subtle. However, he leaves his hand positioned on her shoulder under the guise of examining her work. He’ll never tire of Hill’s insatiable magic. Through clothing, it only sends spiteful sparks, but it holds the same feral nature.

“Riddle, I can’t focus while you hover,” Hill snaps and then, almost as if she’s appalled at her own outburst, she reels back. “Sorry.”

“Is this retaliation for my poor behaviour earlier?” He tests.

Irene’s mouth open and closes unbecomingly. “What-no. Of course not. Earlier was my fault.”

And again, she seems to mean it. Perhaps Nott had a point. Tom chuckles. “It’s fine. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. However, I thought I was Tom not Riddle.” He pulls away from her and walks round the table, meeting her head on.

“Right. Right,” she smiles in a pinched expression and the sour note of her mind only serves to emphasise her distaste.

He waits patiently and amused. Why she feels the need to act so amiable, he’s not sure. “And?”

 “Yes. Sorry, Tom,” she says and returns to her work.

Tom expected as much and so his fingers brush over the Mind Arts book, grabbing it to continue his own studying until Hill finishes her questions. When she finally arrives at the last question and completes it, Tom makes simple corrections and explains why.

“Thanks.” Hill rises to her feet and begins stowing away her books. “I’ll see you next week, then.” She bows her head.

“Unfortunately, I have one last matter. If you wouldn’t mind staying.” Tom smiles.

Her body tenses, finger impatiently tapping her texts. “Go on.”

“Regarding the Arithmancy bonus, would you mind explaining to me how you came to the answers?” He gestures back to the chair whilst pulling out one for himself as well.

He can see the cogs of distrust whirring slowly, cautiously inside her even without the aid of his Legilimency. Conversations with Nott have led to some useful understanding of his more emotional peers. “Spend time with them, have a few commonalities, offer unconditional support—or, er, what the other believes to be unconditional,” he had said. It seems Gryffindors hold a saviour complex and unwise levels of guilt.

Another push then. “I understand if you cannot. I’ll see you next Tuesday, Irene.” He presses his chair back.

“Wait.” She holds up a hand. “If I can explain it to Minerva and Iris at the same time, I can certainly help you,” Hill groans and slumps back into her own chair. Her hands dig through her belongings until she finds what she’s searching for and places it between them. Pages flip until she finds her notes on the bonus.

She turns it around to Tom. “This is my work leading up to the answers. You’re intuitive and probably won’t need any explanation.”

She reacts well to guilt. He hums and analyses Hill’s work. It’s much like his until what seems to be a page of conversions. Tom stills. Where did she get—

“Oh, you’re there, huh?” Hill leans over the table closer to him, looking at her scrawl. That acrid distaste is gone; Tom makes a note. “I was stuck for days doing the same plug and chug until I realised the problem was with my conversions.” She points to the sketched wheel on the side of her notes. “This was on the board as well. I thought it was just a reference to the graph, but it was a hint at the necessary conversions.”

Plug and chug? What muggle nonsense is Hill saying? Tom stares at the Runic Calendar and then it clicks. The graph. It’s based on Elder Futhark Runes, which means all data plotted must correspond to the Runic Calendar rather than the Gregorian Calendar. He sighs. Of course, Vector would do such a thing.

“I must thank you,” he says.

But there’s no overflowing sense of pride, only Hill’s blank stare reflecting. “I’m sure you would’ve spotted it on your own.”

“Perhaps, nevertheless you’ve helped me, Irene.” Despite layering on the charm, she turns away.

It’s interesting how the foundations of people can be so varied. Vulnerability to Slytherins is like blood to dragons, but to Gryffindors? It brings out their empathy.

“About earlier,” he says with a calculated hesitancy. “In the halls. I ended up leaving abruptly. That was impolite of me.”

She turns back to him, brows furrowed. There are two warring emotions he senses: wariness and curiosity.

“To be honest, I didn’t expect you to apologise. It took me off guard.” It’s true. He had not foreseen her generous reaction to his sudden callousness nor predicted the empathetic response it stirred. But either way, he welcomed it. “You see, it’s uncommon for those in my house to admit our mistakes. We are all too…prideful.”

“Oh.” Hill blinks, and the apprehension ebbs.

“So, thank you for meaning it, Irene.” Tom smiles, and that seems to do the trick.

“Uh, please don’t thank me. All I did was apologise.” She says curtly, but with no distrust apparent. “Any other questions?” she says to change the subject.

Tom flips the page back to the final equation and looks at the list of numbers Hill has come to. One of her unfortunate days is approaching. He notes the date—only a week from the coming Saturday. “How did you confirm your answers?”

“I used a…prior data point to confirm that I’m likely correct.”

At the bottom of the page, in a small script nearly illegible, sits an equation that comes to a date Tom is familiar with.

“The Blitz,” he breathes. “You were in London?” He, himself, was in the safety of the castle, but he’d read the papers and, that summer, had come home to the wreckage of bombings so destructive it was impossible to hide it’s mark even with months of repair efforts.

But why was Hill in London? Shouldn’t she have been with her coven?

She nods, and the twist of her lips is easy to spot. Something sad and desperate wells in Hill’s eyes. Tom only catches a glimpse before she looks away. “It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past now,” and perhaps she’d seem unaffected if it wasn’t for the tight clench of her hands.

Tom represses the need to smile and places his hand on her fisted ones—calculated and cunning. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. This must be tied to her mother’s death certificate in the fall of forty-one.

In response, she does nothing but bite her lips. But he feels her emotions break free in the pulses that spread from her mind in helpless, sickly quakes.

Tom doesn’t want to let this opportunity pass by. His fingers trail to her wrist as his hand manoeuvres to cup hers in his own. “I can’t imagine,” he says, and Hill’s tense fist relaxes, albeit slightly in his. “When I came back to London during the summer, it was…it was a disaster. Buildings destroyed, and hundreds gone. We slept in bomb shelters at night, afraid of the attacks, but that was the worst I had seen. However, you were in the midst of it all.” He cradles their conjoined hands with his other. “I’m so sorry, Irene.”

“It was horrible,” she says quietly, shaking with emotion. “I lost everything.” Something in Hill seems to be falling apart.

Tom only wants to encourage it to do so.

Just a little further and perhaps he’ll tear this wall she’s built between them down. He’s performed this role many times before. There’s nothing new as his expression pulls downward in a sympathetic display. “Did…you lose someone?” his voice is a perfect execution of worry.

She nods. “My mother.” Black eyes look up from their fixed position on the table. They meet his and they’re so vulnerable, with a glimmer of something he’s never seen before. Something a lot like hope. He feels her barriers collapse.

And hasn’t he been waiting for a moment like this? Eyes locked, he takes that second to slip in, to graze the surface of her mind. His Legilimency focused solely on her.

Yet, he’s met with resistance. Hill groans and winces. She closes her eyes as her hand pulls away from his to massage her head. When she opens them, Hill frowns.

“I-I don’t….” Her teeth worry at her lip.

The moment is broken.

“I should head back.” She stands abruptly, grabbing her things to flee their corner.

And Tom?

Tom is left in the quiet of the library, impatience brewing beneath his polite façade.

Chapter Text

She’s fast and agile like a whip. Miss Hill lunges and twirls, dips and rolls, dodging spells from the bewitched doll. Galatea can’t help but think she’d give Margarite a run for her money if they were back in school. Recently, every Sunday after lunch, she has been coming to the DADA chambers for practice.

It’s a way for Hill to get whatever pent-up energy that’s eating at her out.

Which is apparent in how far she pushes herself. Forehead coated in sweat and face a blush red, Hill looks like she needs a break. And Galatea has tried offering such relaxations, but the day she did ended up being the day Miss Hill accidentally Flipendo’d poor Miss Vane across the classroom.

Galatea shakes her head. A streak of black dances across the room. The practice doll’s dark paint blends in with the muted shades of the chamber. She observes Hill’s head bob and turn, attempting to track the movement. However, the gothic iron windows of the classroom are uncharitable in their meagre light.

Hill sighs in frustration and barely dodges a stinging hex from the doll.

‘Focus,’ Galatea scolds. ‘Low visibility is not uncommon. Duels in the real world do not offer the luxury of pristine lighting and conditions.’

The girl refocuses. A streak of red pops out of the dummy as it stops for the barest of seconds. She lunges out of the strike. The tail of the spell singes her skirt.

And it’s back to its rapid dash. Hill scrambles to her feet.

Her magic is wildly coursing about her. It has been since near three weeks ago, around the time Flavian scheduled that meeting with Miss Gladys Macmillan. Galatea’s face pinches at the reminder.

‘Has Grindelwald found out about her?’ Galatea gripped her hat that sat upon her office desk. Such an event was always a possibility they’d foreseen, but so soon? Would they need to ask for Albus’s aid?

Flavian shook his head. ‘I cannot say for certain, Galatea.’ Leave it to him to be unable to present platitudes at such a time. ‘But he is not the Ramhart we once knew. I have been keeping a tail on him for the week, but they’ve gone missing. I may have to leave for Greece to discover the truth myself. However, I do not feel comfortable leaving the country at the moment.’ He turned his head to their guest. ‘That’s why Miss Macmillan is here. Promise me you can get it done.’

‘It already has been. You have my word.’ She nodded. ‘But what if the castle remains unsafe? Then what?’

‘I’m in the middle of arrangements—a contingency plan, if you will. If or when such a time presents itself, I will take Miss Hill myself and leave.’ His face turned pale, ashen, yet determined.

And Galatea hadn’t seen that expression across Flavian’s face since the time she had given him news of her condition during her seventies.

Some terrible storm is brewing. She hasn’t felt her hairs raise like this since their bout with dark wizards in Romania. And at the centre is Miss Hill.

Galatea breathes out. The only thing she can do for now is keep an eye on Hill and let her enjoy as much of her childhood as she can, while she can.

Miss Hill’s eyes track the movement of the doll. Her foot taps. One, two, three. One, two, three. Galatea sees how the tapping motion mimics the dummy’s own pattern as it shifts and pivots while its wooden parts rattle along the way. Miss Hill stands, twirling her wand in her hand, waiting patiently.

The rattling stops and the practice doll casts. It’s a stream of yellow that zips out.

She easily sidesteps and yells, ‘Reducto!’

The dummy erupts into a puff of mist scattering across the room.

Its dust cloud hovers in the air, grey and thick. Galatea hears the coughs and hacks of her student.

‘Ventus,’ Galatea says.

Like a cool spring wind, a gust of air whirls out from her wand and breezes about playfully, fancifully, as it gathers the dust and remnants of the doll. It brushes past Miss Hill, gently sweeping away the debris from her skin and clothes. Then moves on to other corners and nooks in the chamber.

‘Great work, Miss Hill.’ Galatea smiles and gestures to her desk at the front of the class. ‘Tea?’ On her cherry counter sits a set of floral pots steaming with tea, prepared in advance for the visit.

Miss Hill smiles. ‘Yes, please.’

With a flick of her wand, the room works itself back in order. Both Galatea and Miss Hill make themselves comfortable around the large desk.

Galatea bewitches the pots, filled with her favourite mix. A medley of strawberry, black tea, and bergamot. White china with delicate yellow flowers tip and pour. Miss Hill takes her filled cup to sip. Her red cheeks plump in a pleased expression. Galatea does the same, trying not to think of the terrible things that wait on the horizon. At least she can offer a haven for Hill until then.

‘Has the castle been treating you well?’ Galatea asks.

Miss Hill hides behind her teacup, trying to conceal her grimace. ‘It’s the usual. Could definitely be better, though.’

‘That’s unfortunate. Is it the pureblood students?’

There’s a bark of a laugh. ‘Unfortunately, no. That would be a nice change though.’

‘If you don’t mind me asking, have you been under any added stress recently?’

‘Yeah. But I’m sure things will get better after Yule Break. My grades are almost high enough to end my tutoring. And well, I might have been overthinking things before. I might have misjudged someone. I feel kind of terrible about it.’

‘I see. First impressions are important.’

Hill nods her head. ‘Have you ever changed your mind after you got to know someone?’

‘There have been a few moments. However, I’ve learned to trust my gut, as not doing so has led me astray more times than not. Though I imagine this is different for everyone.’ Galatea hums. ‘With your busy weekends, regular magic release, and tutoring, I don’t imagine you have much time to rest.’

She nods. ‘I’d like to spend more weekends with my friends. They’re always chatting about what they did in Hogsmeade during the week, and I’m here stuck in the castle.’

‘Maybe I can ask Flavian to give you a break next week? I can’t promise anything, but I can argue with that old goat better than any other.’ She flashes a wink and a smirk. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince Flavian to give Miss Hill a break if she threatens to snap one of his toys if he does not.

‘Thanks, I’d appreciate that Professor.’ Her smile is blindingly loveable, and Galatea promises to break all of Flavian’s artefacts if he doesn’t treat Miss Hill right.

She grants a smile back. ‘I’ve noticed you have been getting along well with Miss McGonagall and Fawley.’

‘They’re both great. I can sit in a daze, and they don’t seem to mind. Just wish they’d get along with each other.’

She takes a sip of her drink.

‘I also don’t get headaches with them unlike a certain someone, so that’s a plus,’ Miss Hill grumbles.

‘Headaches?’ Galatea’s brows pinch. ‘Have you made friends with Doyle? I’m afraid it’s part of his nature. He isn’t able to stop his abilities, unlike others.’

She blinks, clearly confused. ‘Abilities? Doyle?’

Oh my. It seems she’s misunderstood. ‘My mistake. I thought you were referring to our natural Legilimens in the castle.’

‘A…natural Legilimens can cause headaches?’ Irene says this slowly, as if the answer to her question is a road she’s afraid of crossing.

‘Yes. It’s the result of magic invading the mind.’ Galatea nods. ‘As Doyle grows accustomed to controlling his innate abilities, the headaches will stop.’

Miss Hill’s on her feet a second later. ‘I have to go. Er…. I don’t want to be late, and I forgot my, uh, quill in the dorms.’ She bows and sprints out the doors, leaving a half-pot of tea behind.

But there’s no classes on Sunday. Whatever will Miss Hill be late for?

That evening, Irene rushes into the owlery in a fury. She sits among the owls, her nose affronted by the scent of bird droppings and hay while writing a letter in heavy scrawl.

Dear Flavian Aurelias Dante Fontius,

Is it possible to transfer to another school?

Sincerely,
Irene On Hill

Her fingers glide across the crease as she folds and pinches. Tucking the letter tightly into its envelope, she seals it and passes it to an excited brown barn owl, offering it a treat to make the trip easier.

That night, she doesn’t sleep much.

Irene feels like a fool. And perhaps she is one.

No, she definitely is. There’s no doubt anymore. Not as her fingers rake through inches of her hair, pulling out more strands than brushing them. Stuck thinking about how she’d fell for Voldemort’s manipulations.

Even if it was only one weekend, Irene had considered Tom Riddle redeemable, had considered him misjudged in her eyes. And for a delusional moment, she thought that maybe she shouldn’t have closed herself off to him—taking his future as a condemnation of all he is—because maybe Tom could be more? Maybe he was capable of something other than destruction?

She sighs, closing her eyes.

How could she even consider that he was capable of empathy—of feeling?

‘It was his face,’ she tells herself. Because God, did he look expressive, as if he was actually worried. But clearly, he wasn’t. A perfect performance of humanity, a monster in human skin. Irene was just a means to something he wants.

Legilimency. She’s reminded. What he desires lies in her mind. And isn’t that terrifying?

She shivers.

‘Irene! Snap out of it!’ Iris snaps her fingers in front of her eyes.

Irene’s pupils shrink into focus. Breakfast, right, breakfast. She scoops up a portion of porridge but doesn’t eat it. Her stomach growls in protest, but she doesn’t much care for it. The thought of eating makes her feel sick.

‘You’re done?’ Iris glares at Irene’s half-filled plate.

‘Can’t eat,’ Irene grumbles.

‘That’s it.’ She drops her tableware on her plate with a clatter and stands. ‘Up you go.’ Her hand impatiently beckons Irene to follow.

They leave the ruckus of the mess tables while the rest of the group ignore them. Through the greyed hallways and spiralling stairs, they weave their way through the castle and to an inner courtyard on the upper floors of the castle. Irene’s never taken the time to explore this area. 

In the white of winter, their feet pad onto the blanketed path. As snow falls upon them, their footprints leave temporary impressions on the ground. They weave through the winding trail, passing by bushes, trees, and patches of once flowering soil. It’s blindingly white. Both the sky and the fauna—that most of which have shed their green aside from the pine trees that tower the slim walkways—are bare and grey.

In a strange way, it’s beautiful, but all Irene can think of is when did it become so cold? Left in the castle day in and day out, she’d only had a modest glimpse of the brilliant crescendo that autumn builds to, and the bare decrescendo it leaves in.

Iris brings them to an iron bench isolated amongst the towering pine. She points her wand, both clearing the seat of snow and charming them both in a heating spell. They sit and say nothing at first, taking in the scenery and frigid shade that veils them.

‘I’m sorry for the last weeks,’ Irene says. She’s been lost in her own mind, unable to think past what she’s been dealt. And what a terrible friend she must have been.

‘An apology is not why we are here. Did you know Minerva came to talk to me about you? Minerva! Of all the people.’ Iris sighs. ‘Let’s just chat. Get you out of that funk you’re in.’

‘You’ve been doing well in classes lately. That’s an accomplishment.’ Iris smiles.

Irene smiles back. ‘Yeah, I think I’ll ask Dumbledore to take me out of tutoring next spring. I’ve lost so many chances to go to Hogsmeade with everyone this semester. I just want to do more normal things with the group.’

‘What? Do you miss us so terribly while you’re locked up in the castle?’ she teases.

‘Yeah, I do,’ and the admittance is easy.

‘Merlin, Irene.’ Her skin flushes a brilliant red. ‘Must you be so earnest?’

She shrugs. It’s the truth, after all. ‘I find it freeing.’ When everything else in her life seems to suffocate her in mistruths. ‘I wish I could be more honest in other areas of my life.’

‘Is this about Riddle?’

Irene can’t help but sigh. ‘A little perhaps.’ Actually, a lot.

‘I don’t understand why you don’t just tell him to sod off. I’m sure Minerva would gripe about it, but she’d find you another tutor in time. It doesn’t matter if Riddle’s done nothing. It doesn’t matter how bloody perfect he is. He’s just a fifteen-year-old boy. If you’re uncomfortable, you’re uncomfortable. Trust your instincts and tell him to shove it!’ Iris slaps her back hard. ‘We’re Gryffindors, right?’

There’s nothing to combat with that. Irene feels her larch wand sing in her pocket. Perhaps she’s been playing it too safe, allowing him to get closer and closer without pushback.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Irene remembers. ‘Professor Merrythought said she’d ask Fon-my boss if I can have the twelfth off.’

‘So, you’ll be able to make it to Hogsmeade this weekend?’

‘If he’s not an absolute tyrant and restores my faith in humanity, yes.’

‘Let’s hope not then. I’m a much better date than Cadwallader.’ Iris winks. ‘I have so many shops I want to take you! They’ve got the cutest accessories at Charlotte’s. And Periwinkle’s has the most interesting bewitched trinkets.’

Like that, the conversation spirals into an animated explanation of all the magical shops that fill the small town of Hogsmeade. Irene feels the fantastical thrill that magic brings slip back in to replace that trepidation that seems to accompany it so often now. But in the back of her mind lingers the unease of Tuesday’s tutoring.

What is she to do about Tom Riddle?

In their nook of the library, Tom leans against the old rickety shelves waiting for his guest. It’s after breakfast and before classes when they hold their Tuesday tutoring sessions. His fingers trill against the cover of his book. Anticipation builds in each tap. With only two weeks left in the semester, Tom’s come to the precipice. He’s not sure of what, but he can sense it. A humming beneath his skin.

It’s unanticipated. Nearly three and a half months have passed. This little side project of his was to be a subtle, swift affair. It wasn’t supposed to take this much time to garner one little Gryffindor’s secrets. Nothing complex, a simple background check into an interesting new addition to the castle. But with each week past, he’s found himself gradually entangled in an intricate web of lies.

Which only sweetens the mystery.

Tom hears familiar steps resound against stone. He shuts his book and pulls at his tie. Last Thursday was unfortunate, but matters such as these can take time, patience. It won’t be too long from now.

Over the past weeks, he’s attempted various strategies to charm her, probing every reaction of Miss Hill. Considerate, gentle, meek yet wary is what he’s gathered, necessitating a gradual approach. Difficult over the brief span of a month’s time, but feasible if he played his cards right.

And Hill has already shown moments of vulnerability.

Around the corner comes the slight form of Hill. Her back is straight, winter robe almost swallowing her in its bulk, but something’s different today. Away from the ground and straight ahead lies her focus.

‘Morning, Irene.’ Tom smiles.

‘Morning, Tom.’ Hill smiles back. She’s swift on her feet, dissimilar to the laboured pace she’s carried the weeks prior. In no time, she’s at their table, notebook and quill out, ready for whatever work Tom gives her.

He blinks.

Hill looks up at him with another smile. ‘What are we reviewing today?’

‘Magical Theory,’ he says. ‘Has something good happen? I can’t help but notice your smile.’

‘Oh, something like that. I received some great news.’ She nods, eyes focused on him. ‘Shall we get started?’

‘Absolutely,’ Tom says.

And something is terribly wrong.

They start the session.

Tom couldn’t be more correct. He glances up over his Hogwarts: A History text to peer over at Hill, who is dutifully filling out the parchment he provided. Her black hair spills over her shoulders like ink from a well as her pale ivory hand scratches the quill’s nib across paper.

She’s far more focused than usual. Fleeting touches, praises, and entries to conversation, she’s all but ignored. Between last week and now, her behaviour has taken an opposite turn. Distrust now guards her in sharp waves rather than hesitant pulses. It’s curious….

And maddening.

Tom thought their little ‘moment’ was enough to get them on the right foot for once, but it appears he was wrong. Which is dreadfully frustrating and confounding.

He shuts his book and positions himself behind to observe her work.

‘Irene, that is enough for today.’ Tom smooths his hand down her shoulder, delighting in her prickling magic before his touch leaves her.

However, Hill quickly pushes from her seat and steps from his grasp. She places her quill on the table and rolls up her parchment.

With a step away, Tom flicks his wrist, and the books return to their respective positions in the library.

Something’s gone wrong.

Hill is calm, relaxed, relieved. All too eager to leave him, to escape him. Tom clenches his jaw. Her hands unhurriedly grasp and tuck away her belongings into her Expansion Charmed bag. Which either is a result of wealth or her Ministry connections. Just another area that Tom remains unwillingly ignorant of. He places his hands behind him as he waits for Hill to finish gathering her things. He taps his finger against his palm.

She approaches him and bows her head. ‘Thank you for the lesson today, Tom.’ A bright smile on her face brought on by the freedom she’ll have from him stretches across pale features.

And that just won’t do.

‘We are destined for the same chamber. Why don’t we head there together?’ Tom smiles back.

‘There’s the whole Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry. I wouldn’t want to step on any toes,’ Hill says.

‘I insist.’ He gestures to the exit, but feels her hackles raise. Before she can refuse, he adds, ‘I have something to discuss before our tutoring sessions next week.’

There’s a brief flicker of something but, returning to the Hill he’s seen the weeks preceding today, she nods in agreement. They begin the walk out of the library. The fifth floor is a far trip, with enough back passageways to give them privacy on the walk to Magical Theory. Tom takes the lead, gradually steering them to a more private corridor.

‘Are we not taking the main stairs?’ Irene asks.

‘This is a secret passage only known by the professors and prefects. It’s rarely used,’ Tom says.

The bright halls of the castle are left behind them as they enter the tight walkway hidden in Hogwarts. The sparse enchanted candles grant light in this narrow corridor. Candlelight flickers across Hill’s face. Tom thinks he sees a hint of fear in her shadowed features.

Apprehension spikes in Hill.

He smiles. ‘You mentioned our house rivalry. I thought it only rational to keep our walk from prying eyes.’

She brushes a hand through her hair and nods.

It’s only a matter of minutes until they are isolated deep in the closed narrow passageways of Hogwarts.

‘I wanted to discuss your potions performance.’ Tom glances down at Irene.

Her gaze is forward, almost no reaction to his entry to conversation. ‘Is this about the incident in potions?’

‘Yes and no,’ he says.

Though she’ll never know the truth. Hill’s potions results have been rapidly improving. The ‘explosion’ in their last class was due to the ever-helpful dimwit Davies.

‘I have been considering this since I began tutoring you. It’s regarding practical lessons.’ Which, of course, is a lie.

The only practical sessions he’d prepared for were charms. But it’s far too dangerous to attempt this on the second floor where several professors’ offices are located. As discovered from their lesson prior, it seems surface Legilimency does not work on Miss Hill, and although he could perform the spell here, he’d much prefer more privacy and time.

‘Considering what, exactly?’ Her brows furrow, pressed together in either distrust or distaste. The acrid sensation in the air tells Tom it must be both.

‘Extra lessons in the potions classroom.’

It’s the perfect location. The dungeons are Slytherin territory, after all.

There’s a brief pause, a long breath, then she answers a firm, ‘no.’

‘No?’

He blinks. That…was unexpected. Hill has never refused a suggestion until now. She’s always willing to bend over to the demands of others. His lips twitch with the urge to frown.

‘No,’ she repeats.

The hands placed behind his back clench to redirect his growing confusion. ‘Irene, I must urge you to reconsider. It would be faster to—’

‘I already said no,’ she says coldly and briskly walks ahead.

And this certainly is a shock. He’s not quite sure what’s come over her. ‘May I ask why you are so opposed?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t feel comfortable with it.’

Tom grinds his teeth. Hill’s sudden transformation to stubborn is baffling and frustrating. She’s never felt comfortable with him. Since the start, she’s had nothing but distrust wielded at him. A dagger poised to strike upon the slightest provocation. So why is now any different from before?

‘Perhaps there is something I can do to make you more amicable?’ He smiles, though pinched.

‘There is nothing you can do. I simply don’t want to be in a classroom alone with you.’ She glares and there’s that determination he had seen in the courtyard.

‘And why is that? Have I done something to make myself untrustworthy, Hill?’ his voice echoes against the stone walls. His building impatience is at its peak.

‘Fine, you want to know why I don’t trust you? I’ll spell it out for you, Riddle.’ She rounds on him in a full stop, crowding Tom against the narrow space. Firelight fills her eyes as they narrow on his. ‘You give me headaches, and I’m not a fan of them.’

His eyes widen, then narrow into slits.

No. Not even Lestrange has seen through him—a pureblood trained in the Mind Arts.

‘Anyway, I’m already improving. Dumbledore has agreed that tutoring will end after this semester.’ She clutches her bag close to her chest and moves to press past Tom.

Dumbledore?

His irritation boils into wrath. Dumbledore has ended their lessons—has set fire to another prize he’s claimed? His fingers dig into skin. It would be that self-aggrandising old codger to step in Tom’s way at the last minute. His nose wrinkles in distaste.

This is not how things are meant to go.

Hill’s supposed to agree, allow him the opportunity to take whatever secrets he desires from her. Weeks practising both Legilimency and Obliviation are riding on this chance. His teeth grind together. In his ears, the pulse of his blood is thunderous. Why does Hill have to be so annoyingly wary? Why does she have to make this harder than it needs to be?

Should he take a step back, wait, and try again?

But nothing but anger wars inside. Acting as the kind-hearted Slytherin prefect is starting to grate.

It won’t matter much if she forgets, will it?

He snatches her wrist. Action as quick as a snake. His wand slides to the palm of his other hand. There’s no one here to watch them. And although impulsive, this place offers the privacy he desires.

‘We aren’t finished talking,’ Tom’s voice is dangerously low.

Hill pulls against him. He restrains her by force. His grip is a vise around her.

‘Let go,’ she demands in a snarl he’s never heard. Vicious. A lion parading as a rabbit.

‘No, I don’t think I will,’ he nearly laughs. A harsh tug drives her closer.

Her robes rustle, and a hand flicks forward. ‘Stupe—!’

But Tom’s faster. ‘Expelliarmus.’  

A bright burst of red flares. Her larch wand snaps into his hand.

‘You should have asked for duelling lessons,’ he tuts, stowing away her wand.

In two wide strides, he corrals her against the wall.

A hand expands towards him, curled in a fist. She lashes out at him like some muggle.

Tom catches it—binds it. In a sharp tug, her arms are above her. He’s taller, larger. She has no chance against him physically, but Gryffindors are never one to back down. Unyielding, Hill bucks against him, legs kicking. He presses his leg between hers, caging her to the wall. Hill bites her lip, uselessly thrashing. Tom can’t help but smile. An intoxicating heat floods him. One brought on by his overwhelming dominance.

But he’s had enough of her resistance.

Tom pulls her arms towards him, then crushes her against the wall. Hears the sickening crunch of her body against stone. She whimpers pitifully as her mind scrambles. Nervous vibrations of her confusion and trepidation colour the air. He can feel the pulse of her blood in his grip, hear the heavy breaths of her lungs. It feeds the heady rush needed to build his power.

If a door has closed, then he’ll carve out another.

Tom seizes her wrists in one hand, pinning them above. Cold stone scrapes against skin. She shivers. Her quakes shudder against him. Something shoots down his spine, hot and electric. He grabs her jaw, forcing her to face him. Shadowed features and tightly shut lids meet his. They’re intimately close, legs entangled. Hot breaths brush against his skin.

‘Won’t you open your eyes for me, darling?’ Tom coaxes.

Irene bites her lip. ‘Sod off, Riddle!’

‘Stubborn,’ he chides, pressing his nails roughly into her skin.

She gasps and her eyes open. No choice but to meet his gaze. And as dark eyes bore into his own, he smiles beneath the dim candlelight.

‘I have one more matter to settle, Irene,’ he purrs with elation coursing through him. ‘I promise you won’t feel, or remember, a thing.’

Wandlessly, wordlessly, he casts, ‘Legilimens.’

It’s similar to the sensation of having the Sorting Hat rifle around in there, yet distinctly different. Irene’s no longer seeing the darkened passageway or flickering candles. There’s nothing but a black void that she looks out upon, which can only represent what must be her mind. Irene shivers. Her head pulses in angry quakes.

Where was she again?

What occurred seconds ago almost slips from her. Dazed and panicked. Irene can’t seem to think straight. But now is not the time to hesitate.

She’s in danger.

Danger from what?

Tremors rage through her. Irene clutches her head and curls into her knees. A headache. Right. She’s trapped here. Trapped in this void. But she’s not alone.

Tom Riddle is here. Inside.

No. Her heart pounds, drums.

No. Her power writhes under her skin. Fingers dig into the flesh of her skull. She can feel him. Anxious beats tremble from her chest to her body.

‘No, get out!’ she panics.

Yet no one answers.

However, she can feel him. He’s everywhere. A magic so terrifyingly powerful and….

Filling.

It’s impossible to ignore. Hot like molten metal, it burns through her skin, her bones. Irene has no choice but to take it. And soon that overwhelming heat becomes all-consuming. Magic trickles from him and into Irene without prompt—she won’t know that this is a defensive response until much later—her unique abilities taking on a mind of their own.

And she can do nothing to stop it, too lost in the rapturous taste of Voldemort’s power.

No.

What she’s absorbed before does not compare to the taste of what’s flowing freely into her. Warm. Succulent. Sating.

You can’t.

She just can’t help from coaxing out more, taking her fill. Outside her mind, silver tendrils spark from her chest and wrap themselves around her invader. And that’s when the burning truly starts.

A heat so hot it’s nearly freezing passes through what Irene imagines are veins—or what Fontius had called Qi lines. Irene trembles. It’s intoxicating, this power that flows into her, filling her, making her whole in a way she’s never felt before. She breaks out into a cold sweat. Feverish, her head drunkenly basks in the raw energy that passes into her. All nerves firing with pleasure.

This isn’t right.

It’s like a drug. Freeing, empowering, enthralling. Her control slips further. She wants more and more. And she can’t believe she’d ever thought magical artifacts to be enough when such irresistible —

Stop!

Irene pushes free.

Her mind rips away from Riddle’s entangled one. Her vision swims and light glares in her eyes. She shuts them tight. A ringing hums in her ears when she opens them once more. She’s back in the dim passage. But it’s no longer dark, illuminated by the magic that courses through the walls of Hogwarts. And even worse, there’s that flowing heat that still streams into her, drugging her mind. Tom’s hands rest on her chin and wrist—eyes dazed, euphoric.

She pushes him off, ending their connection. Tom falls to the floor in a clatter, but Irene can’t seem to hear—her heart beating loudly, ticking like the seconds of a clock at night. She shuts her eyes. Boisterous drums thunder away in her chest, her head, her ears. That power…. Her stomach feels full.

God.

The urge to retch rolls in Irene. Her skin is prickling, senses fully in tune with the magic around. There’s no need to open her eyes. She knows, knows that her magic has activated on its own. Her teeth press into the tender flesh of her lips. ‘Slow the flow,’ she begs herself. But her thoughts are addled as the reality of that sick fullness settles in. It’s impossible to reel calm in. She feels herself teetering on the edge of all her fears.

Irene rips open her pouch. Her hand is inside, palm open. ‘Accio potion.’ The bottle snaps into her hand. She pops it open, downing it. It trickles down her throat. A bitter smoky taste. The cool sensation of her body reassures her it’s working. Her magic ebbs, caging itself back in her chest. 

And Irene breathes.

Only now does she notice she’s holding her breath. But she feels nothing but that nauseating fullness in her gut.

God.

Irene opens her eyes to see Tom still sitting on the floor of the corridor. Her heart quakes inside.

Pale and sickly, limbs trembling like an addict.

This is wrong.

Blue skin that almost mirrors that of her mother’s and blown pupils reflect.

You’re responsible for this.

Tom’s eyes latch onto her—bore into her, blame her—and she sees the red glint in them that stutters her pulse all together.

You almost killed him.

In his expression, there’s a flash of anger and then something she can’t parse through her panic.

And you enjoyed it.

Irene can’t say a thing, she just runs. Straight back from where they came and to no destination in mind, she escapes. What she’s running from, she’s not sure. But it’s not her fear of Voldemort that sets her feet aflame, that digs a hole in her chest.

She’d nearly killed him—separated him from his magic.

Thoughts akin to that cycle through her head. And what had Evan called it? Vitality magic. Godric. Her knees feel weak, like she’ll collapse on the floor—the waves finally pulling her to sea. The sensation of Tom’s magic sits warm under her skin.

It disgusts her how much she liked it. It disgusts her how much she wanted to take more.

A waking nightmare. Everything she feared come to life—becoming the monster she’s so dreaded. 

Chapter Text

Quakes shudder through him as Tom stares at his palm. The sterile white of the Hospital Wing leaves his skin a pale grey. Tiles under his feet are solid, yet he feels unsteady, as if the very ground beneath will collapse. It’s disquieting, the effect that terror leaves on the mind. His body trembles. The sensation pulls him back underground, within the railway’s web of tunnels and the bomb shelters that lie in Muggle London. Tom clenches his fists.

Fear. It’s insidious, suffocating.

Palpable in the anxious pulses of his mind. It pollutes and clouds rational thought. Once again, he feels the sickening desperation, the petrifying terror.

In his head, the shadows of Hill’s mind seize the dark. A void. A bottomless chasm. He had sunk in to find emptiness. No thoughts, whispers, or memories to scour. Only an unsettling lull, a sweet repose, lay embedded in its barren ocean.

It had all but stolen away his mind, all but left him an obedient whelp. Something vast had latched itself onto him. A parasitic creature that drained. Yet, it also soothed. It was euphoric. A drug that removed everything but pleasure. His magic trickled out as he waded in waters so deep, they engulfed rather than flowed.

To be powerless.

To be weakened into submission.

Sweat pools in Tom’s clenched fists. Fear. He grits his teeth. It’s revolting in its destruction of the mind.

The rolling of a cart rattles. Tom schools his expression. Behind, he leaves the memory of that abyss.

It’s afternoon, a few minutes after Magical Theory and before lunch. In the empty medical ward, Tom sits atop a metal cot draped in white sheets. Attending Magical Theory was the correct choice. Not one student had missed Hill’s absence, and if Tom had been as well? It would only drive attention to them.

The rattling converges on his position. A cart stops at the foot of his bed.

‘Sorry for the wait, Mr Riddle. Seems there’s an inventory issue.’

Madam Weber—a middle-aged woman with sun-tanned skin, dark blonde hair, and pale-green eyes—places a small glass vial beside his cot. The potion shines a sky blue as it swirls in the bottle.

‘An Exstimulo Potion. Should help with your magical exhaustion. Do try to keep your spell casting to a minimum today.’

‘Thanks, Madam.’ Tom smiles, sweet and shy. ‘I should get to lunch.’

With a bow, he picks up the vial and departs. It takes everything not to slump to the ground.

Outside the doors, Tom pops the bottle open and spills its contents down his throat. A spark of heat builds in his chest, and his skin pinkens. Yet, the trembling persists. His hand brushes through coiffed hair. He tucks it back into the confines of his pockets to hide its quakes.

A monumental failure. Impulsive, reckless. Brash decisions are often high risk, high reward. It’s a gamble, and Tom has never lost till now. Damage control is a new concern, an extra factor to add. To review all possible disasters is something Tom doesn’t often find himself doing.

‘What if Hill spoke to a professor?’ was the first topic of unease. However, even if she had brought the matter to the Headmaster, there’s not a single professor—aside from Dumbledore—that would believe her. She’d also sustained no injuries other than bruising, perhaps to her shoulder or head. But Tom? Tom is the one who received medical assistance. So it’d be easy to pin the assault on her, although a detriment to his pride.

His nose wrinkles in disgust.

In his chest, irritation builds. Before continuing to the Great Hall for lunch, Tom straightens his robes. When he passes through the doors, he finds his seat at the Slytherin table.

‘Tom,’ Rosier bows his head in greeting.

Tom offers the same back. ‘Jacques.’

He’s not too early and not too late. The other members of his group have yet to show other than Nott. Among the two, only Rosier might pick up on the change in his schedule. Tom steps over the bench and takes his seat. Without conversation, he fills his plate. Above, the charmed night sky rumbles with the warning of a winter storm tonight, ominous and roaring. It seems to mirror the dread that lingers beneath his growing anger. As the seats fill, Black takes the empty position next to him. Tom offers a polite, but perhaps strained, greeting.

It’s never been difficult to settle back into his mask. But today seems to be a day with many surprises. Tom breathes out and starts on his selected foods. A part of him wants to find Hill, snatch her by the nape, and Crucio her for his troubles. Another part of him admits she’s quite valuable. How bothersome. He’ll have to take more time to consider her usefulness. Tom continues eating his meal whilst considering contingencies.

‘Have my references served their use?’ Black asks once the meal has come to its end.

‘Yes.’ Tom folds his handkerchief, placing it atop the table. ‘I believe we will discuss the matter next semester.’

‘You have already discovered the link?’

‘I had my suspicions.’

It was not challenging to find the connection. All parseltongue in Britain stems from the same wizard, Salazar Slytherin. Among his ancestors, there are only a handful of purebloods that still reside in Europe. And Marvolo, well, it’s a rare name.

Something predatory flashes in Black’s eyes. ‘I believe congratulations are in order, then.’

‘Yes, it appears so. Though we will have to wait for such a celebration. Perhaps on Imbolc.’ Tom stands from his seat and stops to look down at him. ‘Till next time, Black.’

Black bows his head, and Tom leaves, Rosier trailing to his side. Before exiting the Great Hall, he takes one look. Towards the Gryffindor table, between one bushy-haired girl and another blonde one, the seat is vacant.

The image of Hill standing in the glare of candlelight as the victor in some tumultuous battle flashes. Under his palms lingers the icy cobblestone of the passageway, lingers the unmistakable panic that had overtaken him. Nails dig into flesh as Tom pulls himself from the memory.

Irene Hill is dangerous, far more dangerous than anything he’d imagined.

Tom turns, his robes twisting in the wind as he continues through the doorway and to the dungeons. He’d never foreseen this result. Pushback, yes. A powerful one, expected of a Gryffindor. But overwhelming defeat?

Never.

Yet, aside from Hill’s opportune victory, away from the dark’s obscured shadows, he remembers her expression. A smattering of red, eyes dilated, and chest heaving, but there was no smug victory that played across euphoric features.

Only dawning horror and terror of the power she held sat.

A snarl rises in his throat. Power is a gift undeserving for those who shun it. His muscles tense and Tom’s nose wrinkles in distaste. He thumbs the wand that lies in his pocket. It sparks at him. He retracts his fingers. A vicious thing it is, biting at him with every chance it gets.

Terribly unhappy to be parted with its master.

The metal nib scratches against parchment. A silent library is a productive library. Ten questions left. Minerva’s work is roughly fifteen minutes till completion. That leaves a half an hour for extra studying. She’s making good time. At this rate, she’ll have an additional two hours of blank space on the weekend. Which will likely go to waste wandering Hogsmeade in hopes of a fated encounter that will never come. At least she can disguise her rounds as prefect duties.

Her nib continues scratching diligently.

Minerva thinks in absolutes. Definitives. Everything has a conclusion. Everything can be defined. There is always black and white—right and wrong. Because well, the undefined—the grey—is a spot on a pot, a scuff on the floor, a score not settled. So, she doesn’t think about grey—about relativism—or really anything that can cause her world to crumble.

Because what if there’s grey?

What if in the end, there’s no good or bad, just a spectrum of colour?

What if life is about mitigating suffering?

Again, she doesn’t think about it.

No.

Not at all. It’s just a passing thought. A momentary fancy that won’t see the light of day. But she can’t help but allow her mind to wander. That’s only natural, after all. It doesn’t mean anything in the end. She’s not double thinking.

Her eyes land on brown curls and round features. Her heart heavies with regret.

Yet, when Minerva feels the connections between people, when she finds herself living in the moment, she wonders if everything is so cut and dry.

What if life is a series of mistakes, a collection of greyed paths? The lucky are given easy trials and the unfortunate are left to struggle and claw to live. Our choices may define us, but what if our options are limited? An in the mess of decision, we all stumble and make fools out of ourselves, becoming the villain of another’s story on the worst of days. This path, uneven and unpaved, is our life, our chaos. And the only thing that makes the journey worth continuation are those we meet along the way. Those that are willing to give compassion and forgiveness without anything in return.

What if the truly weak, the truly villainous, are not the monsters that go bump in the night, but the ones who do not have the heart to be vulnerable? To ask for love, forgiveness, and leave the soul open to hurt, to give and share without needing repayment.

Minerva notices honey-coloured eyes on her. She dips her head back down to her work. Bugger. Her nib gets back to scratching. Only four more.

Light steps of a dancer pad across the room.

Merlin. She panics. The grip on her quill tightens. Just leave. She urges herself. It’s close enough to the last question, anyway. What’s four problems? There’s time later tonight. Staying up an inconsequential couple of minutes later than her night’s out at ten doesn’t sound awful.

Minerva’s eyes meet her visitor’s before she can bolt.

‘Minerva,’ Iris greets with a pinched smile.

‘Fawley, what’s this? No biting words to exchange today?’ The sarcasm is out of her before she can stop it. If only a bludger would put her out of her misery. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with the dreadful person she becomes around Iris.

‘No,’ she sighs. ‘Unfortunately, not. I came by to thank you.’ Her back straightens—or perhaps stiffens. ‘So you have my thanks for bringing Irene’s behaviour to my attention,’ she says with a rigid sincerity Minerva hasn’t heard since first-year. Then dips her head in a light bow.

A civil conversation. It’s shocking to see four years since their fight. Yet recently they’ve had multiple pleasant chats. Though there have been mediators present during these sparse moments.

At times like this, Minerva thinks about apologising for summer. Offering an explanation for everything that happened would be reasonable. However, it is long overdue, but not because she didn’t attempt multiple times. She closes her notebook and turns to Iris. Opening her mouth, her throat tightens. Minerva clears it with a cough. She tries again. This time it’s her lungs. They protest against her.

‘That hard to accept a thank you from a wealthy prat?’ Iris sneers. ‘That’s fine. Save it for someone who actually cares.’ She turns and walks away without another look.

Minerva’s eye twitches. As impatient as ever. Some things don’t change. She breathes out, remembering why she doesn’t want to waste the time on an apology.

Muscles tense, she hears a snap. Her quill has broken in two. A blue cloud rises from the crack. She sighs. That’s a good two sickles and five knuts wasted.

A check for the time shows she should leave for lunch. Minerva decides to stop by the dorms to pick up another charmed pen—though not self-note-taking.

Which is apparently a choice that takes her luck on a spin for the worse.

It’s afternoon. Winter afternoon. Meaning the skies that paint the confines of the Gryffindor common room are a blasted grey. Minerva curses to herself and hurries up the stairs to the girls’ dorms. She strolls through the hall and passes one door. Then stops halfway to the second.

That was a decent amount of crying coming from the first room.

Minerva checks the time again. Lunch has forty-minutes left, and she has quidditch scrimmages in the evening. She taps her foot. There’s always time between classes. Sneaking into the kitchens wouldn’t be hard. With a chastising remark, Minerva reminds herself she’s a prefect, a Gryffindor prefect, and turns round.

Godric, Lils.

She opens the door. The circular dorm, decorated in the rich colours of Gryffindor, warm the cold slate tiles and walls. Against the borders, four beds are spread round. Each share the same gold embroidered venetian red curtains.

But it’s not Lillian who sits curled on the rightmost bed.

It’s Irene. She’s shaking into the comforter’s hem. Minerva has never seen her in such a state, not through the countless hexes and curses sent her way. Not through the teasing comments and rumours after Cadwallader. All the other muggle-borns and some half-bloods have gone through the cycle, but Irene hasn’t. And Minerva finds herself reviewing Irene’s schedule.

Tutoring with Tom Riddle. Someone Iris believes Irene is both terrified of and holds hate for. Minerva’s face screws up in a grimace. She feels the onset of a migraine. If this is what she fears, perhaps she should’ve separated them pre-emptively.

‘Irene?’ she asks tentatively.

Irene stops shaking but doesn’t say anything.

‘Are you alright?’ She cautiously steps forward, as if approaching a skittish animal. However, she stops a few feet’s distance from Irene to settle on the foot of the bed—posture facing the wall rather than Irene. Irene’s hands tighten into fists, straining red fabric. It takes a moment, but she nods. Minerva doesn’t miss the redden rings around her wrists.

‘May I come closer?’ she asks.

Irene nods again. Minerva shifts to settle in closer. Careful not to touch her, she scoots to the top of the bed. Leaning against the headboard, she spells off her shoes and crosses her legs atop the mattress.

‘Did something happen?’ Minerva asks.

Two shaky hands wipe at her eyes. There aren’t any tears, but salt trails lay paths down her cheeks. Irene must have been here since tutoring. ‘Yes,’ she says shakily, before swallowing. ‘I don’t know what to do. I-I….’

‘It’s going to be alright. Take your time.’

Her whole body trembles, the memory of whatever transpired leaving its mark. ‘I’m a monster. Everything I touch, I take, and enjoy taking it.’ Her voice is a whisper.

It’s a sentence, alright. But a sentence that makes sense? No. Because even Minerva knows Irene’s not a monster. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s my magic. I can’t control it.’

That’s not a surprise. ‘Irene, I don’t quite understand. What do you mean by ‘taking’? What does that have to do with your magic control?’

She bites her lip and curls further into herself. ‘I-I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anybody.’

‘Alright.’ She needs to try another route. Minerva stares at Irene’s bruised wrists. ‘What about that? Will you tell me how those came about?’

There’s a brief pause, hesitation clouding the space between them.

‘After tutoring, I told Tom about, about, the lessons ending and he-he….’ She bites her lip to take a few calming breaths, but the quake of her chest never subsides. ‘He grabbed me, slammed me against the wall. And I almost,’ her voice is taut with tension.

‘…I almost killed him,’ Irene says in a whisper.

Minerva blinks. Accidental magic. It makes sense. That could attribute to her lack of control and sudden—and in Minerva’s opinion, justified—homicidal tendencies. Her hand fists in her lap. ‘Tell me what happened, slowly.’

What she’s told next isn’t what she’d predicted and something that holds far more implications than she can imagine. It almost feels as if they’re talking about someone else. If this were Lestrange or Avery—the sneaky Slytherin snakes—it’d be easier to picture. But this is Tom. She’s been familiar with him since first year. They might not be in the same house, but they have often spoken due to their class positions. So, when Minerva tries to imagine, she can only see the kind smiles, polite compliments, and disciplined diligence of Riddle.

Earlier, when they’d spoken of Tom before, she’d assumed he had a particularly aggressive crush. And from the overly intimate touches, Minerva had assumed, well, what one would assume from an overly zealous young man. However, her assumptions were wrong. Off the mark by a long distance, this is much harder to wrap her head around.

Still on the four-poster bed, the two sit facing the locked door, shoulders touching. The ornate comforter under them has lost its soft sensation. Now all Minerva feels is the rigid muscles that have stiffened with tension. She glances to her side. Irene has calmed since her retelling of the assault. And in effect, Minerva seems to have taken her anxiety.

‘Tom Riddle is a natural Legilimens,’ Minerva says calmly. ‘And after tutoring, he took you into Gregory the Smarmy’s corridor, physically attacked you, then tried to invade your mind?’ Then, as the reality seems to settle in, she scrambles to get up. ‘We should go to the headmaster.’

Irene seizes her wrist.

‘No. You don’t understand, he’s a psychopath. And I have no proof. No one will believe me,’ she says.

‘No proof? Are those marks on your wrist only visible to me?’

‘That’s not,’ she chews her lip. ‘It’s not enough. What I-what I did was much worse.’

It’s a whisper of a confession that Minerva seems to have forgotten with Irene’s recount of the incident. What has Irene done? She breathes out and settles back to lean into the headboard, trying to remember if there was any suspicious behaviour from Tom.

‘Tom volunteered himself to tutor you,’ Minerva blurts, remembering. Since when has he had his eyes on her? ‘I had been discussing the matter with McLaggen, but he interrupted to offer instead. But why? Why would he want to know what’s in your head?’

Irene winces, letting go. ‘I don’t know.’

Minerva frowns. ‘I swear I will not tell a soul whatever you choose or don’t choose to tell me.’

‘That’s…. Maybe he knows something, but I-I can’t say it. It would be irresponsible to tell someone, and it’s personal.’

Her brows furrow in thought. Is it related to Irene’s position in the Unspeakable Department? If it is, then Minerva has no plans to pry. She sighs. However, there is one last matter to settle. What she’s been holding off on asking.

‘You said you ‘almost’ did him in. So…is he?’ her voice raises an octave.

‘I don’t,’ Irene breathes out to smother the panic. ‘He’s fine, likely drained.’ She holds up her hands and they’re shaking again.

‘No physical injuries?’

‘No, I tried, but he-he was so much bigger than me.’ she croaks.

Minerva grimaces. ‘Are you sure we can’t bring this to a professor at least? If we get it on record, it would be much easier to discuss with the headmaster, if God forbid, something happens again.’

‘Minerva,’ Irene places a hand atop hers. ‘Promise me you’ll drop this. Riddle is dangerous, maybe not as dangerous as the professors, but he’s incapable of guilt.’

Minerva swallows. Irene’s expression is serious in a manner that douses one in cold water. Normally so mild-mannered, it’s worrying to see such grave eyes.

She nods and thinks perhaps she’s in over her head.

Irene wanders to class. A part of her wonders if she’s really doing the right thing? Not telling a professor seems the opposite of what the adults suggest.

‘We all panic a little sometimes. But sweetie, don’t jump in headfirst out of desperation.’

Her mother is right. A simple decision like this might just cause a disaster. Dumbledore couldn’t even find proof Riddle had killed a student. So, what would make her situation any better? Voldemort wasn’t someone to take lightly. The Harry Potter books had shown how destructive he could be when following, no, obsessing over a means to an end.

If anything, Tom Riddle is more dangerous, more sane.

And because of that, Irene can’t help but wonder if she made a mistake in telling Minerva. This isn’t a simple issue anymore. Legilimency. Obliviation. Riddle had planned to get her alone. Her strategy to slip into the background was doomed from the start.

How far back do his manipulations go?

Merlin. Minerva mentioned he’d interrupted the tutoring discussion between her and McLaggen. So, he’d set his eyes on her before then? The reality hits her in the gut just like before. What did she do to catch his eye? Curse a pureblood? Fail at classes? Have a job at the Ministry? Irene rakes a hand through her hair. What if he—she shivers—what if he already knows something? Knows something about her and her Ancient Magic?

Or worse, that she knows about him?

Her heart drops to her stomach. Maybe it’s due to stress, but the rest of the day passes in a haze. No teachers call on her, no students bother her. Perhaps the scene she made in the halls when running back to the dorms has reached everyone’s ears. Irene stays in the comfort of the Gryffindors and keeps one ear out for Tom Riddle, who is functioning well despite their earlier scuffle. It’s a complex combination of guilt and anger when she sees him. The conflicting emotions tear at her chest, warring with each to take hold.

When classes end, she’s finally able to breathe, first in the common room, then at dinner. However, the headache never recedes. Irene struggles to fill the contents of her stomach. Her utensil dips into the light soup she’s chosen. A screech pulls her away from her flavourless food.

The sight of Fontius’s owl unleashes a wave of relief in her. Aki rushes through the window of the dining hall and drops himself unceremoniously on her plate. Then pecks at her side of fruit.

She blinks. He’s gone and soiled it.

Irene drops her spoon onto the table. Aki flaps his wings and jumps off the plate. She unties the letter from his leg. The envelope’s beige colour and black stamp reflect. It’s strange, Fontius has never answered this quickly before. Normally when she sends a letter, there’s a seven to ten business days gap in between.

But this is what she needed. She knows she can trust Evan and, despite his grumpy ways, the Overlord as well. Irene forgoes finishing her meal, glancing up at Iris and Lillian. 

‘Yeah, yeah. You have responsibilities, unlike the rest of us. Get lost already. Since I’m still eating, take Blythe with you, will you? She’s over at the Ravenclaw table.’ Iris smiles, and Irene smiles back.

She walks to the end of the hall. From her spot, she can see Blythe’s bright red and gold tie amongst the sea of blue. She’s chatting with Bell, it seems. Not wanting to intrude on their impromptu date, Irene pivots on her heels and returns on her own.

In her hurry, she doesn’t notice the student that tracks her movements through the halls and into the dim corridors.

As the sconces flicker in the slow breeze of the hallway, the shadows dance and tremble. Sometimes Irene remembers the bizarre shadow creature she’d seen months ago as she walks at night. It’s nothing new. However, her heart is erratic. An aftereffect of the day’s nightmare. She brushes her hair and continues onward. But when she focuses her eyes on the sconces, they blur and double.

Click.

Irene stops, shakes her head. It throbs, and she feels faint. Maybe she has a concussion. Riddle had slammed her against the wall.

Clack.

Irene stops. The noise doesn’t continue. She waits. Listens. But she doesn’t hear it again. Maybe it’s her imagination. She continues on her way to the fifth-floor stairs. This time, she focuses on the sounds about her.

Tip tap.

It wasn’t her imagination.

Irene turns, hand dipping into her robe. She palms for her wand.

But there’s nothing there.

Her wand is gone, left with the Dark Lord himself. A curse hits her in her realisation.

Purple and noxious magic rolls over her. Her limbs tense, and her body hits the floor.

She’s immobile.

The cobblestone bleeds its icy cold into her. Move.

But she can’t. She’s under a body-binding curse. Irene swallows. She shouldn’t have been so distracted.

Tip tap.

Her mouth tries to open. To call out? Scream? She’s not sure. But her muscles are unable to act, even tremble. She can’t yell for help. A weight settles on her chest, heart pounding.

Tip tap.

Move! She pleads to herself, but no matter how strong her will is, it doesn’t matter. Blood rises to her head. The migraine that pounds away worsens in her panic. Her vision spots with black.

Tip tap.

Steps echo behind. They are maddeningly slow. The sound building with each echo. Panic constricts her chest. She can’t breathe. Help. Someone help.

Her head’s light but pounding with blood. Irene wonders who’s behind her. Lestrange? Carrow? Maybe Davies, or worse….

What if it’s Voldemort?

What if he’s vengeful, angry that she’d left him drained in the darkened corridors of Hogwarts? Her heart pounds with enough force that Irene feels as if she’s shaking. The walls close in on her. Her spotty vision never ebbs. She’s distressed. God. She can’t be here. Not with Riddle. Her throat convulses in a silent scream.

Clack! Two hands wrap around her ankles.

Her abductor lifts her legs. But her face is still pressed against the flagstone floor. Irene can’t see. Can’t lift her head to see what her kidnapper looks like. It makes the image morph into something terrifying in her head.

A dark figure. A whisp of smoke, faceless and skeletal.

Her pulse drums. Bony hands constrict around her flesh. They pull and drag her. Farther and farther into the corridor she’s hauled. Her cheeks grate against the stone ground. Each tug tears at her skin, gradually rubbed raw. The scent of iron fills her nose, skin broken and stinging.

Someone will find her. Someone will walk down the halls, see the blood. Irene hopes and hopes.

Yet, nothing but grunts, heavy breaths, and the clack of shoes fill the silent hall.

Tip. Tap. Drag.

It’s torturous, terrifying. Sharp fingernails dig into flesh. The form in her head morphs. A blackened mass hunched and gaunt looms over her. Its talons cut into tissue. Her body, bound and unable to move, slides against the ground. Fear threatens to take hold. Sharp, panicked breaths empty her lungs. She holds her breath to calm herself.

From the last corridor she traversed, she’s on the fourth floor and there’s only two classrooms she’s been in on this level. None located this far into the western side.

Click. Squeak.

A lock and rickety door echo behind.

Irene’s dragged into a room that she’s sure she’s never entered.

The door shuts with a click. And then her kidnapper murmurs, ‘Clausus.’ Something prickles against Irene’s skin, pushing past.

‘We wouldn’t want anyone to catch notice of your disappearance.’ The silence breaks.

It’s a feminine voice, soft in pitch.

Irene can’t say she recognises it, but her breaths even. It gives her something to grasp onto, to hold, when fear breathes down her back and licks up her spine.

A girl. That means it’s another pureblood. She tries to bite her lip. Her haste and relief had blinded her. The weeks of peace had lowered her caution. Irene should have known better than to walk the halls alone, especially today of all days.

‘Ugh, why are you so heavy?’

Suddenly, the girl drops her legs. They slump to the ground at an unnatural angle.

Slam!

Pain shoots down Irene’s spine. A foot digs into her abdomen. Air rips from her lungs.

‘Rowena. All I wanted was the respect I’m due! And then you waltz in. You’ve been such a pain in my arse!’

Wham!

Irene’s stomach gives. She struggles to breathe. Another blow digs right under her sternum. She attempts to grit her teeth, but nothing happens. Her lungs struggle to gather air.

It hurts. It burns.

A whimper follows that never breathes life. Another hit slams against her stomach. She’s unable to shield her body from the brunt as the attacks continue. Help. Someone, please.

Kick. Thud. Kick.

Tears spill from her. Leather Mary Janes dig into flesh and bruise ribs.

‘Argh!’

It’s a relentless beating. Angry grunts and shrieks are the only noise aside from the sickening crunch of her bones and the smack of her skin. Irene’s barely kept conscious through sheer stubbornness. Emotions so jumbled tear at her soul. Everything aches, stings. However, the pain does nothing to increase her terror. An amalgamation of agony, desperation, and resentment build under her skin, writhing and wanting to lash out, maim at her attacker, herself, her life.

This is all too much. A prickling burn digs at her eyes. Her tears stop. She doesn’t want to be here. Can’t stand this powerlessness she feels over her magic and situation. Irene yells, but nothing comes out. She’s mute under the petrification spell.

She’s not entirely sure how long this horrible moment drags on, passing out and waking to sharp stabs of pain, until something wet trickles from her lips. Under her, a pool of dark liquid rubs against her cheeks and mouth. She can’t see the colour, not in the darkness of her shadow. But it tastes like bitter metal as it rolls down her tongue and drips past her lips.

‘Merlin,’ the girl breathes, taking a break from her violent outburst.

Irene rushes to catch her breath, her head swimming from her injuries.

‘I feel better now.’ And suddenly the breathing is louder, closer to Irene. Another push at her abdomen and she’s flipped over to see where she is and her attacker.

‘It’s a blue tie,’ she thinks. Then Irene notices the girl’s eyes, which have a purple film over the whites of them.

Is she on something?

‘Oh my stars, you look terrible, Hill.’ The girl cackles, kneeling over Irene. ‘Quite a pitiful sight, isn’t it?’ She taps her fingers against Irene’s cheeks. Something like hesitation shines through for a moment, the girl’s eyes turning back to brown. Her face twists into a frown.

And that’s when Irene recognises her. This girl, she knows her. From the courtyard, one of the three behind Lestrange. The only one that donned a different colour tie.

Irene doesn’t even know her name.

Her magic thrashes ravenously in her chest. Wasting time on ‘why’ will only distract her. Her eyes flicker about the room. A supply closet. Walls of shelves enclose them, littered with jars and boxes.

‘Pathetic. Yet, I also find this sort of behaviour barbaric.’ The girl’s eyes flash purple again, whatever hesitation gone. ‘Regardless, I refuse to be on the same level as you, Hill.’

Irene swallows. She’s mental.

‘You know, it’s been a few months since the courtyard. Hard ones, no thanks to you. Renee has been temperamental, and when she’s like that, she acts like a spoiled prat. Even let Agnes have a few goes at me as well.’ The girl pulls up her shirt. A constellation of bright purple and yellow bruises covers her ribs and side. ‘But uncle sent a wand and a magical artefact. He assures this will solve the problem.’

A silver charm dangles from the girl’s fingers. Its metallic sheen glints in the low light.

‘I’ve dealt with so much since September. All the progress made, just poof!’ Her hands mimic an explosion. ‘At least you’ll be forgotten come next semester.’

The charm jingles in her hand as she unclasps it to chain around Irene’s wrist. It stings her on contact. Something intangible slips through her skin.

‘Have you ever heard of a quitaped?’

Irene can’t say she has.

‘It’s an abomination. A monster with five legs, hostile and dangerous. This trinket will slowly turn you into one against your free will. And with Professor Kettleburn out, thanks to conference season, the teachers will have no choice but to put you down like the animal you are.’

The sting of magic makes more sense now.

Irene’s stomach sinks.

‘Though it’ll take an hour to activate. So, I think I’ll play with you before I leave. Since I have all that pent up frustration to get out. Hmm.’ She taps her wand against her chin. ‘You know, I think I’d like to use muggle torture methods—since you’re a muggle-born and all that.’

Placing her wand between her teeth, the girl grabs Irene by the hair and pulls her to sit upright against the shelves. The sudden shift brings another tremor of agony. Irene bears the pain mind stuck on one thought.

She’s planning on killing her.

No matter how convoluted Irene’s actual end will be, this girl is planning on killing her.

The fear of her attacker has faded. Under Irene’s skin, her magic builds, hot and lethal. Wanting to lash out and harm, inflict. Irene struggles, wars with herself. Can her magic dispell the artefact despite the binds on her? And if it can, will it rid her of the petrification curse as well?

But what happens if she lets it out?

She came so close to sucking the magic out of Riddle and she’s going to risk it again?

There’s no professor, no Gryffindor, no guardian to come to her rescue. Irene’s alone in the closet with her killer. And her magic is the only thing that can save her. It slithers in her core, coaxing her with pulses of hunger. That’s what wishes to leak out from her and latch onto the one who’s hurting her, and what has already lashed out and hurt another.

‘Hmm. There have been some interesting experiments performed in Asia. Human dehydration is one of the more fascinating ones. However, all I know are a few variations of burn spells. So that’ll have to do.’

The girl is eager to snatch up Irene’s wrist.

In her ears, her heart slows to thunderous drums. Sweat trickles down her face, lungs heaving in wet, rasping sounds. She watches in horror.

Pointing her wand, the girl spells, ‘Torreo.’

‘It’s yellow’ is all Irene can think before the muscles of her arm seize and atrophy. She shouts, thrashes. However, nothing sounds.

The pain is familiar. A burn that blinds her.

‘Torreo.’

Everything’s hot. Everything’s on fire.

Irene’s magic builds. It swirls with the energy she had taken, wanting to break free of its chains. She wars with herself. She doesn’t want to die, but she doesn’t want to kill someone. Her focus lands on her arm.

The flesh of her limb is a black and blistering. Red breaking through her cracked skin. However, no blood spills from the openings—thick like sludge. It doesn’t even look human. More like charcoal attached to flesh. She feels numb.

‘Torreo,’ the girl spells again.

Irene’s muscles twist and seize. She’s engulfed in flames again, back in the hospital in muggle London.

She doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

‘Torreo!’

Pain takes hold, white-hot.

But what choice does she have?

‘Torreo!’

Tears spill from her eyes. A silver sheen covers them, and a scream breaks from the quiet of the closet.

Chapter Text

Amedeo taps his foot.

‘You’ve been impossible to get a hold of,’ Lestrange nags.

He’s pacing back and forth in front of the staircase to the second floor. His obnoxious steps echo in the hall as he lengthens his neck like some sort of bird. He looks ridiculous.

Amedeo sighs as Lestrange continues to harp about some nonsense. If Riddle didn’t want Amedeo skulking the castle and monitoring Irene, he’d have said something. Like when Riddle told Amedeo to leave them alone during tutoring. And he did—begrudgingly, though.

This is annoying. Amedeo blows at the hair of his fringe.

What makes Lestrange think he can boss him around now? It never worked when they were kids. It’s not going to start working now. Lestrange couldn’t command attention if he was in a room with a quiet audience. All threats and no follow-through.

His foot taps again in two successive claps. He’s wasting precious time. With Tom taking away hours Amedeo could have spent watching Irene, he doesn’t want to dally. His eyes glaze over.

This isn’t how he imagined the last month going. He had plans, things he wanted to do. Things that involved Irene. Hiding her knowledge of the Come and Go Room, helping ward off prats from hexing her, and even secretly walking her back to the dorms when her friends were occupied, he’s performed above and beyond for her, and nothing has come to fruition. Waiting for the ideal moment might mean waiting forever at this rate.

He’d also missed the spectacle she made in the halls before lunch. Amedeo chews at his lip, breaking from his thoughts. That would have been an excellent chance to sweep in and comfort her. The taste of iron coats his tongue. Now what if he misses something even more important?

‘—this has to end! No matter what was said, clearly this isn’t just some order for you. You’ve gone completely round the bend! Obsessed with a muggle-born of all the things.’

‘Goodness, Lestrange has no shame,’ Amedeo hears the murmur of a passing student.

The group of Hufflepuffs whisper and eye them. He stares at the gathering, and they startle and wander off. It doesn’t matter if they go or leave. Amedeo couldn’t care less. But it is strange to have such a loud conversation here. The two are out in the open near the staircase in front of the Great Hall. Hardly seems the place for a conceited heir like Lestrange to talk about his gripes.

‘If you don’t speak with him, I will….’

More students shuffle by whispering and nattering. He tilts his head and glances back at Lestrange. The boy’s brow twitches. Lestrange must have heard what they said. However, he continues to nag at Amedeo.

‘Someone else needs to be—’

Amedeo cocks his head in the other direction, owlish. ‘Why are we having this talk here?’

‘Wha-what do you mean?’ Lestrange straightens his robes.

‘You don’t chat about private matters in public. And yet you’re doing just that. Right now. It’s unusual.’

‘It’s just that… some things can’t wait.’ He starts as if he’s lost his footing, but then gains speed again. ‘And you’ve made it difficult to track you down. Here and there in the castle, chasing Hill’s tail. It’s—’

‘—An outrage?’ Amedeo finishes, mocking Lestrange’s body language and gestures. ‘Yeah, I don’t care. Though, I think it’s weird you care so much right now.’

And it’s true, this whole situation is odd. One second, he’s leaving the Great Hall to follow Irene out the door and another he’s being dragged by his collar to the side of the stairs. It’s almost as if he’s trying to stall Amedeo.

His arms fall to his side, foot stalling its taps.

‘Are you wasting my time?’

Lestrange’s upper lip curls up. ‘What? I’m not—’

He’s lying. It only curls when he’s lying.

‘Have you done something?’ his voice takes on a slow, considerate tone. He cocks his head. ‘Have you done something to Irene?’

Lestrange swallows, apprehensive.

Amedeo crowds him.

‘If she’s hurt, I just might slit your throat,’ he whispers.

His eyes wildly glint in the light before he pushes Lestrange out of the way to climb the stairs. Familiar with Irene’s patterns, Amedeo retraces her regular steps. Up the main staircase, towards the scenic corridors, and up the backend stairs. It’s quiet. It’s always quiet on this side of the castle. Scenic routes are longer, less traversed as the novelty runs after the second month. He comes to the fourth floor and senses something.

Amedeo doesn’t often take the time to think about the why. Because the why isn’t important. But it is strange how his skin prickles when he senses her. It’s not unlike a magnet, an instinct from deep within him, both pushing and pulling him closer. He follows the draw. The itching beneath his skin grows to a burn.

Now that he thinks about it, Riddle is the only other student to elicit such instinctual reactions from him. Although dissimilar in sensation, Amedeo feels a deep chill that permeates through skin and penetrates bone when around. He wonders if that has anything to do with their souls.

‘Probably,’ he thinks.

He follows his instincts until he comes to the empty supply hall. A sense of foreboding weighs the atmosphere. Amedeo’s hand taps against his leg as he continues. Something’s happened. He can sense it in the very air. His feet will him down a tighter corridor. And then he hears it. A faint cry. Muffled. Concealed.

And without doubt Irene. He slips his wand into his palm as a dead end faces him with a single closet door. The hum of magic surrounds the dark brown entrance.

‘Deprimo!’ Amedeo spells.

The wooden door blasts open. Shredded wood, stone, and dust erupt. ‘Ventus,’ he chants, clearing the air.

Jars cracked and spilled of their contents scatter across the floor. Noxious, bitter, and acidic smells vent out of the space. It’s a tight closet. A Potions’ supply room. Amedeo scans and nearly sees red.

Irene sits slumped, injured as a Ravenclaw student looms above.

Is she dead? His toy, broken.

He blasts the girl across the room with a spell.

It’s not difficult to recognise her. That blonde hair and blue tie. Hornby slams against the opposite wall in a crunch, sliding down the cracked shelves of the closet, bottles crashing and falling at her sides. Amedeo vanishes them without a thought and draws her up by the throat.

‘Hornby, you revolting slag,’ he growls.

She chokes and gurgles, the sound pleasant to his ears.

This filthy pest beat her, burnt Irene. Red shrinks his vision. His magic builds, sparking a fire in his eyes. He feels Hornby’s slowed pulse beneath his fingers that strangle her. Eyes dull and shaded in purple, she looks almost half dead already, barely putting in any resistance. But putrid green steals his attention. It’s coming from the girl’s chest. A swirl of colour, pale and fading, flowing in a whirl.

Hornby’s soul.

He cocks his head. ‘Should I just strangle you? Watch the light leave your eyes to match that ghastly, disgusting thing you keep inside you? It would be fitting, would be deserved. And I do like that idea,’ he says.

‘Ngh,’ a voice whimpers, not from before him but behind.

Amedeo’s fingers twitch, and he freezes. He turns, face drawing up in alarm.

‘Irene?’

Her skin scorched. Burnt to charcoal over her forearm and legs. Not a hint of that pale skin is there, covered with either blistering red or black. She looks almost melded with the floor. Her flesh is littered with wounds. And the stench? It’s foul. Sickening burnt tissue wafts about in the small room. Yet in her chest, churns a silver so bright it’s nearly blinding.

Amedeo squeezes the thin throat in his palm, the flesh beneath ever so willing to give under his grasp. Salazar, he’ll kill her. He’ll kill her for this.

‘H-help,’ Irene pleads in barely a whisper. ‘The-the trinket. I don’t know if I….’

His eyes dart to the silver bracelet wrapped around her seared wrist. Thick links connect in a chain. Dangling at its end lies a human heart-shaped pendant. A Transfiguration artefact. He’d recognise one anywhere. The Mulcibers keep a few in their vaults.

‘Please, don’t kill,’ Irene wheezes out. ‘She c-can’t do much, anyway.’

Irene’s right. Hornby barely resists him as she’s choked. But that matters little to him. Who cares about what she can do? What she has done is what urges him to clutch and crush her throat. Irene’s his to hurt, his to have.

Yet, instead, Amedeo lets go, dropping her to the floor. He growls in frustration. This is the chance he’s been waiting for. Better not waste it.

Hornby hacks and spits up on the ground. ‘Am-Amedeo,’ she croaks. ‘Let me go, we’re both purebloods’ she coughs.

He stares at her, unfeeling. The wet sheen of her eyes, ill complexion, and tremble of her lips are only mildly entertaining. She’s pleading, asking Amedeo to take her side. He chuckles. A pureblood? A wealthy heir? Yes, he’s all above. In the wizarding world, he is an elite. But this isn’t a matter of such fickle status, such insignificant meanings. This is transcendent. He sees and has always seen true worth. Lying hidden to the blind, Amedeo is the only one who witnesses truth. He tilts his head, staring at her pitifully.

We do not choose what we are born with, but nevertheless, we are judged.

What’s in her chest has already fixed her value.

‘Epoximise.’ He shoots at the floor beside him. Then grabs a fistful of her hair. He squats and tilts his head. ‘You should be grateful Irene wants you alive.’ He smiles.

She pales. Fear takes hold.

And with a deafening crack, Amedeo smashes her head into the Epoximised floor. The sound is music to his ears. A fleeting moment of retribution. He appreciates the rush of red that runs from between her hair, then spells her with a Silencio and an Incarcerous.

He moves to Irene, eyes awed.

What’s inside her is beautiful. Ethereal. There was no doubt why he felt such a powerful draw to her now. There is no doubt she is a goddess among mortals. He smiles. Irene groans and moans in pain. Not wanting to cause more agony, he reverently removes the cursed item. When his hands graze metal, there’s no sting or buzz. This one seems inactive. A fake? Then he spells her with a Vulnera Erado. There’s no time to wait, so he shoves the trinket in his pocket and picks Irene off the floor.

His arms loop under her knees and back, cradling her in his arms. His heart is pumping, racing. It’s an adrenaline rush like no other. Excitement? No, that’s not quite right. His chest is tight and heavy.

Exhilaration.

He’s the fated knight in a child’s tale. The prince that comes to the rescue. Triumph. Patience paid off.

Amedeo is on cloud nine. His feet urge him out of the room and to the Hospital Wing, chest pounding. He’d wanted some courageous appearance, wanted to feel her soft flesh against his, and now? Now he’s made that knight-worthy entrance, forged a path worthy for their beginning. Though Irene’s burned and beaten, bloodied and bruised. Her skin is sticky and hard. Her breaths, shallow. But it is of inconsiderable matter. After all, her true beauty still shines as brightly as before.

His eyes can’t seem to look away from the silver glow in her chest as he hurries through the empty halls and to the medical ward.

On the second floor, he bumps into someone in his trance.

‘Amedeo? What’s that —? Wait, is that Hill? What are you doing?’ Lestrange hisses.

Amedeo’s face twists. Obnoxious yellow. A mockery of gold. It fits Lestrange perfectly. Recoiling from the sight, he blinks and the colours fade. There’s still another matter. He hasn’t forgotten Lestrange’s odd behaviour.

‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Lestrange,’ he snarls.

Lestrange’s wand raises. ‘Threatening me, now? Say that again, you lunatic.’

He shuts his mouth, nose wrinkling in anger. There’s no time for a duel, not with the precious parcel in his hold. His arms pull Irene in tighter to his chest in a snarl.

‘Ha. A blood traitor, is that what you’ve become? I’d never thought I’d see the Mulcibers sink so low. Maybe this is why your family didn’t make the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Too busy fucking half-breeds.’

To infuriated to stay, Amedeo steps round.

Lestrange grabs him by the elbow. Mouth to his ear, he whispers, ‘Really, she’s too much skin and bones, hardly has any softness a woman needs to provide for a man. Are you sure you won’t regret this? I mean, since you’re throwing away your future, it should at least provide adequate company at night.’

His fingers twitch. Amedeo wants nothing more than to slit his—

‘Lestrange. Mulciber. It’s almost passed hours,’ Riddle says.

His feet are light as he steps down the hall to them. Turning his attention to what lies in Amedeo’s arm’s Tom furrows his brows.

‘What’s going on? Is that Hill?’

‘She needs the medical wing.’ Amedeo bares his teeth at Lestrange.

Without skipping a beat, Riddle takes control. ‘Lestrange, leave.’

Lestrange glares but ultimately obeys, lumbering off down the halls.

‘Explain.’ Tom stares at the burnt body of Irene. There’s nothing in the expression that Amedeo can read.

‘Lestrange distracted me after dinner. That weasel. So, I retraced Irene’s steps. There was a scream when I arrived on the fourth floor. Hornby, the Bitch, attacked her. Likely threatened to transfigure her. That Cow’s still stuck to the floor of the west end supply closet.’

Amedeo wonders if he can get away with murder. Renatus is the Lestrange heir, but it’s not like they can’t have another.

Riddle hums. ‘I see. Take Hill to the Hospital Wing. I’ll grab the headmaster.’ He walks up to Amedeo’s shoulder. ‘There will be no brash actions, Amedeo. Also….’ He stares at Hill with sharp eyes. ‘I expect a thorough explanation tomorrow.’

‘Tom. Are you sure our Hornby attacked Miss Hill? Mr Mulciber isn’t the most present of students.’

Professor Polaris walks ahead of him. His long star print robes billow behind. The crack of lightning flashes across their skin as they hurry down the stairs and to the fourth-floor supply chambers.

After running into Mulciber carrying a burnt Hill, Tom had left for the Headmaster’s office to inform Dippet of the situation, which had enacted a chain of events leading to Dippet gathering both Professors Merrythought and Dumbledore while Tom was sent to gather Polaris and Hornby.

The Professor, having no time to change after Tom had woken him, is clad in sleepwear.

‘Though Amedeo is absent-minded, I doubt he’d have lied about who had left Miss Hill in that state,’ Tom says.

It’s rare to have such incidents amongst the Ravenclaws. They usually refrain from political activities. But Hill seems to bring out the worst in people, and Hornby has a fair amount of ambition despite her Ravenclaw colours.

Arriving on the fourth-floor, Polaris casts a spell. The professor’s wand shimmers a bright blue. He flattens his palm, and the wand turns. Like the needle of a compass, they head in the direction it points. Through wide corridors and a series of turns, they stumble upon an almost imperceptible mark on the floor.

It’s faint and streaked like paint. Blood.

As they arrive in a narrow corridor, what has transpired comes to the surface. It’s an open and shut scene. A destroyed closet as the end of the hall. Tom taps his fingers against his thigh. What horrors was Hill subjected to before Mulciber had found her? She’d left the dining hall a little before him. That gives more than a few hours of time for the abduction to take place.

‘Please stay here while I check on Miss Hornby,’ the Professor says, looking a tad greyer than before.

Tom nods and waits until Polaris is in the closet. Rummaging into his pocket, the wand nips at his fingers. He sneers and tosses it against the wall. It rolls and settles.

He turns and then surveys the area. Attached to one passage, this hall offers a path to the seventh floor. With a brief investigation, Tom concludes Hornby spelled Hill with a body-binding curse of sorts, then dragged her to the supply room.

Then how did Mulciber hear her scream? Without her wand, she’d have to use accidental magic or whatever that power is that hides beneath her skin. Then why did she let it get as far as fourth-degree burns? More of that emotional drivel, perhaps.

Foolish. He scoffs.

Tom leisurely walks back to the scene. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Hill’s always been careless around the pompous and powerful, not recognising her actions have consequences. However, perhaps now she will learn. With this attack, she may come to understand the value of her power and the necessity of holding it over others.

He stares at her larch wand. Someone who needs courage.

Someone who needs direction. His decision has been made.

Bending forward, Tom plucks it off the ground.

‘Is that Miss Hill’s wand?’ asks Professor Polaris.

Tom turns, twirling it and feigning surprise. ‘I believe so.’

Between them stands Hornby. Her face and neck are a bruising of purple and black. Evidence of strangulation and a beating. Polaris’s hand lies on her shoulder in a vise.

‘I will take Miss Hornby back to the Ravenclaw tower for further treatment, as I do not believe Miss Hill would enjoy sharing the same room with her assaulter.’ Polaris exhales with a grave sigh. ‘I ask you to take these to the headmaster. They will confirm Mr Mulciber’s story.’ He presents the two wands to Tom.

There’s nothing further to discuss as Polaris nods and leaves for the Ravenclaw tower. Tom stashes his growing collection of wands in his pockets and heads for the entrance to the Hospital Wing.

It’s twelve in the morning when the Patronus arrives. Both Flavian and Evan have been working late into the night on magical devices in case of emergency. Silver wisps of light dance about. The bear lumbers about the room, its white tuft below its chest different from its ethereal blue fur.

And this certainly isn’t a good sign. Just four days prior, Irene had sent that ominous letter late in the evening and now Galatea has sent a Patronus. Flavian drops everything he’s doing, only a second behind Evan, who’s already approaching the moon bear.

‘Miss Hill is in the Hospital Wing. She asked me to call for Evan before she passed out. There’s been an incident with another student. The guardians are needed for mediation. Come at once.’

Perhaps if Flavian did not know Galatea, he might have missed it, but the quiver of her voice is there, unmistakable. He breathes out. The ghost-like bear dissolves with a shimmer. 

Admittedly, Flavian is a touch relieved that it was another student that construed this rather than a Dark Lord. Though with Irene in the medical ward, when the girl hadn’t bothered with medical treatment even after she collapsed at work, this spells nothing good.

In a blink, Evan has his wand in his hand and floo powder in the other.

Fontius blocks Evan before he can rush through the fire like a madman. ‘I will go to Hogwarts. Instead, you must go to Miss Macmillan. Inform her we need her sooner than planned.’

Evan opens his mouth in rebuttal.

‘I give my word that I will handle this incident. No assailant will go unpunished. However, Miss Irene is in increased danger. We need Macmillan.’

His resistance is soon quelled. Again, this is why Flavian finds Evan tolerable. Despite his age, he’s pragmatic.

Flavian pulls the portkey out of his inner pocket and hands it to Evan. ‘This will take you to Rome.’

Evan snatches it up. ‘I might resign if Irene is unhappy with you.’

He glares and steps away, activating the portkey in the middle of their research room. The crack of the device reverberates in the narrow chamber. Papers and lighter trinkets kick up in the windstorm left in Evan’s absence. Flavian sighs and flicks his wand. The room rights itself.

Perhaps he was wrong about the level of pragmatism.

Grabbing a handful of floo powder, he steps through the hearth and shouts, ‘Hogwarts!’

Flavian is not a young man. His age has been of little consequence since his accident nearly one-hundred and seventy years ago. And throughout this lengthy life of his, he’s spent many a year in the Department of Mysteries. That is not without gruesome horrors.

He’s seen every abomination that the depraved populace can imagine. Lethifold research on live subjects? Human experimentation on core limitations? Soul manipulation and mutilation? Practical applications of Dementors? In his earlier years, it was all legal. Ethical legislation is something that appeared during his young adult decades. Even now, centuries from the moral precedent, there are still ways to avoid prosecution. And Magic kind? They will always push the boundaries of natural law.

So, it should not be as disturbing as it is to see Irene covered in burns. It should not be as stomach turning as it is to hear that another child has done this to her.

And yet it is.

So perhaps Flavian had snapped at the head mediwitch for something inconsequential, and perhaps it was an emotional faux pas. But one cannot be rational at all times.

‘A child! A child acquired a class XXXX level dark artefact?’

Flavian paces back and forth, never taking his eyes off the guardian of one Olive Hornby, Sir Rudolf Hornby.

Only minutes earlier, he had burst through the doors to Armando’s office, enraged and apoplectic. Answers. He needed answers as to why the aurors weren’t called, as to why the crime scene was compromised before investigation. And now he knows. This isn’t some petty squabble between children. It’s erupted fear in the minds of the educators, adults. The brutality, callous planning. This is nothing short of an attempt on another student’s life. Although not unheard of between children, the more conspiratorial part of Flavian wonders if a child is truly capable of this.  

Armando, the two qualifying guardians, and the Vice Headmaster occupy the headmaster’s office. It is as he remembers from his last visit. There’s none of the whimsy of magic apparent. Dark shelves and grey walls, and behind them, just past the window, rages a blizzard. Lightning sparks in the distance while the rumble of thunder trails behind. It illuminates the empty lacquered desk. Armando’s life of little material seems to have taken on an entirely distinct level of minimalization, almost utilitarian. However, literature is ever present on the shelves that line the walls.

Why Armando chose education rather than research, Flavian will never understand. He held such promise as an unspeakable.

‘Yes. Although we aren’t sure just how at the moment. Though I remind you, the artefact was defective.’ Armando sighs as if this was something so simple as a child hexing another.

‘Olive’s always been a quiet girl. But too curious to keep her hands away from fascinating items. Perhaps another student had it in their possession,’ Hornby says.

Flavian’s eye twitches.

‘So that’s the full story? This,’ — he gestures rudely to Hornby — ‘spawn of his kidnapped Irene, tortured her, then planned to use a dark artefact to transfigure her?’

‘Again, there is no proof the object was ever active. I must ask you for peace, Flavian.’ Armando raises his hands as if that can physically settle him.

‘Flavian? We are no longer colleagues, Dippet. I am here strictly as the guardian of a student who has been injured in a violent assault.’ He takes his seat in the chair adjacent to Hornby.

Armando raises his brows, then coughs to clear his throat. ‘My apologies, Fontius. And yes, that is what we have gathered from the students involved and the wand we examined. Though we haven’t checked the students’ memories, as we need permission from the guardians as per policy.’

‘I’m sure Olive didn’t mean to take it this far. She’s always been such a well-behaved child. Perhaps it was the potion she was under,’ Hornby says.

‘Yes, of course it was. I imagine “homicidal behaviour” is a common side effect of the Exstimulo Potion,’ Flavian says.

‘Really? You think so?’

Flavian’s brow twitches. ‘No, I don’t,’ he seethes. ‘Now then.’ His attention returns to Armando. He watches him closely. ‘What are you going to do about Miss Hornby? Expulsion, I’d expect no less and a trip to the Department of Magical Enforcement.’

‘That’s-what! You can’t just,’ Hornby splutters.

‘About that, there has been a complication.’ Armando rubs the point between his eyes.

‘What could be more complex than expulsion?’ Flavian raises an unimpressed brow.

‘It’s regarding Miss Hornby. The mediwitch has finished her assessment and the results are troubling. Miss Hill may have used a curse in retaliation.’ Armando says.

‘What’s happened to my daughter?’ Hornby asks.

Flavian’s lip twitches, face urging him to smile. He can only hope Hill permanently marred the little monster.

‘Now, please calm down, Hornby.’ Armando raises his hands once more in surrender. ‘Your daughter is alive and well.’

The disappointment is difficult to quash.

Armando continues, ‘however, we’ve found something. A blockage of sorts. She’s unable to use magic. We believe it to be temporary, operating identical to a curse. It might have been accidental magic, as Miss Hill didn’t have her wand on her during the incident. However, we cannot be sure…the more powerful students are often capable of performing intentional magic without a wand. Regardless, we are transferring Miss Hornby to St. Mungo’s later tonight. They’ve sent for an expert on the matter.’

Accidental magic? Flavian’s brows rise. No. If it’s Irene, there is more to this. Armando is correct. Though likely an accident, this was a reaction by her Ancient Magic. Which means the artefact was undoubtedly active. And….

‘The concern is that the only magic that can do something so…taboo are illegal and rare dark curses. And if Miss Hill is found to have used such a spell, well, I don’t believe I have to explain that to you, Fontius.’

Oh dear, this complicates matters. Not whatever drivel Armando is on about, but about the complication of adding the aurors in the mix. Emerson’s in trustworthy. But the others? Flavian isn’t so sure. A simple pensieve could solve this matter—the memory of the attack and Irene’s justified curse-less self-defence—but does he trust the auror’s to hold it in evidence? He taps his fingers against his thigh.

‘Due to this, I believe we should decide whether to move forward with or without the interference of the aurors.’ Armando rubs his beard.

‘As long as it is acknowledged that Irene is the victim, I do not mind moving forward without the aurors.’

Flavian sighs. He’d much prefer the punishment written into Wizengamot Law, but he’ll take the safest option for Irene’s future. If need be, he is not above using darker magic to inflict punishment of his own choosing.

‘A victim? Did you not hear my daughter cannot use magic?’

‘I did, in fact. However, as she would be subjected to much worse if tried in court, I consider it a mercy. A dementor’s kiss is still on the table if you’d prefer to bring this to the aurors and prove your daughter a victim.’ Flavian shakes his head.

Hornby splutters. ‘And what of your child? She’s used a taboo spell! Do not think that I am unfamiliar with the severity of such magic. Perhaps we should bring this to the court.’

And Flavian sees red. His eyes flash as he turns to Hornby in a snarl.

‘If you do, the only one regretting anything will be you!’ he spits.

‘Unlike your flimsy excuses for your daughter, I know what sort of child I’ve taken under my wing, and she is not the sort to attack without provocation. She is not the sort to strike in cold blood or attempt murder. I promise you, the only reason Irene sustained any injuries is due in part to her horrible, insufferable, contemptible need to protect those around her. And for some foolish reason your sad excuse for a daughter was included in that list.’

How Flavian wishes she had a more callous conscience. How he wishes she’d done more than just stop that bloody prat’s magic, because it seems like in this very room the only ones who care for her justice are him alone. As he rises to his feet, he wonders if Evan has met Miss MacMillan. Perhaps matters were always moving towards this. A powerful muggle-born can’t help but draw attention. His contingency plan is rising to the forefront as the best option.

Armando opens his mouth to mediate.

However, for the first time Albus turns from the window, stepping forward to speak.

‘Fontius, there is no doubt Miss Hornby was the assailant in this situation. I am familiar with Miss Hill as her Head of House. She is not a violent child, nor a resentful one. The witness explained the scene to us, and Professor Polaris confirmed Miss Hornby’s guilt.’

He turns to Hornby.

‘I am sorry you have found yourself in this terrible situation. It is hard to acknowledge the mistakes and cruelty of the ones we love, but to be blind from the truth is a mistake to all involved. I am pained for your daughter’s future; however, what Fontius said is no simple slight. If the aurors were to be called, possession of a dark artefact with intent to use—if it is authentic—is a rather serious offence,’ Dumbledore says.

Hornby deflates in his seat. His wilful ignorance seems to withdraw, leaving him a defeated husk.

‘I don’t know where everything went so wrong. My little girl used to be so hopeful, so bright,’ he breaks. His mouth quivers, and he closes his eyes in a long breath. ‘We will accept any punishment given.’

There’s a sad sigh as Armando slumps into his palm. He massages his temples in thought as the guardians sit. The clouds behind rumble but shed no lightning. Grey darkened skies are quiet, as if waiting in bated breaths.

‘Then we shall move on to discuss expulsion for Miss Hornby,’ Armando says.

‘Dippet, I am glad you’ve changed your mind. Thank you, Albus.’ He bows.

The storm has passed. Starlight shines down upon them through the clouds and window. Flavian stands, smoothing his robes as winter dry fingers catch on soft silk. He leaves the office, robes billowing behind. However, he can’t shake the feeling there’s something wrong. Armando said they were unfinished with the investigation. The wand and the artefact, if not a possession of the Hornbys. Then how had she obtained such tools?

Perhaps this isn’t some child’s cruelty but an adult’s. His shoes clack down the hall.

The Hogwarts castle is everything and nothing of what he recalls. Whimsical nostalgia only whispers while memories of his childhood here are faint. Years passed, mistakes made, and regrets linger. Age should be a representation of contentment, the last journey of freedom from suffering. Yet Flavian only finds himself holding onto the past, hoping to find penance through the goodness he adds to the world. Time weighs on him. He wonders if Galatea would welcome a chat after this or if she would cast him away like one of those boggarts she keeps locked up. Sentimentality is universal to old age, perhaps.

Flavian continues down the multitude of stairs to the Hospital Wing. Entering the final corridor, he hears the door to the chamber open and shut with a soft click.

A boy Irene’s age steps out. Familiar colours adorn his uniform, a prefect pin glints on his chest. This late at night, students should be in their beds. He looks at Flavian, appraising him, albeit subtly. However, he would never miss the subtle eye movement disguised as a casual fix of his clothing. Flavian flashes a knowing smile. If this child is not to be out at this hour, he certainly isn’t behaving in such a way to indicate that.

Sharp and cunning. Eyes that dictate intelligence. The boy raises his finger to his lips with a smirk.

Flavian shakes his head, but nods, keeping the child’s secret. A little of the whimsy of Hogwarts returns. Sneaking out of the dorms for a late-night liaison certainly was not beyond him. The green of the student’s robes catches the blue starlight from the windows.

Passing the boy, Flavian thinks back fondly on his time in Slytherin.

[Earlier]

Outside, a storm rages. Snow whirls in the black of night—white spattering against the tall windows of the Hospital Tower. There are no stars in the sky, no clouds to be seen, just the violent tempest of winter howling and raging against glass.

Tom stares out the window, sitting in the rickety chair that’s placed beside the only other occupant of the chamber. Beside him, the unwitting form of Hill lies on her bed, amongst the empty cots and wire rimmed partitions. She’s asleep. And by the looks of it, peacefully at rest—limbs spread in all directions.

Tom’s fingers find the juncture of Hill’s neck and collar. Above him the floating lanterns glow a gentle auburn. She’s at his mercy here in the vacant Hospital Wing. A danger no longer. He allows his thumb to smooth across her throat. If he so wished, he could place his hands around her thin neck and….

Snap.

But nothing sounds. Tom doesn’t strike. He allows his thumb to return to its former position. A simple twist. That’s all it would take. That’s all it would take to rid himself of this monstrous witch, and certainly, it would free him of the morning’s mistake. However, magic has always been enticing, wondrous, covetous.

With barely a brush, Tom wipes stray strands from her shoulder. Hair darker than the skies above lies scattered about her face and neck, while red and black burns peek out from cloth bandages. He moves to finger the neckline of her hospital gown.

He lifts the stripped cotton fabric. The scarred mass of tissue that caught his eye only snakes further across Hill’s shoulder. From the looks of it, it’s an older wound, not from the day’s burns but before. Scars that the average potion cannot remove are rare, and usually inflicted by certain magical fires. Tom drops the material, withdrawing his hand.

It’s a frustrating mess.

He isn’t quite sure what to do with Hill. The incident in the corridor was unforeseen. To be invulnerable to Legilimency is something he’s never heard of. There are Occlumens, yes. But this is something different. Whatever Hill is, is curious and new.

It wasn’t just invulnerability. Hill’s magic sucks any power that comes into contact with it. Some blasted insatiable black hole. Her magic’s nature is separate from her peers. So, what does that make her?

Tom rubs a tired hand against his temples. She’s invaluable, worth far more than anything he’s laid eyes upon. And yet, she’s also a double-edged sword. A danger to anything she finds disagreeable, and from the start, she’s never trusted Tom. He leans into his knees—elbows propping up his head. What is she but a threat that’s left to grow without guidance?

Perhaps he should get rid of her. Perhaps he should remove the memory of today. His magic is weak, but a memory charm shouldn’t be too taxing.

But no.

There are other matters to sort before attempting to wipe evidence of the day’s concern.

Tom scans over Hill once more. Her breathing has changed, and once again, that familiar bitter apprehension colours the air. Leaning back in his chair, Tom crosses his legs.

‘You’d do well to keep your emotions in check if you wish to hide, Hill,’ he says boorish.

Hill groans and moans as she pushes herself upright against her pillows. ‘I thought I was “Irene” not Hill.’ she says in a mockery of his own words. Her eyes are stuck on the window to the far end.

He grits his teeth, but there’s a zip of a thrill that shoots down his back. Resistance. Wit? Who would have thought her capable of such provocation? It’s something new, untraversed, evidence that he had missed whoever Hill really is.

‘Shall we go back to our earlier facades, Irene?’

She grimaces. ‘No. No, that’s alright.’

Hill makes no attempts to speak, staring out at the dark night. The bitter note in the air sours, and it’s so utterly familiar that Tom wonders if she’d always seen through him. If so, what had she been thinking during their lessons? It’s an idle thought, but then he remembers that he’ll never know her mind. He rubs his temples again.

‘Tell me, what happened to that other girl? I think her name was Hornby, but everything is a bit hazy.’

‘She’s still alive, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

His nose wrinkles in disgust. Is she relieved that her would be killer isn’t dead? The severity of what has transpired must have not sunk in.

‘That’s…good.’ Hill nods, but the horrible amalgamation of feeling tells Tom it isn’t so simple. ‘It is,’ she says again to convince herself.

With a groan, she turns to him. ‘So, is this the part where you slit my throat and disappear into the night?’

There’s something eerily withdrawn in the tone and air about her. She truly believes him capable of such an act. He rolls his eyes.

‘Don’t be so dramatic. Why would I endanger my future with something so uninspiring as your death?’

And it’s true. He might contemplate killing her, but until he has the full picture, he is a slave to this powerful mystery.

His words choke out a laugh from her. It’s spontaneous and loud, strangely uninhibited. Something in her untwists in relief. Tom furrows his brows.

‘You know, in the last three or four times I’ve woken, I haven’t felt this much relief until now.’ She shakes her head, holding her side as if she can suppress whatever pain she’s in.

‘Is that so?’

He drums his fingers. Attacked by a student, hearing her attempted murderer is still up and about, and Tom’s temporary pledge is what relieves her? He wasn’t mistaken about how deep-seated Hill’s mistrust of him is. ‘But how far-reaching is it?’ is the question in need of an answer. How deep have the roots of discord grown?

Can simple Obliviation remove such misgivings?

Or is another method in need of order?

Tom leans in to whisper in her ear, ‘do you often worry about my reaction to you, Irene?’

She shivers but does not back away. That same shot of excitement trembles through his spine. ‘What does that matter?’ she replies petulantly.

He runs his fingers through her hair. Her eyes track the movement warily.

‘I find it curious why you would be so acutely aware of me. I don’t remember doing anything to offend you.’

‘Have you already forgotten what happened in Gregory the Smarmy’s Corridor?’

‘No, not at all. It was an…enlightening experience. However, we both know this “issue” of yours predates today.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe you’re not as charming as you think.’ Her arms twitch with the need to cross them and she winces in pain.

‘Perhaps.’ He twirls her hair around his finger, humming. ‘Or perhaps it’s something else. I’d like to be on more agreeable terms.’

‘Not going to happen. Even if what happened in the corridor didn’t come to pass, I still wouldn’t have fully trusted you.’

‘That’s rather unfortunate.’ And there it is, the answer to what he’s been wondering about.

‘Anyway, if you’re not here to finish the job Hornby started. What brings you to the Hospital Wing in the middle of the night?’

Irene watches his fingers, throat bobbing. A tingle of fear trickles from her.

‘Tell me, do I frighten you?’ Tom asks.

She looks away, but the tensing of her muscles supplies the answer.

‘If you’d like, I can promise to not harm a hair on your head.’ He smiles.

‘What? Why would you do that?’

‘For your trust, of course.’

‘That’s….’ Her hands fist, brows in a knot. Tom wonders if she’s considering the offer. ‘Why my trust?’

‘Our tutoring sessions could be the start.’

‘The start?’ Confused eyes meet his own. ‘I’ve already been excused from lessons.’

‘Oh, but we work so well together, Irene. Why end it? Four weeks. Four weeks is the sum total of our time together and look how beautifully you’ve progressed. Your spells in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts were flawlessly executed this week and with such excellent control. Think about what more I could offer if you’d only allow me?’

The cogs seem to whir in Hill’s head. She knows what he says is true.

‘You’re terrified, aren’t you? Of that power that sits beneath your chest. Of that insatiable chasm that lingers. I can help you,’ Tom coaxes, brushing his lips across the tips of her locks.

Her breath catches, face flushing to a dark rouge. ‘I-I…’

She bites her lip and closes her eyes. When she breathes out, she meets him head on.

‘If you think trust is something to be traded, bargained for, you’re sorely mistaken.’

It’s not a good sign. It seems she won’t be easily swayed. The thought of memory charms resurfaces, offering a fresh start. He allows her black hair to unwind. As of now, the distaste and suspicion bid farewell to his courtship of her to his side.

‘Everything can be bargained for with enough time,’ he says in a grim promise.

‘See. That line of thinking is exactly what makes you suspicious,’ she says.

He laughs. Not because of her outright dismissal, but because, before her refusal, there was hesitation. Enough shown that he’ll use whatever methods it takes to sink his claws into her. He won’t rip the memory of today’s incident from her. No. He’s learned enough. Obliviation will only prolong this cycle of distrust. It would be better to sway her with the truth, anyway, play into her weaknesses, and build a line of trust through what all Gryffindors appreciate: honesty.

‘You wound me,’ Tom says.

Her strands slip from his hand as she turns away from him, dark eyes leaving his own. ‘I’d prefer if you’d drop the act, Riddle.’

‘So be it, Hill.’ Tom smiles, baring his teeth.

A terribly long path lies ahead. Yet, a part of him finds this better, more entertaining. A game of cat and mouse. But not one without patience. He won’t make the same mistake twice. And this time there’s nothing to hide.

Tom reaches into his pocket and plucks out her wand. It snaps at him again. He tosses it on her lap. ‘You’ll need this, come classes. Madam Weber informed me you’ll be out by Thursday.’

‘Oh.’ She picks it up and twirls it in her fingers. ‘Thank you.’ With a smile hesitantly stretched across her face, she looks at Tom. ‘Uh, so um….’ She opens her mouth and closes it, unbecomingly.

He raises an unimpressed brow.

‘That’s-uh,’ she stammers. ‘Were you the one who carried me out of the closet?’ she rushes out.

He can’t help his look of disgust.

Hill catches it. ‘Never mind. Ignore what I said.’ She turns away.

His lip twitches. Perhaps he can have a little fun with this. He schools his expression. Sicking Mulciber on her might help relieve some of his stress.

‘Amedeo Mulciber would be your knight in shining armour. Do thank him when you are discharged.’ 

Not willing to waste anymore of his time, he stands.

‘Wait, just, uh, before you go. Can you tell me if it’s always been this way at Hogwarts?’ Hill asks.

She shifts uneasily on the wire cot she lays in. It squeals and squeaks under her weight.

‘Yes.’

Tom stares blankly at her. As foolish and blind that Hill is, this weakness is what grates. She’s nauseatingly optimistic and hesitant. Why someone with this much power would behave so meekly is beyond him. But he can fix that in time, can mould her into a figure that would befit such power.

‘So, the muggle-borns, they are all subjected to this?’ Her eyes drop, emotions welling to the surface.

‘And what made you think any different?’ he scoffs, dropping the act like she’d wanted. It’s refreshing to throw away pleasantries and facades. ‘Your weekly bout of hexes not enough to drive the point?’

‘What about the professors? Surely, they’d do something to stop it.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Intermediary sessions to “talk” out our feelings have been so terribly helpful. You think they care for all students equally? Do you think they are above the prejudice that the children carry?’ he drawls. ‘Why would they waste the time on such childish squabbles?’

‘Childish?’ She blinks. Her face reddens. ‘How is this childish? She nearly killed me! That’s attempted murder, not some mild stinging hex!’

So, she does understand the severity of the situation. Tom barks out a laugh, sharp and cold.

‘Yes. And the other Slytherins mutilated my owl first year. I woke up to blood pooling at the foot of my bed.’

He had spared no tears for the animal. However, the sight of the butchered bird had rankled at him. It was his. And they’d taken something from him so boldly. Tom’s hand tightens into a fist. He’d never forget such a thing, never let it go. But either way, it served as a lesson. Hold what’s yours tight to your chest and return what is given twice-fold over. He meets Hill’s eyes, daring her to look away.

‘If it is between students, it’s a juvenile concern. So if they escalate, well, that was just a one-off incident. When there are ruling dark lords and prolific serial killers, who has the time to mitigate such petty problems? Don’t tell me your Gryffindors coddled you, kept you safe in some bubble?’

Her face pales with something Tom doesn’t recognise nor cares to think of. ‘They tortured your pet, and nothing was done?’

Empathy? ‘For Merlin’s sake.’ He drags a hand down his face. ‘Something had to be…rectified of course, but the professors only saw it fit to place the student in remedial classes. I took matters into my own hand.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.

‘Oh?’ Tom chuckles. ‘This is astonishing. Absolutely fascinating how… empathetic you are.’ He shakes his head, allowing the mirth to run its course. ‘I don’t need an apology—your pity. That little stone in the way taught me a lesson. Something you would do well to learn quickly.’

He takes a step in closer, leaning over her, hand braced on the wireframe of her bed. The storm has passed and the windows of the medical ward fill with the stars of the night sky. Moonlight cascades across what must be a sneer on his face. Beneath him, Hill is anxious yet resolute in the light.

Tom reaches a hand towards her, feeling the unblemished skin of her cheek. It’s sickeningly pliant just like her.

‘This…softness’—his expression twists with disgust at the word as he scratches a nail along the edge of her cheekbone, rubbing tender flesh red—’of yours is nothing but weakness. You’ve left yourself open to cruelty, to others like me. Each kind gesture, every choice to hide behind Fawley, makes the sort of statement that the muggle-borns all seem to ooze in their very behaviour. “I’m helpless, a lost cause. Torment me, terrorise me.”’

‘You can’t help yourself, can you? If you believe the incident with Hornby or the death of my owl was an irregularity, think again. Prior to you, that Myrtle girl was the target of Hornby’s ire. There have been those before and those that will succumb to the same in the future. Let’s just hope you have enough luck to survive the next two years.’

He withdraws.

But Hill grabs his tie, pulling him in. Her expression, fierce, and burning.

‘So what?’ she hisses. ‘I should lash out? Push them around to prove who’s the greater threat? I won’t. Because why should one or two arseholes turn me bitter and vindictive?’

‘You think of me, vengeful, filled with hate?’ He smiles, cold and cutting.

‘That’s…. No, I don’t.’ Irene reels back. Her hold on his tie loosens. ‘Surely, it hasn’t been easy for you, Tom.’

Tom smiles. Her guilt is otherworldly, a weakness left to be exploited. Though he’d rather force it out of her.

‘Trying to sympathise now, are we? Why don’t you be honest, Hill,’ he coaxes. ‘It’s fine if you think me a monster. Perhaps that’s the closest anyone’s come to the truth. But I digress. So why don’t I tell you? It’s not just one or two students. Don’t fool yourself, darling.’

‘It’s a culture, a belief-system, ingrained for years, centuries. Muggle-borns are twenty-five per cent of wizarding society. Only forty years ago, segregation was legal, and we were barred from employment at the Ministry. And what do you think has happened since? Suddenly administration has flooded with mudbloods? That legislation has removed the separatism, discrimination, engrained in society? If you believe such fairytales, I can’t help but think you daft.’

He grabs Hill’s hand, still loosely cupping his tie.

‘It hasn’t changed. We may go to school, have a career at the Ministry, hold hope that things will get better, but those in power will always implement their beliefs into practice. And those wishing to rise in the ranks will always turn a blind eye. They will always keep people like us from achieving what we deserve. We will always be their lessers because of our numbers, our blood. And I refuse to be at the bottom,’ he hisses.

‘So, you should open your eyes to reality, Hill. That target on your back has only grown after today. The purebloods won’t forget this. There’s not a thing you can change about who you are, but perhaps your power can change how you’re treated. My offer always stands.’

Tom pries Hill’s hand off his tie and pulls away. Straightening his robes, he turns and leaves the moonlit Hospital Wing.

Chapter Text

Irene’s shell-shocked. As the light of the night sky illuminates the cold room, she stares at her bandaged arms, pulse racing and face flushed. Maybe she is brash. That was a bit reckless of her after all—talking back to Voldemort, provoking him, refusing to humour his offer. But then again, even though there’s unease that simmers inside, she’s never felt such relief, freedom. With an exhale, Irene shoves her wand under her pillow.

The lies. The attempt at subterfuge. It’s a skill she may never gain. Only a month has passed since she has begun her tiptoe around him. The proof she’s not cut out for deception shows through her poor execution and the situation’s subsequent—and abrupt—descent into chaos. At least Voldemort seems to have more patience, or perhaps leniency, than she thought. Three months ago, she’d assume he’d Avada her or something, but perhaps he’s not as murderous as she believed. She slumps back into the cotton of her bed, moaning and groaning from her aches and pains.

Click. There’s a squeak from the hinges of the double doors. Irene tenses.

Careful steps clack down the walkway until a figure comes into view.

‘Fontius?’ Irene asks.

She winces, hurrying to sit up. With a grave smile, the greyed man walks to her. His purple robes rustle around him and settle as he stops at the end of her bed.

‘You should not be up,’ the Overlord says.

‘Well, it’s not exactly easy to rest.’

‘Yes, admittedly it shouldn’t be for you.’ He sighs and slumps into the seat next to her. ‘I am sorry, Irene.’ His face is obscured by the low light of the hospital, expression shadowed.

Her breathing catches, and she feels the heat of her burns flare. A reminder not to forget. ‘It’s not your fault.’ Irene wonders if Riddle was right. Maybe she should’ve seen this coming.

‘No, but your well-being is my responsibility,’ he says.

She grimaces. The edge from her encounter with Riddle is wearing off—that courage and resolution slipping from her fingers. ‘Are you here to talk about the incident?’ Her gaze hits her lap, eyes blinking slowly, but her pulse races regardless. Hornby’s brown wand flickers in her mind’s eye, the sting of her wrist ever present. She’s not sure if she can talk about it right now.

There’s a lengthy pause after her question. Yet, Irene doesn’t look up.

‘You should rest tonight. We can speak when you wake,’ Fontius says.

‘I’m afraid to sleep,’ Irene nearly blurts. Instead, what comes out is, ‘my head’s a little loud right now.’

His eyes flicker to her nightstand. ‘It appears Griselda neglected to leave a vial of Calming Draught for you.’ He curses under his breath. ‘I will gather some from the back chambers.’ Fontius stands and clacks down the halls through the door.

Irene settles against her pillows. The room spins around her as she lays. She feels sick, nauseous, and heavy. It’s the silence that shrinks the walls in and weighs the air. The icy blue of the winter night brings its frosty edge into the vacant Hospital Wing. Irene lies on the metal-wire cot, body aching from the burns that mar her body—a mirror of her medical stay in London.

When she thinks back on the incident, her hands tremble and knees weaken. Hours from that disastrous event in the closet of the fourth floor, and Irene’s not sure if the fear is here to stay. The heat of her burns flare in reminder. She grits her teeth and bares the panic. Bares the rushed pulse of her blood, the deafening pound of her heart, until it’s nothing but a calm thrum. Her breath catches as she struggles for air.

Irene takes in the sight of her tremors. Will it carve out a hole—dig its place? Will it fester and taint?

She swallows. There’s nothing but the rough hospital blankets to comfort her in this empty ward. They catch against the cloth that binds her skin. Terribly uncomfortable, terribly restricting. The bed urges her to rest. But does she want to? Sleep approaches, heavy and threatening. What she’ll find in her dreams frightens her.

Is there anything that can offer comfort?

Despite the long night prior, Tom finds his seat in the Slytherin Common Room in the haze of the early morning. Through the tall windows of the chambers, oscillating waves of green scatter against the floors. He waits in the almost sacrosanct quiet of the morning. The fire being the only crackle in the room. Tom crosses one leg over the other, relaxing in the velvet loveseat positioned on the far end of the room. Here, there is a view of the spacious chamber. Whether it be the doors leading to the dorms, or the entrance to the dungeons and Slughorn’s office, Tom can see when his guest makes their appearance.

A faint click from the boy’s dorms notifies him that Mulciber has arrived. His leather shoes clack against the darkened flagstone and the viridian carpet as he passes the hearth, leather chaises, and wooden fixtures. It’s a picturesque scene, sequestered, and regal. Ornate, intricate designs are weaved into every fabric that decorates the chamber from the rugs to the curtains and upholstery.

Near meters from Tom’s seat, Mulciber twists his ring. White light shimmers faint on the floor, circling Mulciber and then fading. When the range of Mulciber’s ward reaches Tom, the sounds of the fire fade into quiet. The privacy barrier that encases them keeps their conversation from reaching outside its boundaries.

‘My Lord,’ Mulciber bows his head.

‘Mulciber,’ Tom greets. ‘How did your walk fair?’

‘The Black Kite left the owlery sometime last night.’ He takes a seat on the empty emerald loveseat at Tom’s side. ‘I’d like to be present if any punitive measures are taken. If need be, it would honour me to be your sword.’ His eyes glint hungrily.

‘If I deem it necessary to act, I will inform you,’ he says lazily.

As for punishment, he’d rather not allow Mulciber the pleasure. He rather seems a wild mutt in need of re-educating. If Tom were to let him go, a rift would no doubt arise between the two purebloods.

‘Shall we discuss what happened last night then?’ he asks.

His follower nods and begins his recounting of events, from Slughorn’s hour-long discussion regarding the Yule Party, Lestrange’s distraction, to the trek up to the fourth floor and potions’ supply closet. There’s some worthless information showered in here or there—Mulciber’s mind working in labyrinths rather than paths—but overall, Tom sees the picture. It is almost exactly what he predicted. Except….

‘This bracelet. You said it appeared to be a human transfiguration artefact?’ Tom taps his fingers across his lap.

‘Yes. I believed it was one at first; however, when I inspected the object, it held no magic of any kind,’ Mulciber says. ‘I imagine it fooled that bitch as well—thought it was real up to the end.’

Hill had been in the company of Hornby for approximately three hours. Not too lengthy or too brief. Enough so that her Gryffindors had likely just noticed her disappearance. If the artefact is authentic, as he suspects, it would only take an hour for it to activate, but immense magic is required to power it. Perhaps Hornby didn’t have enough? Then again, Madam Weber had mentioned the inventory discrepancy. Tom’s fingers still.

‘What was Hornby engaged in when you entered?’ Tom asks.

‘She was crouched over Irene holding her wrist,’ Mulciber says.

Skin contact. Tom hums.

It’s outrageously early in the morning when Minerva’s called into Dumbledore’s office. The lavender sunrise peaks through the intricate cherry trimmed windows of his office. It’s a cluttered space, but nonetheless warm with comforting colours of red and orange. Wall to wall are portraits, shelves, and in the space between windows open to expose the Hogwarts grounds. Scattered about redwood furnishings are countless oddities that frankly alarm her. She knows the professor has a penchant for odd things, but with no limit on hazard, there’s bound to be something unsafe for school children.

Minerva breathes out of her nose, grieving the lost two hours of rest. She’s not sure what exactly took place the night before, but she hadn’t missed the disturbance. Both McLaggen and Brown had been called out while she was on prefect rounds. Something to do with a missing student if she remembers correctly. Not an uncommon incident during the first semester. The castle is massive and the Gryffindors tend to explore carelessly. She straightens her back, standing rather than sitting in front of the desk as she levels the Vice Headmaster with an icy look. Favourite professor or not, Dumbledore can get trampled by a pride of Hippogriffs for all she cares.

‘There was an incident with a muggle-born student last night,’ Dumbledore says.

He places his hands on the desk, clasped in front of him. Today’s chosen ensemble includes white robes with silver snowflakes.

‘Why isn’t Allan here then?’ Minerva asks.

‘Mr McLaggen was informed last night.’

‘A Gryffindor was the attacker or the victim?’

‘Victim. Although, I must say not without a fight.’ He brushes his beard with a twinkle in his eye.

That only spells trouble. She massages her temples. ‘Which student?’

‘Miss Irene Hill.’

Minerva’s attention snaps to him. ‘Who did it?’ Was it—

‘Alas, I believe I cannot answer that due to regulations. And based on your reaction, I also think it unwise.’ He raises a curious brow.

‘How is she?’ Minerva asks through gritted teeth.

‘I’m afraid, not well. She went through quite the ordeal, but Miss Hill is in stable condition. We welcome visitors later in the evening if she wakes. I ask that you keep the peace within Gryffindor. Most will assume that this incident is the result of a pureblood, since a muggle-born is involved.’ He leans back in his chair. ‘There has been tension between the students, as you already know. This attack may be the tipping point.’

Minerva nods. ‘I understand. May I head back to the dorms?’

‘Yes, you may. I recommend discussing this with the fifth-years before breakfast begins.’

The professor excuses her, and she leaves, having no intentions on keeping the peace. Irene had asked her to forget the conversation from yesterday, but Minerva can’t. Not now, while she’s in the hospital. Not now, while Minerva’s left to think about whether she could have done something more. She’s not a fool. She’d seen the unusually blank stares Riddle had sent Irene’s way the day prior. But had she done a thing past observing? No.

Minerva continues down the halls and up to the seventh floor. All the way to the portrait of the Fat Lady, she stews in thought. It’s not a good sign, her dad had told her. Being stuck in one’s head can lead to disastrous happenings, disastrous choices. Minerva’s sure there’s truth in that, but she can’t stop the righteous fury that builds in her palms, urging her to take up her wand. It’s always been hard to see calm when there’s so much red.

Fairness, justice. Things that seem to slip through the cracks as she ages. These truths become clouded in what her dad had said were complications. Her mother’s lies were one of such things.

‘I lose myself at times. Too busy mulling over my thoughts, Pepper. I’m sorry for my absence. Being a father is…tough,’ her father said.

‘But you’re still with mum, so you’ve forgiven her right?’ Minerva asked.

‘Yes, and no. She lied about something foundational to our future and although I understand why, it aches. I love her, but sometimes two things can be true at once. That’s what makes being an adult complicated.’

The lines her father used to explain the ten-year cold war that lasted between her parents still evades her logic. And although justified—mum lying about being a witch—it would’ve been simpler if he’d made a clear choice. To forgive, move on, or forget and leave. Rumination doesn’t always work in one’s favour. So, Minerva is left with a question.

To act or not?

Her hands curl into fists. Irene has two incidents in one day. What’s the chances it’d be anyone else? When she comes to in the expanse of the common room, she can’t remember the journey up, can’t remember calling the fifth-years into the chamber. Beside her, Allan is watching, waiting for her to take charge.

Minerva coughs into her hands. The Gryffindor Common Room is illuminated by the rising sun of the winter morning. It’s a dull dusting of pink that sets it’s shine on the rich colours of the high-ceilinged tower. About the fireplace, the fifth-years settle. Some students sit on the sofas and chaises while most are outstretched on the floor. Sleep weighs them down. All half-lidded and shoulders curved inward.

‘As some of you know, there was a disturbance last night, and one of our own went missing,’ Minerva says.

Her eyes glance over at Gwen and Blythe. Both of their complexions are a shade to the ill end, eyes darkened by lack of sleep.

‘Irene Hill was involved in an incident with another student and is being kept in the Hospital Wing until further notice. No visitors will be accepted until later in the evening under the purview that she wakes.’

Murmurs break out amongst the group. She can feel the stares of both Edmund and Iris on her. Their gazes are scrutinising and assessing. She turns to Allan. He steps forward.

‘We ask that you refrain from any foolish behaviour before Miss Hill is out of the medical ward. Gryffindor is the house of the brave, not brash. Remember that,’ Allan says.

More whispered chatter breaks out.

‘Double the points will be taken off for any unbecoming conduct,’ he warns.

‘As the regulations dictate, only the individuals involved and professors will be privy to the details of the incident. Any questions?’ Minerva asks.

Evelyn raises her hand. ‘Was this an attack by a pureblood student?’

‘You know we can’t answer that, Sloper.’ Allan frowns.

Her lips pull into a thin line before she turns to Lillian.

Gwen is the next to raise her hand. ‘If not, was it a Slytherin?’

Minerva rubs the point between her brows. Allan doesn’t even bother to answer.

‘I bet it was both,’ Blythe grumbles loud enough for everyone to pick it up.

Robert Weasley starts up. ‘I saw Lestrange last night yelling at Mulciber over something to do with muggle-borns. You don’t think—’

‘Again, we are not allowed to discuss this,’ Allan says.

‘If you’re not allowed to even tell us that, then what would we even ask?’ Charles Brown rolls his eyes.

‘You could ask things like, “is she going to be alright?” or “how bad was it?” to show that you care,’ Iris snaps.

Charles wisely shuts his mouth, watching Iris warily.

‘Miss Hill will make a full recovery, though she was in terrible shape when we located her. No doubt she will need help from her house as she recuperates,’ Allan says.

‘Now then, breakfast will be beginning shortly. Dismissed,’ Minerva finishes.

She continues about her morning, gathering her materials from the dorms, heading to her morning prefect meeting, then breakfast.

Her eyes naturally trail to the Slytherin table, naturally latch onto a certain git. Riddle sits perfect posture, pristine manners, talking amongst Rosier and Nott as his attention flickers towards Lestrange and Mulciber every so often. Minerva narrows her eyes. Expressions flicker across Riddle’s face, but not once does his eyes change, always holding the same open and assessing gaze.

Minerva stabs the sausage in her plate. It’s not right. Her fork goes through the meat and clangs against the metal platter in a noisy ding. He’s not right. Across from her, Lillian squeals with a jump. Evelyn frowns.

‘This one’s got your temper, Rob,’ her mother had always said whenever Minerva got in trouble with the other kids at school.

It’s true. Maybe that’s why dad stuck her in lessons with him rather than choosing one of her two younger brothers. ‘Temperance,’ her father would remind her, ‘it’s the path to freedom from impulse.’ And apparently, their types need some sort of means to work out their pent-up stress. She’s always been quick to make up her mind—take a stance. Then here at Hogwarts she’d found someone just as rash as her, if not more. It helped mellow her out until second-year and the subsequent fallout, but by then she’d found another outlet. Quidditch. Minerva’s fingers itch with the need to grab her bat.

‘Brash,’ her mother would say.

‘Steadfast’ she’d call it.

She finishes breakfast and heads to the Transfiguration chamber. It’s not hard to spot the target of her rising ire. Riddle walks alongside his friends. Groups of goggling girls gaze and flush. Her nose rises in disgust. She keeps her eyes on him for the rest of the day.

Minerva observes Riddle more carefully this time, trying to see if she can pick out the callous monster that lay beneath his façade. And the truth is, she can’t see it, but she does notice an absence of something, an absence of genuine warmth in his expressions. The blank stares, guarded glances, and pinched looks. She organizes them one by one, like puzzle pieces sticking together. Irene was right. There is something cold about him.

Her fingers twitch over her wand.

It’s not long before lunch begins. Rumours are common among the students. Spending everyday locked in a castle with only your peers and no privacy does wonders for petty drama. So, it’s no surprise that by the evening the Gryffindor table is echoing with wild stories of what happened to their muggle-born fifth year.

‘Renee attacked her as retaliation for the courtyard incident, I heard,’ says one third year.

‘I bet it was that Slytherin Mulciber. Have you seen how he looks at her?’ says another.

Charles leans over and whispers, ‘Actually, I heard from a Hufflepuff that it was the other Lestrange. Apparently, she saw Mulciber, Lestrange, and Riddle talking in the halls. She swears there was some burnt girl with them.’

Her knife freezes over her steak. Burnt? Minerva’s breathing stops. She looks up and meets eyes with Charles.

‘The girl was burned?’ she asks calmly.

Charles stares at her. ‘Yeah. I can’t tell you who told me, but she says she didn’t even think it was a person at first. Too much red and black. But shouldn’t you already know this? You’re a prefect.’

That’s all it takes for Minerva to rise from her seat, her mind made up. The teachers might see fit to ignore this, but Minerva doesn’t. Riddle has messed with the wrong house.

There’s a free block after lunch that they both share. Usually, it’s occupied by tutoring with Irene, but that’s off the table. Outside of the Great Hall, she winds through the scattering of students. The thing with study hall is that the more studious students are predictable. All of them head towards the library. Her eyes latch onto her target. The wide corridor makes it easy to gain on him. Greyed skies shed their meagre light through the tall windows. Chattering students and clacking rubber soles fade into the background.

It’s just not right. Why isn’t he suspended? Didn’t Dumbledore say Irene got him back somehow? Where’s the justice in this? Her fingers knot into a fist.

Screw compassion. Screw forgiveness. There’s only one thing Minerva knows for certain. If you start a war, then you should bite the bullet. Minerva taps Tom’s shoulder. Her fingers digging into her palms.

‘Riddle,’ she says.

He turns, and it feels as if the world has slowed. She sees every twitch of his face. The muscles that raise his mouth to a smile are only a millisecond faster than the ones that scrunch his eyes. And doesn’t that seem fake? It’s terribly flat, and Minerva wonders how she’d never seen it before. Her fist tightens along with her building pulse.

Tom’s face shifts to a frown as their eyes meet, ‘Miner—’

Smack!

Her fist slams into his jaw, flesh bending to the force of her hit. An uppercut to the chin. Tom staggers back but doesn’t fall. Blood spills from what must be a cut on his lip. Surprise etches itself into perfect features. And Minerva doesn’t hesitate. A two step. Her feet are light against stone. She’s back in his space, hands brought up in a guard. Muggle boxing. A gift from her father. A lesson in temperance she doesn’t see fit to use now. Her left fist winds back. But Riddle is quick to react. He steps back; her blow ghosting over his stomach. A commotion breaks. Students gasp and chatter.

‘You think you’re above reproach?’ she hisses under all the noise.

Tom steps back. He straightens himself, holding his jaw and flexing it with shrewd eyes on Minerva. His usually coiffed hair slips from its position to hide his eyes.

‘Try anything again and I’ll—’

A curse from behind her hits her in her tunnel vision.

Tom rubs tired hands down his face, sitting at the side of his bed. The bruising from the day’s excitement has already been removed, but the physical damage is nothing in compare to his utter shame. A muggle assault from another student. Shock had allowed a strike to hit true. He grits his teeth. ‘Hill,’ his thoughts hiss. Tom knows she’s the one to blame for the violent altercation with McGonagall, despite the prefect’s refusal to explain why she had attacked him.

Two soft taps on the dorm room door interrupt his thoughts.

‘Come in,’ Tom says.

Blonde hair hesitantly peeks into the room. Nott tries to read Tom’s expression before stepping into his dorm chambers. Rosier lazily grabs his wand and twirls it to lock the door behind him. Then returns to his current fixation. Sitting on his bed, he pays no mind to them, papers spread about him in focus. Quidditch practice occupies their other roommate at the moment. Tom stands and walks around to the end of his bed. Leaning against the footboard, he gestures to his desk chair for Nott to take his seat.

With a sigh, Tom crosses his arms. ‘What brings you here, Eldwyn?’

‘The letter from the Ministry has arrived,’ Nott says.

He pulls out a large parchment from his inner robe pockets. It’s like all Ministry correspondence, tanned and stamped in red letters. He hands it to Tom. The rough envelope slides against his fingertips. With a slicing motion of his index finger, he cuts the top of the packet. Tom plucks the document out and reads it. Nott is restless in the seat across, foot shaking impatiently or, perhaps more accurately, anxiously.

Tom hums and slides his wand down to his palm. Tucking the parchment back in the envelope, he sets the letter aflame with a twirl of his wrist and murmur of Incendio.

‘Thank you, Eldwyn. You’ve confirmed my suspicions and done me a great service.’ He smiles. ‘I believe you were interested in the Draught of Peace, correct?’

‘I wouldn’t dare ask—’

‘Nonsense,’ He waves him off. ‘I shall have that for you before the start of the third trimester.’

He bows his head. ‘I—Thank you, my Lord.’

‘I must be getting to work now. You are dismissed.’

Nott bows his head once more before leaving, as Rosier dispells the door temporarily. In the solitude of his room, Tom rests his hands on the bed’s end. Rosier looks at him with a quirked brow.

‘Curious after all?’ Tom says.

Rosier sits up, his attention fully off his work. ‘Yes. Admittedly, things are becoming more interesting at Hogwarts because of her.’

Tom huffs a laugh. Rosier’s attention is a fickle thing, but discord and chaos are interests that easily catch his eye.

‘Flavian Aurelias Dante Fontius is Hill’s guardian,’ he reveals.

‘I thought it was strange to see the Head Unspeakable in Hogwarts.’ Rosier’s eyes widen farther than Tom’s ever seen before and then narrow. ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

‘I ran into him the night of Hill’s assault. This just confirms my suspicions. What can you tell me about the Head Unspeakable?’

Rosier flicks his wand, sending his belongings to his desk. With a rustle, he settles his chin on his fist, eyes closed.

‘He’s one of our own. Born in the spring of 1652, he has been Head Unspeakable for over a century. Before he held a seat in the Wizengamot. He proposed several controversial laws to restrict research. Eventually leading to the creation of the Ethics Committee for the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries. A sort of auditing board to monitor the standards of the experiments conducted. He held position on the committee for twenty years passed its creation. Some of his greatest achievements include Soul and Life Force Theory, the invention of the Magianimaegramma, MAG for short, and the discovery of various modern healing runes. Rumoured to hate children and is the ex-husband of our current DADA professor.’ Rosier opens his eyes.

‘You’re telling me he’s nearly three hundred?’ Tom asks.

‘Yes. He looks younger than Dippet, doesn’t he?’

He nods.

‘Well, there’s nothing definitive. However, some believe he’s dabbled in some darker magics and doubled his lifespan. Nobody knows how he accomplished this. But it would explain his development of a conscience in his seventies and his tightened regulation on soul-related experimentation. If you’d like to know more, I can do a thorough work up later.’

‘Interesting. Please gather whatever information the Rosiers have on the Head Unspeakable.’ He smiles.

Tom turns and grabs his things for a shower. He finds he’s almost envious of Hill’s position. To work under someone with such vast knowledge, and one with such intimate knowledge of soul magic, would be a one in a lifetime opportunity. He sighs. Unfortunately, it’s only natural that Hill will squander this opportunity. His own research into immortality has led him to soul magic, horcruxes in particular. Though he’d rather not separate his soul, it seems the reasonable option among philosopher’s stones and vampirism. Unspeakable Flavian Fontius. He’ll have to look into his research.

He exits the dorm, heading for the bathrooms. His fingers tap against his towel. The clack of his shoes reverberates against the corridor.

February the twenty-seventh of this year.

It’s the last bit of information included in the document from the Ministry. The day that Hill received her citizenship. An odd date considering magical children are recorded at the time of their awakening. Roughly ten months have passed since then. She had mentioned seven months of studies before coming to Hogwarts. That puts her in the right timeframe. With a twist, he turns the doorknob and heads into the shared washroom.

Magical citizenship at the age of fourteen, a famous magical guardian, unknown powers, and no formal teaching before Hogwarts. Another trip to the library is in order. There’s a book he’d read in passing—one on unique abilities—that he’ll need to revisit.

Chapter Text

‘—Doesn’t the Ministry need you, Flavian!’

In the cot of the Hospital wing, Irene stirs to wakefulness. The glass of the tall windows bleed in red. Rays of scarlet bathe the sterile white of the chamber. It must be evening. She’d nearly slept the day away.

‘Did we not divorce believing it would make our relationship more civil, Gail?’

That’s the Overlord. Irene’s eyes are wide awake now. Right. Fontius was here. Last night—was it last night? It’s a bit hazy. And now that she thinks about it, Irene doesn’t remember calling for him. She’s almost certain she’d asked for Evan.

‘I believe that to be a gross understatement. However, yes. That makes me no longer your Gail as well,’ she snaps and…that’s Professor Merrythought.

‘I understand your frustrations; however, I am not the one who’d caused this. I only am here out of worry,’ the Overlord’s tone is distressingly sweet.

Irene grimaces. Her stomach squeezes uncomfortably. Gripping her sheets, she stares at the partition that sits between her and her guests.

‘Yes, I know. I’m the one. I should have paid better attention to the students. This was my fault as an educator,’ Merrythought says.

‘Perhaps. But we both know violence such as this tends to rise in specific generations. Malfoy, Black, Lestrange, Longbottom, you understand. This is the class with the greatest number of pureblood heirs. Most years, Hogwarts is filled with scions.’ Fontius hums.

And that’s a surprise to Irene. Couldn’t Fontius have given her a warning or something?

‘If you are looking to change things, Albus is quite…agreeable. It may do you well to speak with him regarding tightening punishments and encouraging those that speak up against such assaults. He was able to convince Hornby to listen and accept the expulsion, after all. It’s likely he wanted a more severe punishment but opted to cut his losses. Should have been in Slytherin, that one.’

Expulsion? She hurriedly sits up in surprise. The bed squeals and squeaks while Irene groans from the thoughtless move.

‘Miss Hill?’ Professor Merrythought asks.

‘Uh…present?’ Irene grimaces.

There’s a shuffling of footsteps, and then both adults crowd the end of her bed. Something in Irene unravels. Just the sight of her—officially documented—guardian is enough to set the edge she didn’t know she’d carried to rest.

Irene fiddles with her hands. It’s been a while since she’s last seen Fontius, but he’s looking a bit haggard. Purple circles halo his eyes while his skin’s a bit more ashen than usual. To his side, Professor Merrythought looks much the same, but instead of purple circles, they’re red.

‘I’m glad to see you up, Miss Hill.’ Professor Merrythought smiles, though pained.

‘Thanks for checking in on me.’ Irene smiles back.

‘If you were wondering, Griselda mentioned they will discharge you by Thursday evening,’ Fontius says.

Merrythought turns to him. ‘Thursday? But her burns, they are—’

‘I believe she took some of my suggestions to floo call St. Mungo’s. You can thank Margarite for this,’ Fontius says. ‘We wouldn’t want her stuck in here over the weekend, would we?’

Irene tilts her head. Is he really talking about work right now? Dictator.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ Professor Merrythought claps her hands. ‘Don’t worry about coming into the DADA classroom this weekend. Flavian has, of course, marked you as off for the next two weeks.’

Scratch that. Apparently, the Overlord does have a heart. Irene sheepishly smiles up at him. ‘Thank you, Boss.’ She bows her head.

‘Of course, my dear child. Did you know you’ve had several guests since the morning? I’m partial to that Wolpert and Fawley of yours. Well behaved those two. The others, however, are…concerning. Especially that McGonagall, coming in with hexed eyes. Must be trouble, that one.’ He shakes his head.

‘Minerva did? Are you sure you haven’t got her mixed up with Ir-Fawley?’

‘No, she was able to introduce herself adequately despite her condition. Physically assaulted another student as a prefect. A shame, that one. What has Hogwarts come to?’

Irene grimaces. ‘Minerva really isn’t the type to do something like that. I’m sure she had her reasons.’

‘Although I’d usually agree, Miss Hill, the student Miss McGonagall assaulted, was one of the more mild-mannered children.’

‘Again, such a shame.’ Fontius sighs, then comes over to rustle his hands through Irene’s hair fondly. ‘Have fun with your friends this weekend, my dear child.’

Her smile grows a bit brighter. ‘I will! Thank you again, Fontius. Oh, but if you don’t mind me asking, where’s Evan?’ Irene furrows her brows. ‘I thought I called for him. And it was late at night. I’m sorry for bothering you.’

‘No, you asked for Prewett. However, we were both still at work. He wanted to come, but I sent him off on errand.’

Fontius takes the empty chair that Tom had sat in the night before. With a glance to Merrythought, she walks to the end of the ward, watching the door.

‘Is this about my, uh, stuff?’ She’s not sure if Fontius would, but she imagines he’d hex her if she said it out loud.

‘Yes, unfortunately so. Though, it’s better we have this conversation in-person rather than over the floo like I had mentioned in the letter.’ He sighs. ‘First, I apologise, but I must ask. Do you remember what happened to that awful child?’

Irene’s heart quakes, pulse races. It’s hard to breathe.

‘No, not really,’ she forces out. ‘I remember the curse, and-and being dragged, then she told me her plans—the dark artefact, the quintaped…. And then the burning was, it was—’ she swallows thickly to stop her voice from heightening. Her fists tighten. ‘Then I-I let my magic out and passed out. The next thing I remember is somebody breaking in and carrying me out.’ She carefully omits the part where she’d pleaded for Hornby’s life. Fontius is the opposite of a pacifist, after all.

He hums and taps his fingers. ‘A combination of both accidental magic and your abilities, I see. I’d say your magic is quick to protect you. I cannot say whether this is nature or nurture.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Fortunately, you have left your assailant crippled. She is incapable of performing magic. I do believe that’s an adequate punishment.’ He smiles.

‘No longer capable of magic, I see,’ she mumbles, then snaps to him.

‘What!?’

‘Now, dear, don’t look so appalled.’ Fontius quirks a brow.

‘Is she-will she…? Is it temporary?

‘I’m not certain at the moment. Margarite has agreed to send all medical information regarding Hornby’s condition to me. We shall wait until I review the results.’

One finger taps against his robes. Irene can’t help but worry at what is to come out next.

‘There is a question of just how you managed to accomplish this feat. Quite an illegal act—sealing another’s magic—let’s be grateful we were able to avoid the authorities. I can’t imagine breaking a taboo would put you in good standing with the Department of Magical Enforcement.’ His finger stills with an exhale. ‘Any matter. Either way, brilliant work, Irene. Let’s cross our fingers that it’s a permanent affliction.’ He flashes a smirk.

Irene’s not sure how to feel about the overwhelming praise for nearly killing someone and effectively taking their magic away. So, she just swallows. When she looks down, her hands are trembling. But why? Irene tightens them into fists.

‘Now onto other matters, I have sent Evan to pick up Miss Gladys Macmillan. And please do send him a letter as soon as you can lest he storm the castle. Miss Macmillan is an upcoming European duelling champion, and originally, plans were for her to come work at the castle starting next semester. However, due to recent events, I’d feel more comfortable if she was here.’

‘Oh’ she says, a bit shocked. She’d never taken Fontius to be the type to care about bullying, but then again, this was more serious than that. ‘Wait, why was she starting here, anyway? Is there something going on?’

‘Yes.’ He sighs again. ‘I’m currently investigating an old friend of mine, Ramhart. He was only mentioned once before to you.’

‘The guy you met on Samhain? Isn’t he a researcher? Why would you need a, uh, bodyguard because of him?’

‘You can never be too careful,’ Fontius says, looking over his glasses at Irene. ‘We don’t want anyone dangerous catching a word of you. Grindelwald is one such dangerous person. He is not above using children as tools,’ he snarls. ‘I will be heading out of the country as soon as Miss Macmillan arrives. Better to make this an expedient process.’

Irene almost laughs, because well, there’s already someone dangerous bothering her. Her mouth does a strange twitch instead. ‘Uh, so is there anything I should be doing?’

He clasps his hands between his lap. ‘I need you to stay at Hogwarts over the break. Unfortunately, with the other matters we’ve been swept into, there’s been little time to finish the wards on your apartment, and we should just refrain from moving you at the moment. There’s also something else. Regarding your letter, transferring….’

The red of the sky has calmed to violet as the sun sets on the horizon. Fontius sits bathed in its cool hue.

‘I have finished arrangements for you to live in America. Of course, you will not be alone. Either I or Galatea will join you. There, a new identity and life are waiting. MACUSA, admittedly, is safer since their strict audit of the agency in result of Grindelwald’s attack. They also care little for blood purity. You can leave if you wish.’

Her eyes drift to the icy blue of her hospital sheets. In her lap, Irene’s fingers nervously fiddle. The bandages over her arms and throb of her abdomen make it hard to not imagine a life without this.

‘I’m not asking you to make your decision now. I believe you’ll need time to think it over. Regardless of what you decide, I will honour your wishes.’ Fontius rustles her hair once more. ‘This is your life, Irene. No one can carve out its path.’

Alright. Something is definitely amiss.

Iris has never been the sharpest student, but Minerva’s glares are hard to miss. Because, usually, Iris is at the other end of those scathing stares. It’s almost prophetic how she knows when Minerva’s about to send daggers with her eyes. But she’s not the one Minerva seems to be burning holes through.

Thursday evenings hold Potions and DADA. Potions and DADA mean likeable partners and a healthy amount of goofing off, not whatever madness this is.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Iris groans out.

And she is ignored. Minerva stares blankly at their shared cauldron of soon to be Befuddlement Potion.

The Prefect’ has gone around the bend. Ever since Irene was attacked, she’s been acting strange. Punching Tom Riddle in the face. Trying to talk to Iris like they were back in first-year. And also blabbing on about, ‘Something. Something. Make this right.’ Honestly, Iris blocks out half of what Minerva says out of respect to herself. If she thinks Iris a spoiled prat, then she’ll act as one.

And it’s not as if Iris doesn’t understand the frustration Minerva must be going through. Hearing that Irene’s in the Hospital Wing drifting in and out of sleep from terrible injuries sets her wand on fire. She’d like to hex the pureblood who did this to Irene into the next century, but with no one to point fingers at, they’ll have to wait till she wakes up.

Then Iris will get her revenge. One way or another.

The room is as dreary and dark as it usually is. Black desks, blackboards, black chairs, pewter cauldrons. Ugh. This is too much. Even the slate grey floor looks black in the dim and green illumination from the—surprise—black lanterns. Merlin. The only thing that isn’t terribly depressing in this chamber is the professor himself, always behaving like some bloody Hufflepuff. She sighs, eyes catching on the same exact spider web that’s been there since third-year. Iris would ask the professor to remove it, but knowing Slughorn, it’s probably the source of some potion’s ingredient. She rolls her eyes. 

Grabbing some goosegrass, she crushes it and turns to add it to the cauldron.

Slap!

She’s batted away by Minerva. Her hand flares red.

‘What in the bloody hell was that?’ Iris hisses.

‘Scurvy grass, not goosegrass,’ Minerva sighs and mumbles something under her breath.

Her face scrunches. ‘Well, if someone was paying attention, maybe they could have told me.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Am I supposed to monitor you on top of brewing the potion?’

‘No, actually. You’re supposed to be my partner, I remind you, since you seemed to have forgotten whisking me away from Gwen, and “partners” work cooperatively.’

‘Yes, quite some help you’ve been, Fawley. Having to monitor our cauldron alongside Riddle’s is exhausting.’ She glares.

What’s she going on about now? ‘Minerva, I know we are not friends in any capacity, but I must tell you as the only one who has noticed thus far.’ She places her hands on Minerva’s shoulders, levelling a serious stare despite their twelve-centimetre height difference. ‘You’ve gone mental.’

Minerva slaps her hands off and grumbles something unintelligible to herself.

Iris doesn’t let her drop it this time, but tries to maintain an air of nonchalance. Making quick work of the hemlock using the mortar and pestle, Iris glances at Minerva. ‘So, what’s with you and Riddle, anyway?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Minerva grabs the already pulverised lovage while looking at Iris like she’d grown a second head.

To think she’s trying to act coy about this. Iris huffs and smashes another collection of white petals. ‘I just think physical violence is a very unhealthy method for talking things out.’

‘Talking things out?’ Now she’s looking at Iris like she’s daft. Rude. ‘Whatever, I don’t have time for this.’

Minerva flicks her wand under the table. A mouse materialises from a goblet in her bag. It scurries out to the Slytherin side of the room. It’s tiny hand like feet crawling across blacken cobblestone. Iris shivers. Screams erupt as the animal crawls up Davies’s pants. But it seems that wasn’t the point of the random rat. She cocks her head. With another flick of Minerva’s wrist, an army of rats rush out of the poor Slytherin’s trousers.

‘Oh, my stars! That’s absolutely disgusting!’ Carrow shrieks.

A full panic breaks out. Slughorn quick to the scene, trying to vanish all the wayward rodents. He’s terribly inefficient with his rotund and unagile movements. However, Minerva remains calm. Iris watches as she vanishes the crushed petals and intact scurvy grass on Riddle and Amedeo’s desk in the distraction and floats the crushed lovage and goosegrass over in their place. It isn’t long before the class settles soon after, all rats vanished to the nether.

‘What in the blazes are you thinking?’ Iris hisses, grabbing Minerva’s elbow.

Minerva shakes her off. ‘What we planned,’ she hisses back.

‘We? I did nothing of the sort!’

Another roll of her eyes and Minerva snatches the mortar away from Iris. ‘Do you listen to a word I say?’

‘No.’ Iris crosses her arms.

‘Godric, I should’ve known.’ She sprinkles the hemlock into the cauldron. ‘You never bothered to hear me out in second-year. Why would you start now?’ Her voice ebbs into a mumble, but this time Iris catches it. ‘It seems all I can count on is for you to pulverise the blasted lovage.’

She blinks. ‘Lovage?’

‘Yes, mash the infernal lovage is the only thing you’ve done so far.’

Iris swallows, paling.

Minerva blinks. ‘You didn’t, did you?’

They turn to the cauldron just before it explodes.

Bright purple goop blasts forward, coating them. To their dumb luck, it isn’t corrosive.

‘Oh my, you two should hurry off to the Hospital Wing,’ Slughorn says and promptly vanishes their cauldron.

This is absolute dragon shite. Iris flings off the slime from her face, turning to glare at her disaster of a partner. Minerva glares back, but not at Iris. What? Her eyes follow her scorching stare.

A Slytherin student looks curiously back.

Iris sighs. It’s Tom Riddle, of course.

It’s a drift, both in sleep and in waking moments. Twice it seems she’s missed her friends’ visit. The various fruits and candies at the side of her bed sit as proof. Throughout Irene’s stay in the medical wing, Madam Weber has come to change her bandages with a new set of potioned patches twice. Each time, they look less like burnt chicken and more like skin. Which is great. She’s really going to make it to Hogsmeade on Saturday. And she wants to be excited, she really does. But at the same time, there’s a question that lingers.

Is this it?

Fontius has offered her a path free. Irene can leave this castle. Leave the discrimination that’s landed her in the hospital, the monster that hides in human skin, and the war that looms on the edge of the horizon. But also, she’ll leave the first friends to wander into her life. So, when she looks at her bandages, there’s nothing but confusion.

A rattling rolls down the aisle. There’s the distinct humming that accompanies it to stop at the foot of her bed.

‘Good to see you up, Miss Hill. That potion must really knock one out if it got a teenager like yourself to sleep nearly twenty-four hours in two days.’ Madam Weber continues her humming.

Her deft spell unwraps the cloth bandages around Irene’s arms and legs. To her surprise, there’s no silvertip scar that persists, only some reddened irritation.

‘Well, look at that.’ She whistles. ‘I guess that guardian of yours was right.’

This time, instead of covering her in another set of bandages, the mediwitch helps Irene apply a decent coat of some sort of orange paste.

‘This should be the last afternoon I’ll keep you. I’ll check your burns have healed up one more time before I let you go.’ She winks and heads off.

Irene looks down. The orange slime coats her arms and legs like she’s some human snail. It’s unfortunate. Like this, she’s unable to do any work that has been left to accumulate. With a sigh, she is left to sit in the empty ward with only her thoughts as company. Which is not how she’d like to spend her time awake.

Her life’s all tangled up. Voldemort’s Prince Charming façade has burst into flames. Her building friendships are now possibly coming to their end. She’s somehow managed to seal away someone’s magic. And Fontius has asked if she’d like to leave.

It’s a mess. One she doesn’t know where to start with. Irene slouches but doesn’t lie back down. Instead, she decides to meditate. Her mom said it was a trick from her father to relax the mind. Although she’s never been great at it, it’s one way to pass the time.

Sitting cross-legged, Irene closes her eyes. She’s in the shadow of her mind. Her chest rises and falls in slow, careful breaths. However, her heart begins to race. The dark brings back memories of the corridor. Sounds of her heavy breaths and robes dragging across stone. The smell of blood fills her senses. Skeletal fingers wrap around her ankles. Irene can’t breathe. Stop. Calm down. It’s in her mind, she tells herself. She clenches her knees. The burn of her skin flares, white-hot. She tries to open her mouth, but she’s unable to move, fear paralysing her. Her throat clenches. A weight on her ankle tugs.

‘—stop evading the question!’

Irene opens her eyes and gasps. Phantom sensations fade. The voice is Iris. Her heartbeat slows gradually. The feeling of comfort and safety settles back in her skin.

‘You didn’t care to listen before. It’s none of your business now, Fawley!’ Minerva shouts.

That doesn’t spell anything good. Irene wonders what the two of them would be doing in the Hospital Wing together. She rises onto her feet. Madam Weber never told her she had to stay put, after all.

She steps out to the walkway, in the glory of her hospital gown and orange limbs, and waves. ‘Iris, Minerva!’ Irene beams, heart pumping, then blinks.

But both her friends’ faces twist in horror.

‘Bloody Hell,’ Iris says.

‘That wanker!’ Minerva growls.

Both Iris and Irene’s eyebrows shoot up.

‘Who are you!?’ Iris has her hands ruffling through her hair, unbecomingly. ‘And what have you done with Minerva?’

Irene laughs.

‘This is not a laughing matter,’ Minerva says.

Her serious tone does nothing to stop Irene from slumping over in a fit of giggles. ‘I’m sorry, but God.’ She laughs even harder, the air leaving her lungs. ‘We’re quite the gathering, aren’t we?’ Her hand gestures to them emphatically.

The two glances at themselves to realise what Irene is talking about.

A bright violet goop covers them like some sort of snail paste.

Madam Weber makes her way down to Scourgify the goop off of them and runs tests to check if the solution is dangerous. When all comes back clear, they decide to skip DADA and stay in the Hospital Wing.

‘So you want to tell me how you two ended up like that in Potions?’ Irene cocks a brow.

‘Minerva’s lost her mind. That’s what happened,’ Iris says.

Rightfully, Minerva looks affronted. Irene’s just wondering what exactly is going on. Yesterday she’d heard about the punching incident and now a Potion’s explosion. Weird. She sits uncomfortably at the edge of her bed, trying—and failing—to keep her lotioned limbs off the linen fabric beneath. Every time she’s distracted, her arms automatically move to rest on her lap. Neon orange arm prints leave traces on white cloth. In front of her, sits both Minerva and Iris in two short stools gathered from the other bed sides, their hair temporarily platinum blond from the purple sludge.

‘I have not, Fawley. Don’t be rude,’ Minerva sniffs.

‘Oh right, punching Tom Riddle is an absolutely “sane” thing to do.’

Irene blinks.

‘He deserved that and more,’ Minerva growls.

‘Like what you did to us with that hemlock? Fortuna, I do not want to know what would have happened if I had added the goosegrass.’ Iris pulls at her fluffed-up platinum hair. The curls have bent out of shape from the rough rounds of Scourgify.

‘You punched Riddle,’ Irene gasps. ‘Oh. My. God. You! Why would you do that!?’

This isn’t good. Irene rakes two slimy hands through her hair, not caring about the mess.

Oh God, Minerva’s gone and punched Voldemort.

‘He deserves far worse!’ She raises her chin in defiance and gestures at Irene. ‘Look at you, Irene. I’m not such a fool that I don’t recognise burn salve when I see it. And based on the fact, you were out for a day and a half, I don’t doubt those wounds were worse before!’

Irene’s face scrunches in confusion. What is she talking about?

‘…By the Gods. So that’s what you meant by revenge and making things right!’ Iris says.

‘Merlin’s sake. Does everything I say go in one ear and out the other?’ Minerva glares.

‘Wait.’ Iris grips her knees as if she needs to physically hold herself down. ‘That’s who did this to you?’ She looks at Irene, then Minerva. ‘Riddle attacked Irene? Because you scorned him!?’ Her legs shake as if she’s about to spring up from her chair.

Both speak at the same time.

‘No!’ Irene says.

‘Yes!’ Minerva says.

They look at each other and stare.

‘Godric. Why, Minerva? Why?’ Irene’s now slimy hair sticks to her face and neck.

‘Still deserved, though it was an honest mistake. Who else would be the primary suspect?’ Minerva, not understanding the danger she’s put herself in, merely points her chin up, not one bit apologetic.

Irene grieves for her peaceful school-life. ‘Any pureblood supremacist?’

‘Is that who did this?’ Minerva blinks.

Irene nods her head. ‘Hornby. She’s been expelled anyhow. Doubt you’ll be able to inflict any vengeance.’

‘Hornby? The Ravenclaw?’

‘Yeah, apparently Lestrange has been beating her regularly, so she decided to take that out on me,’ Irene winces.

Minerva’s face contorts in disgust.

‘I know. It’s a healthy way of dealing with your problems.’

‘Can we take a step back for a minute?’ Iris asks. ‘So, Riddle didn’t attack you?’

Minerva’s mouth opens.

‘No. He did not.’ Irene shoots a glare at Minerva. ‘It was Hornby.’

‘Then why did you say Tom deserved the punch to the face?’ Iris looks at Minerva.

Irene keeps the same glare. If she tells Iris this, she’s dead.

‘Uh, well, he…ignored my advice to stop touching Irene.’ Minerva watches Irene while she says this hesitantly.

Irene smiles.

‘Oh, I see. Very well. It was deserved.’ She nods. ‘However, regarding Hornby.’ Iris’s face pinches. ‘Her being the one to do this in the name of blood supremacy is hypocritical.’

‘What do you mean? Hornby is a pureblood name. Maybe they aren’t part of the Sacred Twenty-eight, but they’ve aligned themselves with the Lestranges and Carrows,’ Minerva says.

Iris pops up from her chair to see if anyone has entered the medical ward. When she sees the coast is clear, she seats herself and leans in to whisper. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but my family is particularly in-the-know of any scandals. Hornby is Lestrange’s affair child and one from a muggle woman at that.’

‘What? How is this not the news around school?’ Minerva asks.

Irene’s hands tense into fists. Her mind is whirring with the need to review what was said during her assault. There was the part about Lestrange beating her, and talking like the girl owned her. Would that explain her status in her group of “friends?” She swallows. Then who gave Hornby the wand again and that transfiguration artefact?

‘It’s well kept. Maybe some purebloods know, but only the ones with vast information channels. You won’t find the Potters, Diggorys, Flints, or Goyles talking about this. The only other ones I can think of are the Malfoys, Rosiers, or Changs.’

She mentioned an “uncle.” What if that—

‘Irene, are you alright? You are looking a little pale,’ Iris says.

‘Oh, uh, yeah. I just don’t think talking about this is helping me.’ Her heart is an obnoxious mess in her chest.

‘I imagine it isn’t.’ Iris frowns. ‘Why don’t we chat about something else instead? On the bright side, you won’t have to attend tutoring this week because of all this. Have you told him to sod off yet?’

Irene nods. She doesn’t think she would have attended either way after the incident with Riddle. Skipping is not above her methods to ignore him if needed. ‘I did. He did not react well.’ She grimaces.

‘Understatement of the century,’ Minerva grumbles.

‘He’ll get over it eventually. That boy has half the girls in the school drooling for him, even more now that Minerva’s attacked him. You know, pity points and all that.’ Iris flourishes her hand with a shake of her head.

‘One can hope.’ But Irene doubts that. ‘I wish I could have seen you deck Riddle in the face,’ she sighs.

‘Maybe one of these days I’ll be able to afford a pensieve to show you,’ Minerva says.

‘I might just buy one for you if I get desperate enough. I have the spare money, working and all.’

With the current nightmare of Voldemort’s attention, Irene can see herself needing the memory for stress relief purposes. Although if it gets to that point, she might just punch him in the face herself. At this point, what is there to lose?

‘Speaking of which, do you still have Ministry work this weekend?’ Iris asks.

‘No, my boss told me I’m off for the week and possibly the next one as well. I’m free to join everyone at Hogsmeade this weekend.’

‘Your boss. A tall man, tanned skin, and curly silver and brown hair?’ Iris asks.

‘Yeah, that’s him. He told me he met both of you while I was out.’

‘Oh, my stars. When you said Flavian, I thought I heard wrong. But Head Unspeakable Flavian Aurelias Dante Fontius is your boss!?’ she squeals. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Oh no. That was the Head Unspeakable?’ Minerva groans. ‘I’ll never work in the Department of Mysteries now.’

‘I didn’t think it was a good idea. You know, it would gather attention and everything.’ Irene backs away from Iris. ‘And you want to work at the DoM? You don’t want to be a professor?’

‘Oh, how very perceptive, Irene. I didn’t know you had that in you.’ Iris smiles, proud.

‘Thanks.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I might not see much, but I can tell what will cause a stir and what will not.’

‘How did you know I was considering teaching? I haven’t told anyone,’ Minerva says.

‘Er, you’re really good at tutoring. I figured you’d go into something similar,’ Irene says.

‘Don’t tell her that. It’ll go to her already gargantuan head,’ Iris says.

Minerva sniffs and Irene laughs. She’s never had friends like this, never experienced such trust with someone other than her mum. But here, at Hogwarts with her peers, she’s found a place she belongs. As the afternoon waxes and the Hospital Wing remains silent aside from their boisterous group, a part of Irene doesn’t want to let go. Platinum hair shines brightly in the peak of day. Her gloopy limbs reflect in the light. What happened the days before, feels a faraway nightmare.

In this peace, she wants nothing more than for it to last. Yet perhaps that’s selfish of her. Fontius’s offer lingers in the background. Minerva punching Riddle feels like a joke, and Hornby’s violent assault seems a one-in-a-lifetime incident, but they aren’t. Perhaps by being here Irene’s making everything worse.

The door from down the hall opens. Madam Weber strolls out with a few things in her cart. It must be time to discharge her. She smiles a bit sadly at her two friends bickering.

Like this, they feel like….

A family.

Irene’s always been weak to it.

Chapter Text

It’s frightening. Irene can feel the apprehensive stares, the worried glances from Gryffindor, from the muggle-borns. It places invisible shackles on her. Afraid to set off a chain reaction leading to what, she’s not sure. However, everyone’s on edge as much as she is. The slightest twitch sets her instincts in flux. This latest incident has opened her view to how many eyes are on her. The Slytherins, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs. From them she senses disgust, apathy, worry, empathy, interest.

She wonders if it was like this before. Or perhaps this is a complication spurred by her vicious assault. Either way, noticing the stares gives her a strange sense of security and anxiety. Maybe if there’s a next time, she’ll see it coming.

Irene sits in the bright classroom. It’s a Friday morning, meaning a double-blocked class of Charms with Professor Voight. He’s a lean and tall man in his forties with sandy blonde hair and bright grey eyes. Probably from Germany-based on his accent. Out of all the professors, he’s one of Irene’s favourites. He’s very clear about his expectations and plays no favours, which means she’s nothing but a speck on his roster—close to the bottom unfortunately—and she doesn’t mind that. It’s better than the intense scrutiny of Polaris, and the anxious glances of Merrythought.

The professor takes long steps by his enchanted chalkboard, the stray rays from the windows catch on his skin. The soft and cool colours of green and blue decorate the room, yet at the same time fill it with warmth. On his desk lie only practical artefacts used to explain the various benefits that charms can offer. Yet in the very corner, there’s a pot of incense that smells of smoke and spices. It’s rare to see a professor with such things unless they’re involved in the more spiritual areas of magic.

‘Next week we are reviewing the eradication and disillusionment charms for your end-of-term exams. Dismissed,’ Professor Voight says.

He turns from the students and begins twirling his wand, weaving spells to both erase and pack his things for lunch.

Irene stands from her seat in the auditorium. Both Iris and Minerva rise and flank her. They’ve been making faces at each other since the morning, but nevertheless stay stubbornly at her side. Irene glances at them to see the tense lines and narrowed eyes. She grimaces, looking at her other friends. Blythe gives a pinched look of apology before scampering off with Evelyn and Lillian. Traitor. Irene sighs. One by one, she packs her books.

The eyes on her slow her exit. Careless, or perhaps purposeful, comments whisper in the background.

“You think she faked it?” someone says.

“I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s been commanding attention since the first day of classes,” another adds.

“Muggle-borns,” they scoff.

Irene hunches in on herself, shoulders narrowing. She knows she shouldn’t. She hasn’t done anything wrong, but somehow that doesn’t stop the flare of embarrassment that floods her. Her fingers take on a laboured pace. She’ll be the last one to leave and among the last ones to walk to the Great Hall. No need to drive more attention to her. She stows her notebook in her bag, leather grazing her fingertips. Both Minerva and Iris finish packing before her, but instead of waiting outside, they stand at the end of the stairs locked in a glaring match. A dull throbbing at her forehead almost forces out another sigh. Irene rubs the point between her eyes. Steps and chatter fade as the students begin the trek to lunch. Taking a deep breath, she shrugs her bag over her shoulder and walks down the stairs to the exit. Her two friends trail her like bloody bodyguards, bickering behind.

Outside the doors and into the corridors, someone in Ravenclaw colours stands chattering to another. Irene flinches but keeps moving. Neither Minerva nor Iris has noticed anything. Her skin pales under her robes. And isn’t that a shame? She shouldn’t feel tense just because the girl in braids wears blue. Plus, she’s fairly small. Minerva—based on the stories Irene has heard—could take her. Irene’s fists are tense; she tries to will them to relax. When she shakes herself out of it, she almost bumps into someone. Luckily, Iris stops her before the crash, because, well, it’s Malfoy.

He turns with either a sneer or just disgust. “Ah, Miss Hill,” Malfoy says.

“Oh, uh,” Irene says. Her attention flits here and there, never quite settling on the platinum blonde in front of her. The students that loiter in the halls stare from the corner of their eyes. This isn’t good. She needs to avoid any more bad blood.

“Excuse me. Malfoy,” Irene whispers.

Her feet are fast to step round him.

Abraxas watches as he’s told to, as he’s been taught to, as the sheepish Asian muggle-born totters foot to foot like a guilty child. He tsks at her behaviour. Improper. Timid. Ignorant. Graceless. No wonder Fawley has taken such an interest in the mannerless mudblood. She seems to embody all that the dim pureblood resists.

Chaos is something scarcely brought to the stage, but it occurs naturally when an influential chest piece begins its move. He’s seen it with Tom Riddle, with Longbottom, and even Lestrange to a lesser extent. However, usually such chaos is built with intent. A motive, if you will. Yet with Hill it seems to circulate her like the eye of a storm and at its centre she’s nothing but oblivious to what she destroys. Speaking against Renee, refusing Cadwallader, occupying Riddle’s attention, expelling Hornby.

He doesn’t like that, doesn’t like the wild manner in which she’s disturbed the castle’s equilibrium, hates that her ignorance allows her to do so without knowing what she’s destroying.

Hill looks at her feet, murmuring something he barely catches before trying to skirt around him.

Malfoy leans into her ear. “Ignorance doesn’t absolve you from liability, Hill. Mind your actions before you stir up enough trouble to ruin us all.”

He straightens his robes, not bothering to look at her expression, and turns on his heels for the Great Hall passing by Riddle as he goes.   

Discerning one’s ability—and in the process, their essence as well—has never been difficult for Tom. People are, after all, keen to show themselves off at every chance. Take Malfoy, for instance. The calm, careful power he holds so loftily. A confidence, entitlement, that’s born of privilege. He does not flaunt himself, as he believes there is nothing to prove, yet he rarely rises above what is expected. That’s why his reaction to Hill does not surprise Tom.

To live comfortably, to live without struggle, is to live coddled in stagnation. So Malfoy’s slip of the tongue at a deviation from his predictable life is expected. The unsettling tides of discord being sewn into Hogwarts is nothing to write off. However, Tom can see how it affects Malfoy to a greater extent. What is unanticipated to him is something of a thorn in his side, something he is unadvised to react to. In the end, Malfoy is a capable peer that will meet expectations, but his potential is limited.

‘Are we going to ignore the erumpent in the room?’ Rosier asks.

His expression is carefully blank. He’s always so eager to stir up trouble. It’s a mercy he touched on the topic in the comfort of the Slytherin Common Room.

Malfoy ruffles almost like those gaudy peacocks his family keeps. His platinum hair shines an unflattering green haze over pale strands and even more pale skin.

‘I don’t see why we should address it when we can do nothing,’ Malfoy says.

‘A moot point, then?’ Nott asks.

‘A moot point?’ Avery scoffs. ‘No. There’s plenty to do about the mud’—he glances around, sees the scathing looks from most of the other members—‘muggle-borns.’

Isn’t that interesting? The slur has not been thrown so easily about under all the tension in Hogwarts. Tom turns the page of his book. He sits at the edge of their group, in the loveseat against the wall. The group is at his side, a collection of conjured stools and throw pillows, keeping them comfortably situated.

‘So, what will you add to the conversation, then?’ Malfoy asks.

‘That this isn’t right. That we should not be treated like this. Expulsion, no matter what the professors call Hornby’s so-called “leave,” is intolerable!’ Avery says, restarting in a barely concealed whisper.

The other groups that occupy the common room glance over but are otherwise not privy to his treacherous suggestions. To his side, Lestrange is quiet, unwilling to engage. However, they’ve clearly been talking if Avery has noticed Hornby’s timely absence.

‘We could be making a larger deal out of something minor. What if Hornby had a family emergency?’ Nott says.

‘Shut it, Eldwyn,’ Avery glares. ‘Just because you’ve got a pair of rose-tinted glasses doesn’t mean the rest of us do.’

Although the conversation sheds light on the positions of his company, Tom finds his ears drifting, only somewhat engaged. Everything has shifted.

There’s an unsettling tension weighing the halls of Hogwarts since Wednesday morning. A clash of long-standing beliefs. A muggle-born’s sudden hospitalisation and a pureblood’s absence subjects of intense speculation. To Slytherins in particular, this moment could represent a massive shift in the operations of the school. A student assaulted, and another on leave? It’s obvious to the perceptive. As Avery said, this is expulsion in everything else other than name. The only question is when the professors will announce Hornby’s unfortunate transfer.

Tom sighs. Better to watch and wait.

The book that sits to his side glimmers from the charm interwoven in it—gold rippling across the silver thread embroidered on its black leather. The Gift of Fortuna. Written in the 12^th century, a first-hand account on unique magics, and the first recording of a phenomenon called Latent Awakening.

‘…your suggestion?’ drawls Malfoy.

‘Well, that’s…. I’m not sure. But the Gryffindors are supporting their supposed “victim” so we should do the same.’ Avery furrows his brows, glancing nervously to Lestrange.

‘But shouldn’t the Ravenclaws “rally” then?’ Rosier cocks his head.

This book was one of his first reads after he learned his ability to speak to snakes meant more than what Dumbledore let on. His lips twitch. A latent developer. Said to be a child that develops magic well into their formative years. Their powers are unique, abilities ancient in origin.

‘Stop being pedantic, Jacques,’ Avery snaps, garnering Tom’s attention. ‘Anyway, we should make a move. Hill isn’t even in that bad of shape. Hardly a sympathetic sort,’ he whispers.

Malfoy scoffs at the idea. Tom does as well, albeit silently, Avery is hasty as ever and such impatience has likely been flamed by Lestrange.

‘You think it was some childish hex that landed Hornby out of the castle?’ Rosier asks.

‘What else would it be? So what if she’s…,’ he turns to Tom, his voice in a whisper, ‘well-connected? It’s about time someone humbled her.’

Tom sighs. Some part of him almost regrets adding Avery to his inner circle. Ability. Potential. Avery lacks such traits in spades. He taps his fingers across his lap. But the object of Avery’s ire?

‘—What else would it be?’ Black sighs, irritated and places his quill down, fully directing his attention to the conversation. ‘Perhaps an attempt on a student’s life in the walls of Hogwarts? Expulsion at Hogwarts hasn’t occurred since Dippet’s transition to Headmaster. He doesn’t punish students with disciplinary measures unless it’s a rather serious offence.’

‘If that’s true, then it’s certainly foolish.’ Rosier glances at Tom and back to the group.

‘You think it foolish?’ Lestrange narrows his eyes at Rosier.

Rosier does nothing but shrug.

‘I do,’ Malfoy interjects. ‘Her expulsion may be for the better of purebloods. How could one be so messy as to attempt something here, of all places? We are two weeks from break. Could she not have waited? A school that has thrown a founder out for having views against mudbloods,’ he spits, the word ever so easy to leave his lips. ‘How is this surprising?’

Mulciber returns to his studies with a scathing glare at Malfoy, who only looks him over once, a brow raised.

‘Perhaps it was to be a message,’ Lestrange suggests.

‘A laughable one that turned on her,’ Black says.

Lestrange tightens his fist, white knuckled.

Tom sees it. He watches the dangerous indignation that builds in Lestrange, but his mind is elsewhere. On the one person that seems to have stolen his attentions. His thumb trails across gold letters. There’s so little information needed to posit a theory, yet so much more necessitated to prove it. A smile rises to his lips. What he has gathered throughout the semester is undeniable. Damning. 

‘Anyway, I think we should all just lie low until the holiday blows by. Have you seen the professors? They all look ill,’ Nott says, trying to quell the tension.

‘Or maybe this is the right time to do something. The weekend’s coming up. That means Hogsmeade and professors with split priorities.’ Avery smirks.

‘If we are back to the juvenile courtyard bullying, I’ll pass.’ Rosier rolls his eyes, but there’s a glint in them.

‘Lestrange?’ Avery asks.

Lestrange’s brows furrow. ‘I have exams to focus on.’

‘Actually, I have one last matter.’ Malfoy’s eyes turn to Tom. ‘And what of you, Riddle? I imagine this is quite…complicated for you as someone with such unfortunate status.’

Tom smiles, his face a mask of apathy. Malfoy prods at him, hoping to find something to use and looking at him as a threat, something to be snuffed out.

‘I wouldn’t say it’s complicated….’ Tom loftily removes his hand from the tome. ‘Foolish arrogance always ends terribly. Better that someone as impulsive as that ruins themselves without dragging another down, wouldn’t you say?’ He glances to Lestrange with a cutting smile.

Lestrange turns away from him, paling.

‘Is that what you think of those like Hornby?’ Malfoy asks, but there’s another question lying beneath.

Nott tenses. ‘Uh, the night feast will end in another hour. Why don’t we head to the Great Hall?’

Malfoy stares at him with narrowed eyes. Tom ignores it and plucks his book up to stow it in his bag. The rest of the group begin to pack.

‘Did anyone manage to get in the Head Unspeakable’s good graces?’ Black asks, helping Nott refocus the conversation.

‘I’d rather speak with Undersecretary Shafiq if we could choose. Although I asked for pointers on campaigning. He was very…brisk,’ Malfoy says as they exit the chamber doors.

‘Why was he even here in the first place?’ Avery asks.

‘I think it had something to do with the dark artefact Merrythought brought in for the seventh years. The Head Unspeakable is a master in cursed items,’ Nott says.

‘He’s a few centuries old. He’s a master in most things,’ Rosier sighs.

‘Don’t act as if you didn’t care. I saw you chatting with him whenever classes were out,’ Avery says.

‘I’m not so daft as to pass over the opportunity offered. Though Abraxas is not wrong. He is not a patient sort,’ Rosier says.

‘That’s right, you want to work at the Department of Mysteries,’ Nott says.

Rosier shrugs. ‘Maybe. Or I could just apprentice in another country. Less government interference.’

They chat regarding their apprenticeship offers and applications as they tread the stairs up to the ground level. Tom doesn’t add to the conversation unless asked. It’s boring really. Almost like clockwork, they begin the same bi-weekly conversation regarding their futures. Not much changes, as expected, and yet no one has tired of this repetition. They head down the last corridor to the double doors.

‘Oh, lovely. Seems we have an unwanted guest.’ Malfoy rolls his eyes.

It’s late in the evening, dinner starting nearly two hours ago. Some students are already taking their leave from the hall. They loiter, simply staying to engage in chat before the Hogsmeade trip tomorrow. Tom watches the surprise visitor make her approach.

He smiles wide and expectant. This can only be regarding one matter. His expectations don’t deceive him. Hill’s focused eyes are only for him in this moment as they are always so intent on whatever she fixates on. But he sees the tremble of her lip and the stilted stride of her walk. With only a day out of the Hospital Wing, the terrors she faced seem to weigh her. Tom does not meet her halfway. To his side, Mulciber looks ravenous, an unfed dog about to strike. Seems Hill hasn’t spoken to him then.

‘Riddle,’ Hill glances away from him and then almost looks as if she regrets it, but then bows toward Mulciber before turning her eyes back on him. ‘Do you have any time?’

‘Now, Irene, what did I tell you about calling me Riddle?’ he croons mockingly.

She tenses, and Tom smiles. ‘Yes. Well, we also had the one conversation, and decided to keep formalities, right?’

He almost laughs at her terribly pinched smile. ‘Quite right.’ He glances at Rosier. ‘I will join you later then.’

Hill breathes out and is quick on her feet to turn and leave the Great Hall’s entrance, not even waiting for Tom. When they make for a quieter corridor, Hill is not foolish enough to travel too far from the crowds. She’s learned somewhat from theirs and Hornby’s encounter.

The light of the candles flicker as they walk. Tom observes McGonagall’s scowl and Fawley’s usual presence as they lean against the wall. Hill gives the two of them a wide berth, apparently not wishing for her friends to overhear, before stopping to turn to him.

‘A rather abnormal deviation from your usual avoidance,’ Tom says.

Hill frowns and pushes her chest up. But her eyes and subsequent acrid anxiety give it all away. False bravado. Gryffindors.

‘Yeah, don’t get used to it,’ Hill says.

‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Tom smiles.

‘Can you drop the mask?’ Hill grimaces.

‘Oh, come now, are you one to become distracted by such displays? I’m surprised you could hold such attention during our tutoring sessions.’

‘Fine. Ignore what I said,’ She bites out.

He looks at her, urging her to continue.

She takes one last glance back to McGonagall. ‘About Wednesday.’

‘Yes. Wednesday.’ Tom smiles wider.

Hill bristles. ‘I see you already know why I’m here.’

‘Well, if you weren’t so obvious about it, perhaps I would have been left guessing for another minute or two. But it appears your lying is limited to certain matters.’

She breathes out, closing her eyes and restarts. ‘This’ — she gestures between the two of them — ‘whatever it is, is between us alone. I don’t want Minerva involved in whatever you get up to with the other Slytherins or alone.’

‘Oh? And why would I do anything to her in the first place?’

He cocks his head, paces about her, eyes not on Hill but on the student that lurks behind. McGonagall stands, eyes narrowed on him, fingers dangerously twitching over her wand, but nonetheless immobile, leashed by whatever lead Hill has consciously or unconsciously placed over her.

‘I quite like her, you see.’ He stares out in McGonagall’s direction. ‘She’s not hapless like the others. Adequately powerful, and what she doesn’t have in agility and power, she makes up for in control and intelligence. Something as simple as misplaced anger can easily be forgiven, as she’s quite a valuable addition, wouldn’t you say, Hill?’

Tom turns away from McGonagall’s reddening face and back to Hill. Her frown has deepened.

‘A valuable addition?’

‘Yes. You’ve gained two wonderful pawns, haven’t you?’

‘Is that what you think they are?’ She stares at him incredulously.

‘Yes. It’s much easier to find someone well worth your time if you measure them.’

‘What about what’s important? Friendship, trust, kindness, love?’

Tom’s nose rises in disgust. ‘Why can’t one find that in someone of adequate standard?’

Hill splutters unattractively, her face reddening. ‘Are you telling me, everyone who flocks about you is simply some number? You measure them on a ledger of sorts? If someone doesn’t meet standards, they don’t matter?’

‘It’s efficient. Surrounding yourself with the best will only further your ability. Though, I admit I quite enjoy Rosier’s company.’

Her nose rises in disgust. ‘Alright, you know what? Fine, Riddle, have your weird qualifications. All I want to know is that Minerva’s excluded from whatever blacklist you have.’

‘If you wish it, then perhaps I’ll consider it.’

She narrows her eyes. ‘How…generous of you.’

Apprehension colours the air. Tom revels in the fear he holds over her. But more than that, he finally sees Hill for what she is. Every piece of the puzzle has come together. In this empty corridor, under the light of the evening’s darkening, he holds the answers he has desperately sought. The thin, small girl in front of him, with hair as black as the mind inside her, and eyes a void as vast as the power she holds, is a rarity. A Latent Awakener. Holder of Ancient Magic. One blessed by Fortuna. Months spent investigating her, placing his plans on hold, have not been fruitless.

‘You’ll find I am quite generous with those I like, Hill.’ Tom smiles, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. ‘As someone as uniquely talented as you are, would you not deserve such grace?’

Steps echo from down the hall. McGonagall approaches like a stalking cat. His attention flickers back to Hill one last time.

‘Do keep that in mind. I wouldn’t want our relationship to sour,’ he says low, eyes on McGonagall in threat.

Hill stiffens and looks at him with horror.

‘Alright, it’s been five minutes. We have somewhere else to be, Irene.’ McGonagall never takes her eyes off him.

‘Till next time then, Hill,’ Tom says, then steps to McGonagall’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘No harsh feelings, right Minerva?’

He hears the squeal of her jaw, tightly set. ‘Yes. I…apologise for taking things too far the other afternoon.’ Her head lowers in a stiff nod.

‘As long as you understand,’ he says. And then, without waiting for her response, he walks towards the stairs.

He has other matters to attend to tonight. Tom will admit this whole matter with McGonagall has become an area of morbid amusement. Who knew McGonagall could be so volatile? Or perhaps it’s Tom that makes her so. Either way, he can use Hill’s vulnerability against her. Her resentment over her power renders her a non-threat. And she seems to care so desperately for those close to her. He can use that as leverage. Letting her scramble and worry over something will weaken her defences. His fingers trill against his thigh. She can wait now that her secret is tightly held in his grasp. It’s only a matter of time before she falls into it as well. And if she doesn’t willingly submit?

Well, there are always other options.

For now, dinner, and the research projects due next week for final projects are of concern. Tom leisurely walks to the Great Hall. Once he’s done with the meal and work, there’s a meeting, after all. He breezes through the meal, his menial tasks, thoughts occupied with other matters. Before he knows it, the Knight’s meeting approaches.

The Come and Go Room is dark tonight. A collection of practice dolls, brown wood carved in a humanoid shape, are spaced out about the room bordered in mirrors. At the moment, the chamber has prepared for their monthly practice of spells struck from the Hogwarts’s curriculum. Scant light from floating candles illuminates the space. Awkwardly corralled in the corner, lies several chaises and a low table at the centre.

Discussions regarding Grindelwald have been relatively short this evening. It seems there’s a rather interesting shift at the moment—no push for territory. A lull of sorts. Which can only mean that either side must be working to expand their resources and influence in some other manner. Greece’s Undersecretary, Germany’s Minister, and Croatia’s DMLE Head have been caught meeting with various overseas diplomats. Perhaps they are moving towards a final push.

‘Now then,’ Tom steps round the furniture, gesturing for the gathering to stand.

He flicks his wand to rid them of the tables and chairs as the group vacates the area. This month’s spell selection has been altered to match the particular demands of the Knights in this moment.

‘As we’ve been under intense scrutiny as of late, there has been a minor deviation in our routine. Jacques?’ He turns to Rosier, who takes up his wand and nods his head.

His shoes tap against the quartz floor till he comes square with a practice doll. He flourishes his wrist in a transfiguration spell. The statuette warps and twists, its image settling in the form of a cat.

‘Depletus,’ Rosier spells casually.

Green magic hits the cat. It howls, screeches, writhes as red tears shed from its eyes until it stills. A mess of fur matted by body fluid sags into the tiled ground. The group stares and whispers.

‘Perfect,’ Tom says, his robes billowing past his members to stand at Rosier’s side.

Hand outstretched, he turns his palm up to present his wand.

‘We will be learning a purification spell.’ He twirls his wand in a long, swooping shape. ‘Proluo,’ he says. The white spell rolls over Rosier’s wand like liquid, before settling and sinking into the wood. ‘As you can see, it is a light-based charm used to “wash.” However, there is another use. If the intent is proper, it will remove evidence of anything ill-intentioned.’

‘Priori Incantatem.’

Rosier’s wand lights up. Spell patterns flow out of it in an abstract rendition of their forms, yet the most recent spell is absent.

‘We all know of the Exculptus spell, but as it is darker magic, the one who casts it still leaves a trail. This spell, Proluo, can double as a simple cleansing spell. Therefore, it is used for refreshing fabrics. It should supply an adequate excuse if you engage in anything untoward.’

The knights look excited. Nott in particular looks awed. However, Mulciber’s eyes are trained on Lestrange, who wears an impassive expression. His Occlumency barriers are raised in an almost sharp resistance tonight. Tom turns and raises a hand for them to begin their spell casting.

Dull grey and yellow shoot from his followers’ wands as they test the spell. Tom waits and supplies help to those that need it alongside Rosier. One by one they grow used to the charm. Tom wastes not a moment to move onto the next. A blood curse. Incredibly difficult to master. A spell that, if used properly, can persist generations past the victim, if the caster is magically powerful, or precise enough. He himself has been practicing this for nearly three months. However, he had focused on the wordless incantation, as the spell itself is quite long.

Transfigured animals are supplied by the room as they continue their practice. It’s a mess, but an expected one. Rosier opts to Scourgify the gore and Tom continues to supply advice. It’s gruesome, possibly sadistic, all things hated by ethical teachings. But nonetheless it is magic. And knowledge is power. Why should they limit themselves when so much sits outside the lines?

At the end of their sessions, Tom demands their attention once more.

‘I have another announcement.’ He glances at Orion Black. ‘As you know, the season of rebirth, Imbolc will greet us in the new year. Starting in January, we shall hold our annual tournament. I offer a chance for you to change your rankings at the table. At the tourney’s end, I have an announcement to make. We will draw lots at the start of next semester to arrange the matches.’

The knights turn to each other with assessing eyes. ‘Now then, until next week. Renatus, we have something to discuss.’

Tom is always the last to arrive and the first to leave during these meetings. However, today he has a few matters to discuss, and like a fly caught in a web, Lestrange stays. He makes no resistance to Tom’s order.

‘Ri—My Lord,’ he bows his head, but his body betrays him in its stiff lines. It appears the comment in the common room has lingered in his mind.

‘Renatus, you seem distracted lately. Perhaps I can be of assistance.’ Tom says.

Something loosens in his posture. He looks up imploringly, not finding any of the sharp knowing that Tom displayed earlier.

‘Yes. I…admit the castle’s recent uproar has taken over my thoughts.’

His expression is humble; however, his eyes are sharp.

Not as sharp as Tom’s.

Lestrange’s lips twitch in the need to smile at the easily predicted shift in topic or perhaps sneer at the blatant self-serving behaviour.

‘Speak your mind,’ Tom says.

‘Are we not making a statement this year?’ Lestrange asks.

Life is a balancing act, a game, a set of conditions and loopholes. Tom has sat on the fringes enough times to understand its intricacies.  

‘There are matters with the muggle-born students. I believe now would be an apt time to make our mark,’ Lestrange continues.

Tom quirks a brow, feigning interest. ‘And why would you say that?’

‘We are divided. The purebloods who resist this unwelcome change are looking for a leader. I am afraid they will land their sights on Malfoy, who is…well. I find his passivity unfitting for such a position.’ His lips twitch and quiver in excitement.

Desires. Manipulations. Some are so greedy to claw at their wants, they forget to watch as well.

‘Ah yes, that would be unfortunate. Yet, at the moment, I am blind. To move, I must know the field. You understand, do you not, Renatus?’

It’s an ask for assistance—what appears weak, naïve—and something he does not require.

Tom has always been a dark horse, someone hidden in the shadows waiting and watching. Seeing all sides has given him advantages, has allowed him to amass power through careful steps. However, such gradual progress can evade the attentions of the less perceptive.

‘Yes. Of course,’ Lestrange says. ‘And you would not be opposed to this falling back on Hill?’ He tests with a loathsome glint in his eyes.

‘Perhaps. Tell me, what do you know of the attack? If I could hear testimony regarding the incident, I could be convinced,’ Tom prods.

‘That’s….’

‘I understand you hold disdain for Hornby. However, her family is a close ally of yours. No doubt they have heard of the event. It would do well to shed some light on her…status. As I’ve come to know you’ve been keeping such information away from me.’

Lestrange swallows and checks the room to see all knights have vacated. There’s no Avery. Only Tom, Mulciber, and he are left in the chamber.

‘Yes. It is as you say. Hornby was presented as one of our own. However, she is a half-blood. I believe her lesser traits have affected her.’ His fist tightens. ‘Her grievance with Hill was nothing more than the usual barbarism of those with that disgusting blood. She flaunted and messily handled her attempt on Hill. Not one pureblood would have the unfounded arrogance to do such a thing.’

‘Hmm. I see.’ Tom taps his finger against his chin.

Lestrange watches him and his lips twitch in a smile.

‘Though I must say, as the prefect on scene, I was privy to some information. Miss Hornby acquired several useful tools, it seems. A human transfiguration bracelet and second wand. I did not believe the Hornbys to be such a resourceful family.’

He watches the bob of Lestrange’s Adam’s apple and the shift in his eyes. ‘My father may have supported her in this act. She has been persistent regarding her ire towards Hill. There was no stopping her behaviour. If my family was involved, it was only to facilitate the disagreement to keep things quick and clean.’

‘Oh? To facilitate an act of barbarism, then? A dark artefact from the Lestranges, as well as an unregistered wand, impressive gifts to quell a bastard child. Or perhaps there’s another reason?’ He cocks his head.

‘I admit your sister’s shift in temperament has not escaped my attention.’ Tom smiles with all his teeth.

From the look in Lestrange’s eyes, he knows he’s been caught.

‘I have been informed by Amedeo of your unusual behaviour prior to the incident. It is hard to believe that you or your twin were ignorant of Hornby’s intentions,’ he continues. ‘Tell me, did your sister beg to have your father assist her? Did she whine and protest like a child to get what she wanted? Or perchance did you step forward, let unfounded arrogance drive you to promise your father you would keep your name out of the cleanup, fallout? In the end, was the ire at a mudblood stomping on your name worth the strike to your pride?’ He laughs mockingly.

‘Arrogance ends terribly. So, is that what this attempt was, Lestrange? Do you wish for me to clean up your mess? Help your father look at you with something other than disdain?’

Lestrange lowers his head. ‘N-no. I have overstepped. I—’

In a flash, Tom’s hand swipes the air in a silent curse. Lestrange’s mouth closes, words sealed. No more manipulations. No more excuses.

‘Would you prefer to drag me down alongside you?’

He does not give Lestrange the opportunity to respond. Instead, he allows his wand to slide into his palm. Tom fingers the bleached wood casually, mind whirring on what to do of Lestrange. He watches the impatient twitch of Mulciber’s hands as well. Envious. How he must wish to be the hand that strikes. Tom points his wand, eyes on Mulciber rather than Lestrange. This should serve as a lesson for both.

‘Crucio,’ Tom spells.

In a splash of green, power floods his veins, elation coursing through his head. It’s addicting, dark magic, with an excitement that never quite satisfies with each use. He can see why many wizards fall prey to its thrall. Tom feels a heady flush rise on the back of his neck, not sure if it’s from the sight of Lestrange convulsing on the floor, the snarl that makes it to Mulciber’s teeth, or the force of this magic. He waits a minute, then releases the spell, lifting the silencing curse as well.

‘I’ll remind you, since you seem to be so terribly forgetful. What did I say about Miss Hill?’ Tom asks, barely hiding the lightheaded flush that’s stolen his breath.

‘That…’ Lestrange pants. ‘That she was powerful?’ Lestrange bites his tongue in his haste.

‘That she was to be watched, and only watched. It seems you needed reminding. Overstepping has landed you here. I do not give second chances, Lestrange. I will not be manipulated by such poorly executed attempts. Do not forget, I have offered you a position in the Knights and can take it away if I deem so.’

Tom looks down at the waste that Lestrange sits in, his robes wet from his own mess. He tosses him a potion, not willing to step closer.

‘Consider this a mercy. The sight of your quaking limbs is an eyesore.’

Chapter Text

An average evening. An average temperature. All things within expected parameters. Even the scene that plays before him—Ramhart walking arm and arm with an aged woman of Eastern descent after meeting with Undersecretary Alecto Hasapis—is as predicted.

It’s a sorrowful thing, realising your suspicions are rightfully kept. Flavian wants to be proven wrong, wants to be shown that fears are not always met. But like every research hypothesis he’s presented, there are unforeseen circumstances, yet the results remain the same.

A pity that old friends can become enemies.

On his ear, the golden earring glints, the crystal turning from white to blue.

‘I look forward to further dealings,’ Hasapis’s voice crackles over the listening device. ‘For now, shall we head to Ostria for brunch? They have wonderful Taramosalata.’

And although Fontius cannot hear the voices of neither Ramhart nor his wife, he can see the bright smiles and assent given.

He frowns into his coffee as he sips the muggle drink at the Grecian café. The patio is busy this afternoon. Sun shining down on the stucco white and brown buildings, potted plants lining the edge of the café. It’s a beautiful seaside town. As muggles bustle and laugh around him, Flavian blends into the crowd, sitting relaxed in a green deck chair. From here, the Grecian Ministry of Magic is a paved street away, but Polyjuiced and in muggle clothing, Flavian feels as if a gorge separates them.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he withdraws his golden case. An enamel woodlouse is depicted on the top, while runes and crystals line the edges. He clicks it open to reveal two spaces, one for the earring and another for the listening device. It activates, the runes transmitting magic to the woodlouse, calling it back. Carefully, Flavian places the device on the ground.

‘Arctare,’ he spells wandlessly.

Pupils sharpening with the aid of magic, he watches as the woodlouse-like device materialise on Hasapis’s back. Its legs unfurl as it detaches itself, plummeting to the ground. The coating on it—a polymer made with demiguise hair—shimmers until the metal body returns to its golden sheen. Then, it tucks its tube-like body into a ball and rolls its way across the street and to its case.

Flavian ends the spell, clasps the device shut, stows it in his pocket, and settles back.

Before Ramhart had visited the Ministry of Britain, Flavian had sent in a records request for his place of residence. A simple perfunctory procedure. What came back was an address in France, not too far off from Nice. Upon questioning, the employee that checked the address said nothing of consequence had appeared. The French Ministry had been more than generous in sending over documents. However, the place of address was registered within the last year. Ramhart, by his own account, had been in Europe for over two decades. Then where had he been for the twenty years before?

The silhouette of the three magicians disappears down the winding hillside road. Flavian is left at his table with only the muggles as company.

It made sense to move about. There was a dark wizard slowly expanding his influence. But something had nagged at Flavian’s mind. And so, he had set a tail on Ramhart’s place of residence in France. He’d like to say it was his suspicions that alerted him; however, it was only his paranoia that spurred action. Familiar faces and unquestioning trust. Foolish. That was when Flavian had found the residence to be empty.

Nothing but a shell.

After that, investigations had become more thorough, more secretive. He stopped going through Ministry channels, followed a floo trail from France, to Italy, Croatia, then nothing. It wasn’t until inquiries into the property’s ownership that information regarding another individual had been revealed.

The property manager of the sold lot let slip a partner to Ramhart. Yun Jiang, a diplomat stationed in Greece from the Magical Republic of China—MRC—had accompanied him on his tours. It wasn’t unusual at first. She’d been staunchly neutral regarding international conflicts, and most Eastern countries had taken a similar stance in tandem. However, Alecto Hasapis’s dealings with Grindelwald were picked up by Ministry intelligence, and there had always been a question as to where his acolytes had obtained some of the more dangerous cursed items. Perhaps the MRC had not been so uninvolved after all.

Flavian wonders what happened to the tail he put on Ramhart. A weary hand massages into his temples. Has the contract agent expired? Hiring a man from Knockturn was always a gamble. He picks up his cup of coffee. How many years had it been? A century and a half?

Ramhart was a young man the last time they had truly spoken one-on-one. Fresh out of his first apprenticeship at the Ministry, he had found unique magic fascinating, had studied under Boswell to broaden his experience and understand the theories behind what separated modern and ancient magical practices. A brilliant mind. Though brash, he was a fine scholar in the making, Margarite had said.

Even now it seems Ramhart is a dedicated researcher. The information compiled in his life’s work is nothing but a project of passion, or perhaps obsession. If something swayed him towards Grindelwald, was it the promise of obtaining something or someone valuable? Or perchance had Ramhart always gravitated towards radical ideals?

Flavian’s fingers smooth over the cufflink portkey. Working for the British Ministry as long as he has, gains quite a few favours from other department heads. Unfortunately, he has the sense he’ll be coming to reap those favours now that he’s confirmed his suspicions.

He refrains from activating his portkey when only white porcelain reflects in his cup and opts to Apparate back to the hotel he’s staying at. There are a few other matters to settle in Greece now that he’s here.

The tug at his navel and whiplash of Apparition are nauseating and only magnified by the sick knot of his abdomen. He sways but leans into the console table to stabilise himself as the foyer to his suite comes into picture. Ramhart. A heavy hand drags down the aged skin of his face. His stomach maintains its torturous seizing. Betrayal is what it feels like. But is it?

‘Perhaps the change is only us coming into ourselves.’

The words Ramhart left him with echo and plague the back of his mind as he reaches to make the connection. It all seemed so innocent before. Ramhart had been such a zealous child. Righteous and unforgiving. A flame that would never burn out. Discussions regarding the fate of the magical world had been a topic he would never tire of.

Now that Flavian looks back, he sees the patterns that had eluded him. At the height of Ramhart’s youth, Flavian had been holding a seat on the Wizengamot out of some misplaced desire to make things right. He had rallied behind ethical legislation and protection laws. Too wrapped up in his own personal mistakes with Galatea, the young wizard had found purpose in something dangerous.

The Witch Trials.

Watching one by one as peers, family fell to prejudiced muggles, pushed Ramhart—drove him further into his own designs. The fervent belief that the world should not be divided, that people should be empowered rather than hidden, was something the teen had spoken about many a time. Though it was birthed from the desire to change the world for the better, he had pushed so desperately for protection that it bled revolution. Of course, youth is a time for such passions. It was only natural to come to disagreements—standstills in conversation.

But it’d never been so cold, withdrawn. Passionate, yes, but never icy like this. And now, Ramhart has crossed the line. Grindelwald. The destruction of the Statue of Secrecy.

Anarchy.

At the time, they had both carried radical dreams, but Flavian had believed those to be just that—dreams.

When did it all go so wrong?

It’s Saturday, a prelude to the end. The last Hogsmeade weekend before the start of term tests and Yule Break, and Irene’s first Hogsmeade trip since the Idris incident. This time she’s chosen the company of friends rather than a date. To set the occasion; however, she’s dressed in the same ensemble as before. Though she managed to bundle herself up with a thick robe and wool scarf, double layer shirt, double layered socks, and a heating charm. She is prepared, ready to take on a storm despite Gwen’s gripes about how unnecessary the double layers were and what they do to her figure. Irene couldn’t care less. Does she understand what the cold does to your actual limbs?

Frostbite, that’s what.

With a shuffle through the snow, white clumps gathering in front of her sluggish steps, Irene arrives at the front of the Three Broomsticks. Her boots are a fitting change from the heels. She opens the door to dark cherry furniture and stone walls. It’s a cosy place, ceiling low and wooden beams sectioning off small spaces. There’s boisterous chatter from the students and few older patrons. Flickering candles light the tavern in a dim but warm haze.

‘Irene!’ Edmund calls.

He’s sitting at the lacquered bar top next to Iris and Graham. Irene smiles and weaves through the patrons to the empty seat beside him. The bartender, who’s dutifully cleaning a glass with a towel, glances at her.

‘One butterbeer please,’ she says.

‘You made it! I thought you’d never show up after seeing you tearing through your trunk. Where’s Blythe?’ Iris says a bit depressingly as she hands several shills to Edmund.

He takes them with a bright smile, adding them to his heavy pouch and then pocketing it.

‘I gave up. Can’t find the letter anywhere. It’s not back in the closet either. Doesn’t matter though, Fontius doesn’t fill our correspondence with anything important. Probably just says to floo call him or something.’ Irene shrugs. ‘Oh, and Blythe and Bell walked me to the square before I split with them. You don’t need to worry too much; I have my wand now. Everything should be fine.’

‘I disagree. You must have one of us at all times.’ Iris crosses her arms.

‘After what that prat did to you, you really should follow Iris’s advice.’ Graham frowns.

There’s truth in that, but Irene shouldn’t hold on to fear and let it smother her. ‘Thanks for caring. I appreciate you guys.’

The bartender slides her drink over, and she happily holds it. With two large gulps, Irene’s basking in the candy sweet taste of butterscotch. Under the warmth of the lights and company, she feels content. It’s been two days since the hospital and Irene believes time will allow her to put everything behind, even if the dark brings in fear.

‘So terribly sweet, Irene.’ Edmund takes a sip of his drink, hiding his smile. ‘So, how’s tutoring going? I noticed you haven’t been yelled at in class in a while and you didn’t even cause Slughorn to say, “we all have our bad days, my girl. Better luck next time.”’

‘Well, to make the story short, I have been officially freed from the shackles of the library, so that’s that.’

It’s a brief explanation. She doesn’t want to talk about it. Any more thoughts about Voldemort and Irene might blow a fuse.

‘What about you? I heard you landed an interview with an Australian enchantment group,’ Irene says.

‘I did. In fact, the interview was this morning. I think it went rather well. Hopefully, I’ll be shipped off to Australia come this summer. Speaking of off-seasons, you lot have any plans for the upcoming Yule break?’

‘The family’s heading to Egypt for two weeks. I’m staying at the house, though,’ Graham says.

Edmund cocks his head. ‘Why not go with them? Are you waiting for—’

‘He’s a hermit. What do you expect?’ Iris blows her bangs. ‘As for me, my parents want to spend the holiday in America. Away from rising dark wizards and muggle violence. I’m not fond of the idea. I’d prefer to stay in the country.’

‘But wouldn’t it be safer to stay abroad?’ Irene asks.

‘Maybe. But who cares? My responsibility is to my loved ones. I shouldn’t just up and leave because of a threat.’ She continues in a mumble, ‘and an empty one at that.’

‘An empty one?’ Irene asks.

‘Dumbledore,’ Graham says. ‘With him here, everyone knows Grindelwald won’t attack.’

‘I’d beg to differ,’ Edmund says. ‘Certainly, there hasn’t been any attempts on British soil, or the UK in general. However, I don’t believe there has been any incentive to make a push at this point. Grindelwald’s building forces, and the United Kingdom is just territory to him. Territory that’s on the other end of Europe.’

‘So, you’re saying if he establishes himself on the eastern side of the continent, he’ll move this way?’ Graham asks.

Iris nods. ‘Yes, I believe that’s his plan. His influence is spreading throughout the European Ministries in the West, albeit slowly.’

‘Blimey.’ Graham frowns.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be years before a full out battle could break out. Only small raids and terrorist attacks are on the horizon. And if it comes to full-scale war, the UK is geographically one of the last regions to conquer.’ Iris pats Graham on the back. ‘So, like I said, the threat is an empty one. The only way they’d perform a raid or attack is if we had something of value.’

‘Or someone…’ Edmund murmurs.

‘Come now.’ Iris scoffs. ‘Grindelwald does have an unhealthy obsession with Obscurials, but there hasn’t been one in decades. We established the National Magical Monitoring Division and passed non-segregation acts in the Wizengamot to prevent that very problem.’

‘Fine. Fine. I’ll give you that.’ Edmund cocks a brow. ‘But if someone like him sees fit to parade as the Director of Magical Security to obtain one child. I doubt anything or anyone else with notable abilities would be free of his reach. Dumbledore be damned. MACUSA, remember?’

The two stare at each other. Both Graham and Irene share a look.

Graham coughs into his hands. ‘This is what I get for having two friends with families in politics. But what of you, Irene? How are you spending the break?’

Irene sighs. It’s long and laboured. ‘I’m stuck at the castle until further notice. Apparently, it’s the safes—’ She shuts her mouth. 

‘Safest? Are you in some sort of trouble?’ Iris swivels in her seat—focus entirely on Irene—and God, she’s loud.

Irene grimaces, then turns to Edmund and Graham. It’s noisy in the Three Broomsticks but not so much so that everyone can’t hear them.

‘How about we skip out of here for the rest of the story?’ Edmund winks and calls over the bartender.

It’s outside, after they’ve paid for their drinks, that they begin the long trek through the snowy town of Hogsmeade and to the Black Lake’s edge, just off a back path to the castle. After running into a pensive Polaris, warning them not to get too close to the lake lest they fall in, the boys had said their goodbyes. Edmund stated the cold was disagreeable with him and skipped out on the walk, dragging a sighing Graham behind..

With only Iris as her company, Irene shuffles her feet lazily. There’s not much chance Iris will let her statement go without question. She brushes her hands through her hair and glances about. In the background, she can no longer hear the chatter of students, but only the wind’s howls.

‘Are you going to make me force it out of you?’ Iris cocks a brow.

‘Uh, no.’ Irene bites her lip. ‘But I can’t tell you everything.’ She gives a half smile.

‘Why?’ Her expression grows grave.

‘It’s for both of our sakes. You know “not safe” equals danger.’ She shrugs.

‘Worse than Hornby?’ The frown on Iris’s lips only deepens.

Irene nods.

‘Merlin,’ she says. ‘Not school drama, then?’

‘No.’ She shuffles her feet along the path.

‘How about a hint?’

Irene opens her mouth, then closes it. How much is she allowed to share? It’s been easy avoiding the topic all together, but here on the edge of what needs to be divulged and what cannot, she’s tongue-tied.

‘Alright, questions it is. You don’t have to answer.’ Iris sighs, frustrated. ‘Does it have to do with your status?’

Status? ‘You mean my last name, er, muggle-born-ness or something?’

She nods.

‘Oh.’ Irene rubs a hand down her forearm. Where the burn once was. Heat simmers under her skin. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Hmm…. Then something to do with the Department of Mysteries?’ Iris asks.

It does, and it doesn’t at the same time. ‘Somewhat.’

‘Is it related to your work?’

Irene cocks her head, considering, then nods.

‘Ministry-level. Person or thing?’

‘Person.’

A dark look passes across Iris’s face. ‘Head Unspeakable Fontius is the one suggesting you stay?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Have you ever been asked to testify, Irene?’

Irene blinks back at her. ‘What?’ she croaks.

Why does Iris think—

No.

Why does Iris know she’d be in a position to testify? Does she know Irene works in tandem with the investigations department?

‘Don’t look at me like that. You barely share a thing with me unless I pry it from your head. And when I’m worried, I get a little information greedy. So really, you expect me not to snoop? That’s naïve on your part. Terrible communicator. I pity the poor sod who gets stuck with you.’

Irene kind of feels like she’s been slapped in ten different ways. Iris has been keeping tabs on her? Or has been looking up information on her? That…. She’d never expect that from Iris. So, she just splutters. ‘Then, you know?’

‘I won’t state my suspicions. But I imagine your work makes matters difficult for you.’

Irene doesn’t have anything to add to that. It’s not necessarily the work that’s made it hard for her, but the power that has her employed. Her gut twists uncomfortably. But either way, she stays quiet with nothing to say. Not when one, she apparently is on castle lock-down due to possibly catching the eye of a dark wizard, or two, since she’s somehow attracted Tom Marvolo Riddle’s attention.

Icy wind nips at her cheeks and nose as snow begins to fall over Hogsmeade.

‘So,’ Iris starts, and not without a hesitant pause. ‘What’s up with you and Riddle?’

Irene’s brows frown at the mention. ‘Why are we talking about him?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you dragged him to the side halls before dinner in front of a bunch of chatty crowds.’

‘That was to clear the air.’ Irene crosses her arms.

Friday evening, Irene had mustered up that Gryffindor courage—it was actually Gryffindor brashness—and asked Riddle to talk outside of the Great Hall in private. Since Fontius had offered an out, that meant Irene needed to make peace with the enemy if she left. Which meant she couldn’t leave Minerva’s outburst untouched.

‘You’ll find I am quite generous with those I like, Hill. As someone as uniquely talented as you are, would you not deserve such grace?’ Riddle whispered.

Irene shivers from the memory. He’s not as volatile as she thought, but just as dangerous. It’s a small mercy that he’s left her in peace since Tuesday. However, she’ll admit Riddle has been a topic that occupies her thoughts, regardless. She wonders if what he said in the Hospital Wing was true. Had his fellow housemates treated him like that?

‘Clear the air regarding…?’ Iris asked.

Snow flutters between her eyes to land on her nose. Irene blows up at it and sighs. ‘Minerva. I didn’t want him to do anything drastic.’

‘Oh? A love triangle? Minerva punching him because he stole her heart and crushed it by swaying towards you? You know there’s been gossip spreading about the Houses since Wednesday? Wild hearsay. Such scandal.’ Iris cackles. ‘I find that this one is my favourite.’

‘Ugh.’ Irene is positively repulsed.

Iris looks at her, coy.

‘I’m not interested in him in that way, and neither is Minerva! He’s a total psycho. An absolute fake and no one can see it.’

There’s a flash of memories from the corridor. Irene’s throat tightens. She feels sick.

‘I was worried he’d get back at Minerva in some horrible, violent way. And she, well, she thinks I need protecting, I guess? But here’s the problem: the worst thing to do is anger someone with zero empathy. Trust me. He’s mad, I tell you.’

‘…You know you and Minerva are really serious about the whole Tom Riddle thing. And I get the feeling he’s not just a pervert.’

Iris walks beside her. Her features are carved in a frown, hand on her chin, pensive.

‘Top student, charismatic, hasn’t caused any trouble, a Slytherin and muggle-born. It is strange he’s amicable with all the purebloods. I could’ve sworn first-year was…’ she mumbles to herself.

Irene shrugs.

Behind them, she hears a rustle in the shrubbery.

They both turn, looking dubiously at the forest’s edge. It’s dark past the tree-line. The evergreens tower high and blot out the light. Irene can’t make out anything past the thicket. But standing there feels wrong. Like they are being watched.

‘We should hurry back to the village,’ Iris says.

Irene easily agrees, and the two of them rush back along the path. They aren’t far away from the town, as the village comes in its grey outline—the snow framing every steep slope of the cottages’ rooftops.

‘Anyway, what about Longbottom?’ Irene asks to bring them back into conversation. ‘Have a nice date this morning?’

Iris shakes herself out of her thoughts and smiles, lopsided.

‘We are doing great. But he’s been under a lot of stress recently. His family and he don’t see eye to eye. You know, familial issues.’

‘Is that why he’s not going to Egypt with them?’

Iris nods.

Irene hums along, listening to Iris’s gripes about pureblood legacy and expectations. There’s a lot. And apparently it explains why Iris takes traditional dance and etiquette courses despite being allergic to all things proper. Why they would find it necessary to have her know when to talk and when to not talk as in respect to her position, Irene can’t understand, but then again, she’s a muggle-born. So it’s not like she can completely understand why people who grew up differently from her do the things they do.

Back in town, their first stop is the trinket shop Iris had mentioned. They wander about, Irene struck by the magical sights of flying mechanical animals and alarm clocks with weather projections. It’s amazing what magic has to offer to the world. It’s amazing what one can create for such simple delights. A charmed set of floating flowers or stars. A bewitched set of scarves to draw their owners together. They are simple but fantastical.

They continue to wander, Iris taking her to every one of her favourite shops. The streets narrow and widen, wind up and down the hillside in uneven, crooked patterns. It’s cosy, quaint, and, in a way, magical. Nothing weighs her down in this moment, aside from her bloating expandable bag.

As the evening touches the horizon, she gives a half-smile. She’s never spent this much money on herself. Accessories, clothing, shoes. They are all things she’d never given thought to, but she found them beautiful, and Iris said that was enough reason to purchase them. So yes, she’s now the proud owner of earrings that sound like the sea and hair clips that conjure butterflies.

Irene smiles. ‘You were right. You’re a much better date. Just don’t tell Cadwallader.’

She laces her arm with Iris’s, and they walk out of Charlotte’s.

‘I know, and I just might. Someone should rub it in between the two of us,’ Iris says.

The steel lights enchanted with undying flames light the white town in a bath of blue as the noon closes. It’s time to head back to the castle. The carriages will arrive in another hour.

Irene and Iris sit on a brushed off bench in the town centre. It’s the lowest point in the village, close to its entrance. The prefects gather straight across as they talk and delegate tasks amongst themselves. They’re at half-staff tonight—many of the prefects staying behind to finish studying for end of semester exams—and the few here just meet the required amount. Irene meets Minerva’s eyes and gives a wave. She waves back but then turns to glare at someone.

Irene and Iris sigh at the same time. It’s Riddle. When Irene sees him, she looks away. He doesn’t bother waving, and she definitely won’t encourage any false friendly behaviour.

It’s quiet at first. Just Irene, Iris, and the locals that sit at a table in front of a café. She meets eyes with the blonde one to the right of the man with the pointy hat. The hat-less one in particular has been watching her, or maybe she’s just paranoid. Maybe she’s the one that’s been staring. Irene hasn’t caught Iris looking at them, after all.

Her attention wanders to the man. There’s a certain gravity about him. Or perhaps that he doesn’t seem to fit in with the surroundings. Long-limbed, lean, and gaunt. Black robes cling to him, making him taller, more imposing in the stark white of Hogsmeade. It’s irregular.

Yet, no one seems to notice him.

Irene swallows as their sights clash again. Despite the low evening sun, his dark eyes glint in the light. She shivers as a breeze brushes against her neck and looks away. The cold creeps up her spine, nipping at her skin. God, why would someone choose to sit out in the cold if they were a paying customer? That must be why they stand out.

Wizards and witches are weird. Irene shakes herself out of the strange duo to refocus on the gathering.

The chatter builds with each student group that gathers to catch the carriage back to Hogwarts. And soon there are at least fifteen of them gathered. Irene easily finds a green tie and curly hair. The boy’s always staring. She smiles at him, despite the uncomfortable tingles down her back. However, he doesn’t return the expression, just keeps watching.

Either way, she should thank him.

‘I need to talk to Mulciber,’ Irene says.

‘Oh, alright. Let’s go.’ Iris stands, brushing off her robes.

‘No, I should do this alone.’

Iris glances at Mulciber worriedly. ‘Fine, but I’ll be watching every move from here.’

So overprotective. Irene rolls her eyes, but not resentfully. She grabs the gift wrapped in green that sits at the bottom of her accessories bag. It was the most expensive purchase Irene had made today. ‘A gift for a pureblood like the Mulcibers would have to be,’ Iris had said.

Snow crunches under her boots as Irene walks over to Mulciber. His eyes never leave hers, like some overzealous hunting dog. Oh, shoot. She shouldn’t be comparing him to an animal. That would be impolite. Irene swallows. Her feet stop only a meter from him.

His chestnut wind-swept hair and wild brown eyes bore into her. Around them the Slytherins seem taken aback by her sudden appearance. There are some boys she’s seen around Riddle. A tall dark blonde-haired boy with sharp, assessing eyes and another smaller, thin fluffy blonde one with bright blue eyes. They take one glance at Mulciber and the taller one looks at the other.

‘Let’s go, Eldwyn,’ the tall one says.

She waits for them to leave. ‘Good evening,’ Irene says. She fiddles with the green bag in her palm, then dips into a curtsy and presents her hand. ‘I’m Irene On Hill.’

‘I know. Evening, Irene. Amedeo Gildo Mulciber.’

Mulciber takes her hand—Irene tries not to show any discomfort—and brings it to his lips. She’s thankful for the gloves as his mouth lingers a bit longer on her hand than she’d like.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ he says.

It makes the skin on her face flare hot, and the hairs on her neck stand. ‘Don’t be impolite,’ she reminds herself. Her gut reaction urges her to run away. She squashes it.

‘Yes, a pleasure to meet you. So… I heard from To-Riddle that you were the one who pulled me out of the closet,’ Irene says.

‘Yes,’ Mulciber whispers, sounding breathless. ‘You were in a terrible situation. I was…worried,’ he says, but he doesn’t sound that way.

‘Oh, um I’m grateful. I wasn’t completely coherent, so I can’t remember exactly what I said. However, I remember someone carrying me to the Hospital Wing.’ She bows her head. ‘Truly, thank you, Mulciber. You saved me.’

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? As a thanks, you can call me Amedeo.’

Irene blinks. The words are pompous, and yet, the tone is, is…. Irene’s not sure what it is, but something’s off.

‘Uh, alright, I can do that Amedeo,’ her voice tilts up, almost in question.

Is this normal? A pureblood from Slytherin wants to be on a first name basis with her. Her mouth opens to say something, but then she coughs to clear her throat. ‘Don’t offend him,’ she reminds herself.

‘I wanted to give you something,’ Irene says. ‘It’s not much. A pair of cufflinks for everything.’ The green package sits on her open palm.

He places his hand on it and smiles. ‘No matter what you give me, it’s wonderful.’

He takes the bag, holding it with a carefulness that makes her think he’s holding a live creature. It looks like he won’t open it. Irene fidgets, uncomfortably. She can’t handle standing under his oppressive gaze another minute more.

‘If you find it not to your liking, I can get you something else. Just come talk to me whenever. Anyway, I should get back to Iris. Again, it was nice to meet you, Amedeo.’

She curtsies once more, not letting him get in a word before she rushes back to Iris. Yet, the prickling sensation only grows on her back, his eyes like a fire scalding her. Irene shakes her head and scans the crowd of students. Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Slytherins, and Gryffindors. Scarves of all colours intermingle. They chatter and giggle, lively and satisfied from their day out.

Snow falls above. In the white haze of winter, there is barely any visibility down the street. Irene hears a familiar voice and pushes through the crowd.

‘Clearly, Miss Hill is over this, and you should be too!’ Ringlets bounce over the short girl’s shoulders.

It’s Frimley. Irene rolls her eyes. Goodness, Iris.

‘Yeah, that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Keeping grudges is my hobby.’ Iris shrugs.

That’s not a surprise. Irene shakes her head and grabs Iris by the elbow. The group of four is standing on opposing sides. Iris and Irene, mirroring Frimley and Idris.

‘Excuse us, we’ll leave you two to enjoy the rest of your date,’ Irene says.

She tugs harshly on Iris, ignoring her protests. Despite her shorter height, she can see Edmund’s dark skin peeking out from the plethora of white. Great, they’ll wait with the others for the carriages. However, Iris twists her arm out from Irene when they reach the opening of a narrow alleyway.

‘Doesn’t it irritate you!’ Iris hisses.

‘Uh, Frimley?’ Irene cocks her head. Sure, the little girl was annoying, but is Irene mad? ‘To tell you the truth, no, not really.’ 

‘Not just her, Cadwallader and her!’ Iris fumes. And Irene is surprised she can keep her voice quiet with all that shaking anger.

‘What about them?’

‘Godric. They’re going steady, Irene! Dating!’ She stalks back and forth.

But Irene’s attention slips. She hears something she’s not sure she’s hearing. It’s not the fact Idris is dating Frimley that shocks her. If fact, she was quite expecting that. It’s something else. A foreign language.

Was that…?

Irene turns. It sounds like whoever’s speaking is yelling. Though perhaps she’s wrong. It’s been a while anyway, and it sounds like plain English now.

‘I’m sorry, Irene. Was it that shocking?’

Iris places her hand on her shoulder, effectively stopping her from moving towards the noise. That effectively breaks her out of her stupor.

Irene snaps back to Iris’s bouncing curls. ‘No. It was about time anyway. Idris just needed a little push.’

‘Wait, was that what you talked to him about?’

She waits for Iris’s sputtering to end. Irene glances about and finally lands her eyes on a man. It’s the same man from the café. He’s yelling at Idris. Blonde hair flaxen under the blue light of the streetlamp. Idris is saying something, stopping the man from going forward in their direction. The students gathered, notice the scene. Irene’s struck by how small Idris looks beside the tall figure.

‘What’s going on over the—’

A slash of spell fire ripples over Idris’s shoulders. Red splashes out.

Irene’s chest drums. It’s red. Like paint. But she’s seen this before. Knows the colour all too well. It’s blood. Idris’s blood.  

Then a shriek, ear rattling and terror-filled. It echoes amongst the chatter, effectively cutting it with silence. ‘Frimley,’ her thoughts supply dully, or perhaps muted. She should be doing something. Anything. Then screams break through.

Her heart thumps. Students run, scatter. Frimley holds Idris close to her, mouth open in a wail. She isn’t heard through the commotion. And Irene can’t look away—the sight searing into her mind. Idris. He’s…. Her pulse shakes her. A terrible pounding in her head. She must be dreaming. This can’t be happening.

Amongst the chaos, the man stands still as stone. He’s staring. Staring at Irene, while firing a spell into the air.

She swallows, her ears deafened to the sound around. Above, the sky shimmers in gold. Her feet are like anchors—his eyes, the chains that hold her there.

The pop of Apparition sounds.

Wizards and witches materialise. Monsters crawling out from the nether. A thunderous boom echoes. The clay tiles and bricks of Honeydukes blast from spells, spraying the ground in rubble. Curses are cast left and right—braver students trying to put up a fight against trained forces. Colours flash and buzz around. There’s the familiar scent of burning wood and spell fire. It’s a horrid mix of the Blitz and wizardry in one.

Like a nightmare come real. Irene is frozen like the snow beneath her.

The man turns. His wand raising. Irene’s body reacts before her mind can catch up. She grips her wand, her eyes still latched onto him, as if they are the only two standing there. His wrist flicks before she can even think of a spell.

A red curse speeds towards her.

‘Detortus!’ Iris jumps in front of her. Her spell catches against the red one. They hit in a crackle and veer off, spattering against stone.

‘What in the Bloody Hell is going on!?’ Iris shouts, panicked.

The man’s staring, head tilting as if he’s trying to parse something in her eyes. However, there’s an interruption. A flash of yellow. Frimley stands and sends a spell, cursing and screaming. Unconsciously, her eyes latch onto Idris.

‘—Irene! Irene, we can’t stay here. We have to move!’ Iris yanks her towards the alleyway.

There’s a panic. Students running in all directions. At the opposite side of the circle, a bright silver dome appears. A shield charm.

The pull of her arm prompts an awkward run. Right. A shield charm. They’d need protection. Because there’s an attack. Her ears are ringing, attention flickering here and there in the circle. Figures in black, older and clearly trained, slash their wands through the air.

Irene can’t see them clearly. It’s like a mirage. A horrible trick of the light. The mind. She can’t seem to grasp onto her thoughts that flow out in a rapid. Kicked up dust and relentless snowfall block sight from the running and screaming children. The haze acts almost as a film. A barrier between her and what’s happening around.

Spellfire trails the running students in a horrible rainbow of spatters against white. Assailants chase them, some falling meters from Irene and Iris.

‘Get to the Three Broomsticks!’

Irene thinks she hears Minerva’s voice among the panic.

She tugs against Iris’s hold, both the fault of her two-feet horizontal and confusion. Her pupils can’t seem to focus. There’s so much screaming. Shrill shrieks and cries that sit behind the thick stone-laid walls and dense winter fog.

They enter the narrow alley. Iris is saying something, but Irene can’t hear it, not through the buzz of her thoughts. She’s on her feet. But they’re unsteady. Weak.

Panic rises to her chest.

The crack of apparition thunders from down the alley. The chaos is farther away now. But spellfire continues to singe the air. The smell of ozone thick. They are getting farther from the students, friends. Irene’s chest heaves. The world spins into focus. Suddenly, the crunch of her boots and the heavy breaths of Iris are so terribly loud.

‘Idris? What about Idris? We can’t just leave them!’ she says through the disorientation.

‘You and I are average at best at offense in DADA. Leave him! He chose Frimley, so let her handle that mess,’ Iris shouts.

She sounds furious, helpless, desperate. Irene’s tugged along, but her mind’s eye never leaves the sight—the body that lay on the ground. Her heart drums. Idris, what if he…? She shakes her head.

They don’t stand a chance. They need the professors. Where’s Polaris? Voight?

Why aren’t any of them Apparating in? What’s happening?

Snow squeaks under their hastened run. Farther and farther, they go until the passages narrows to a meter’s width. What if they aren’t coming? What if they are the only ones that can help themselves?

Is this how it goes? They run and flee from these people? Frogs in a well. Will she always stand and take everything around her? Her desperation wells in her. This horrible hopelessness—the same that overtook her in the closet—claws its way back to her chest. Her wand stings her. She tugs against Iris again.

‘Irene, stop fooling around! You’re not an idiot! Why do you think the Professors aren’t here? Something’s preventing them. Whatever this is, it’s not for us to handle!’ Iris hisses.

‘I can’t.’ Irene pulls away. Her voice is a desperate, reedy thing in the narrow space. Around them greyed stone closes in. ‘We have to do something. It’s not just Idris. Edmund, Lillian, Evelyn. I saw them in the circle. They could be hurt,’ she says, feeling as if the walls will cave in on them. ‘What about Graham?’

Her breaths are heavy, pulse heightened in the still shelter of the passage. She’s not running. She can’t. Not like she did during the bombings. Not from this. If she doesn’t do anything. If someone gets hurt. If someone dies. Her heart aches like a knife through her chest.

It’ll break her.

Irene widens her stance, ready to bolt back whence they came.

Iris grabs her.

‘Don’t you dare say that I don’t care!’ she snaps, eyes wild. ‘Graham—my friends, family—they are and have always been important to me. But they can handle themselves. I trust that they can handle this. The best we can do is help ourselves and not get in the way.’  

‘How is this helping?’ she whips her arm to the isolated alley they’re in. ‘How is running away helpful to anyone? How is leaving Idris bleeding the right thing to do!? Do you know what it’s like to lose someone? Do you know how it hollows you out, carves out all the love you’ve given?’

Iris stalks round her, letting go and steps into Irene’s path. And for once she sees the tremors, sees the shaking shoulders of Iris, and the fire in her eyes. She doesn’t want to run just as much as Irene. Irene’s breathing calms, her hearing returning from the rush of blood. However, she’s slow to register what’s around.

Footsteps squeal in the snow behind. Purple slices against her skin.

Irene gasps.

Her coat splits, the cold filters in. She howls in pain as red slips from the gash. She whips round, her wand pointed. Iris mimics her.

‘We’ve found another one,’ a woman in black robes and even blacker hair says to her company.

Irene swallows, stepping back. The woman’s company, a spindly man with sharp features and long brown hair, raises his wand. Red sparks shoot into the sky. Irene’s breaths and pulse hasten. The walls of the alleyway seem to shrink in on them.

It was her. Irene’s the one who brought them here, as loud as she was yelling at Iris.

‘A blasted flare,’ Iris hisses. ‘Curse your Gryffindor brashness.’ Her teeth grind into her lip.

‘Tell me, girl. What is your name?’ the woman says, her wand trained on Irene.

Irene doesn’t answer. Her calf twitches, ready to run. But they need a distraction.

‘Confringo,’ someone shouts.

Above the magicians, the stone wall blasts open. Rocks and dust erupt, falling over the assailants. One casts a shield charm, while the other turns to face whoever spelled them.

‘Spongify,’ Iris spells. The ground around the attackers becomes uneven.

They flounder about as one works to spell the counter. The other flicks her wand towards them. Irene flattens herself against the wall as Iris does. Yellow magic whistles past their chests. Whoever lies on the opposite end uses the moment, spelling something purple.

It rolls over the woman. She goes slack, eyes rolling back, before she falls forward. The assailant flourishes his wand.  

‘Incarcerous!’ Irene shouts.

Her wand feels weird through her gloves. The spell veers off course but strikes the slender man’s shoulder. He wriggles and writhes. Out from behind him comes the other person. The one that cast the Confringo. He doesn’t say a word and flicks his wand at the bound man. The same thing that happened to the woman happens to him as he falls limp.

Through the fog comes the shaggy brown hair and unsettling eyes. Irene swallows.

‘You’re safe.’ The student in green smiles, stepping over the unmoving assailants.

‘Amedeo?’ She blinks.

‘A Slytherin. Lovely. No time to stand around. Hurry on! Did you forget the flare?’ Iris urges them.

And they’re off in a run again. Around them, cobblestone buildings whirl by. They wind through the backstreets, Amedeo somehow in their company. And Irene now has him to thank twice for saving her.

‘Look at the mess we’re in! You absolute dunderhead, Ir—!’ Iris bites her tongue. ‘No names, got it? They’re looking for someone.’ She pants either tired from the running or adrenaline.

On the other hand, Irene doesn’t feel tired. Despite her heavy breaths, she’s strangely light. Although it doesn’t seem that her body is working as well as she’d prefer. And the grip on her wand is a little awkward through the leather gloves. She pulls them off, stashing them in her pockets. Much better.

Iris looks back, maybe worried about the non-existent reply. Bright eyes scan over Irene, stopping on her arm. Her face hardens to stone.

‘You’re bleeding. Oh, gods. We need to get to the Hog’s Head.’

Iris bites her lip, turning round. Irene’s eyes are on her arm now. There’s that cut in her coat. Blood covers her jacket in burgundy stains. It should hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt? She’s numb. That probably isn’t a good thing.

‘A left,’ Amedeo says, not winded at all.

He points towards the next opening.

‘If it’s the Hog’s Head, the north facing side is that way if we cut cross main street. It’s close.’ Moving closer to her, he bends forward. ‘I can carry you. You’re light.’

Irene’s body shudders involuntarily. She doesn’t look at him. His stares rake over her.

‘No. No. I’ll be fine. Wands at the ready, right?’ she says.

They wind around the corner. The passage end is in sight. A blanket of grey greets them at the end, alongside the sound of shouting and spellfire. Amedeo takes the lead, looking out of the opening. The visibility is low, fog from winter concentrated in the open street. However, it’s still hectic. The crowds have dwindled, but there are still some students trying to escape. It can’t have been ten minutes or more since they arrived.

Amedeo steps out first, and Iris and Fawley follow behind. Gusts rip snow from the ground to scatter it in the air. It clings to their skin, tingles as it melts to water, and drops down.

‘There!’ a shout cuts through the fog.

The group turns to run, but footsteps encircle them in the opposite direction. They’re boxed in. Irene readies herself and so do the others. Crunching snow grows louder. Eventually, figures approach through the fog.

The man from before stands. Blonde hair clings to his forehead, a terrible smile stretching across his features. Another one with a pointy hat is to his side, along with two others at the opposite end. Iris sets her wand on the second, while Amedeo occupies his focus on the red-haired woman and man behind.

What happened to Frimley? Irene’s heart is an obnoxious thing in her chest.

‘Are you her?’ the man asks.

She doesn’t have time to answer. His wand flicks out.

Sharp snaps of his wrists and his magic expels. Left. She twists, foot stepping back. Her breath stutters. Spellfire brushes her chest, sizzling past her robes. A thought comes to her. If she’s hit, it’s over. However, there’s no respite. The man flourishes his wand. A jet of yellow.

Right.

Irene falls forward, rolling out of the way. Snow, cold and icy sticks to her robes.

There’s no room for mistakes. This isn’t some class duel, not even an experiment with control charms. They’re in a straight streetway, under the grey sky of Hogsmeade, and she’s fighting, more accurately, running, from a…. A what? No cover other than sparse thin trees, wire benches, and questionable alleyways. She rises into a low crouch.

A group of attackers?

Why are they even attacking Hogs—

A gold spell grazes her calf. The muscles in her leg seize. She can’t move it. Her core warms, stomach writhing. Something pours through her veins, unprompted. And then her leg’s moving again.

‘Deprimo!’ Irene shouts. Wand aimed at the attacker’s chest.

He easily flicks his wand in the way of the curse. The green spell is sucked into the wand.

What the Bloody Hell?

She’s never heard of something that can absorb magic. But Irene doesn’t pause to watch. She’s on her feet, not thinking of distractions. Split attention and she’s done. Hot breaths heat the air. Greyed puffs of clouds. Down. Irene twists, turns, and leaps, evading spells. Scorch marks lay a path against cobblestone. With the relentless barrage she can only dodge and dive, unable to fight back.

‘Damn it!’ Irene curses. Her skirt restricts her movements.

‘Iris! Amedeo!’ she shouts before ducking.

There’s no time to look over. She hears the steps, but that’s it. However, Iris has always been light on her feet.

‘Focus on yourself! We’ll be fine,’ Iris snaps.

That’s all the pause she gets before the spellfire trails her once more. Irene dodges another one, running towards a bench. Spells spatter against the snowy ground. She leaps behind the iron bench, a curse whistling past her head. Irene breathes out shakily, her knees feel weak. She rips the hem of her skirt and breathes. A brief respite, then she’ll get up.

But, something snakes out and latches onto her arm. The black metal of the bench has come alive. Irene wrestles.

‘Finite! Reverte!’

Red rolls across the living bench. The iron stills, then slinks back.

‘Get up, Irene!’ Minerva shouts. Her feet are planted firm to the ground. Her chest rises and falls with exertion.

The blonde assailant stands between them. Another smile stretches across his features.

It’s dark now, night finally touching down on the horizon. A flat icy field, dense haze, and tempest of snow fill the space around. Minerva’s wand and voice has split his attention. A strained expression paints her in red. But isn’t she a sight for sore eyes? He pivots and sends a few spells in Minerva’s direction. She dodges after sending a look at Irene.

Irene doesn’t need to be told twice. She chants a Stupefy at the man’s back. But he’s fast. Back slipping beneath red, he twists down and up. His wand dances between them, deflecting, redirecting, and spelling back at them. He’s familiar with duelling, confident in his craft. But Gryffindors are brave, and their desperation can only fuel their tenacity.

Irene’s chest heaves, but she lunges, leaps, and spells. Their attacks whistle through the air. Her magic is vicious, angry, powerful. Minerva’s is controlled, precise, and varied as she defends while Irene strikes. The two of them circle the man, eventually meeting.

Minerva snaps her wrist. ‘Flamen!’

Wind builds to a sharp gale. It cuts cross the space to the man. It grazes robes as he spells the ground to shield him. ‘Differo,’ he returns. His blockade breaks, shooting towards them.

Irene raises her wand. ‘Immobulus,’ she chants. The stones freeze, mid-air.

‘Locomotor,’ Minerva continues. The projectiles hurtle in the opposite direction.

Side-to-side, they continue. They aren’t perfect, but their persistence makes do. Behind them, the quick feet echo. Irene can see two students in the haze, engaged with that other man. It doesn’t look like Iris is among them.

Where’s the other?

No. Focus.

She can’t afford distractions. They pressure the wizard back. Irene’s blood pumps hastily. They’re so close. She can almost feel the relief. Just a little more. Her pulse beats in her ear.

The squeal snow has her turning round.

Another member stands, his pointed hat sagging to the side. Magenta sparks from his wand.

Irene’s slow. No time to raise her wand in defence.

‘Protego!’

A light bursts out. A bright and incandescent dome surrounds them. Spellfire sizzles against the shield. At the centre stands Iris.

‘This is not how I pictured perfecting my charms!’ Her shout is bellowing, as if she’s channelling her frustration into power. ‘Oi, hurry on with it! We don’t have all day.’

Irene’s lips twitches. Her wand sings and her power grows. Riddle had said to unleash her magic, to surrender.

She lets go.

‘Bombarda!’ The ground erupts, stones scattering. The wizard flies from the explosion. Two left.

A quick glance. Minerva has transfigured the ground. Liquified rock sucks the man under. But with a counter curse, the man crushes the stone, digging his way out.

‘Glacius!’ Minerva pelts daggers of ice.

He twists out of the way. The ice shreds the tail end of his robes. He spells something. Molten metal speeds through the air. Sizzles and hisses scream.

‘Descendo.’ Irene whips her wand. Magic grabs the shards, throwing them to the ground. Snow melts around the cooling metal.

He’s fast. Without incantation, earth bursts from the ground. Fractured stone and mud shoot forward. Minerva’s a step ahead. She spells a Deletrius at the projectiles. They turn to powder and scatter. Irene follows with a Silencio. The wizard waves his wand, batting the spell away.

‘Depulso!’ Minerva shouts.

The spell hurtles towards his feet. It hits. With a grunt, he’s sent backwards through the fog.

‘Rosier ordered Desmond and Mulciber to retreat. We need to pull back to the Hog’s Head!’ Iris yells.

‘No. The Three Broomsticks is that way,’ Minerva pants.

Crack!

Apparition. It’s loud, ringing. And close. They turn round. From inside the shield near both Irene and Iris, the red-haired woman stands. From this distance, Irene can see her face, her features. She’s Asian? Her wand is pointed a meter from Iris.

‘Qie!’ the woman says, a foreign curse on her tongue.

‘Stupefy!’ Irene shouts.

But she’s not fast enough.

Iris’s chest erupts in red. Honey hair, splattered with rouge. Like a doll cut from its strings, she doubles over. Nothing but gurgles bubbling from her chest. The silvery shield breaks apart into incandescent flecks, falling round them like ashes.

A horrid wail rips from Irene’s chest. She screams. ‘Reducto!’ she shouts. Noxious purple blazes forward.

The woman slaps her spell to the side.

Rage builds beneath her skin, in her chest. ‘Incendio!’ She flicks. ‘Diffindo!’

The woman defends, barely able to return fire. A blue spell hurtles forward.

It hits Irene’s shoulder. Cold ice covers it.

‘Confringo!’ Irene continues. Magic shoots from her wand in an endless onslaught. Her vision narrows onto a single target. Her ire, untameable—her magic wielded and not sheathed.

‘Duro,’ Irene hisses.

Violet ripples across the woman’s torso. A transfiguration spell to turn objects to stone. Her limbs grey, blacken, and grow rigid. The woman recognises the petrification and opens her mouth to yell, but nothing comes. She’s left frozen, clutching at her throat.

Irene drops her arm. The world spins. But her feet turn her round, towards the two figures on the ground. Time feels so slow as she rushes to Iris, her legs like lead.

Minerva is there, kneeling in the snow that’s stained red. ‘Vulnera Sanentur…converto….resarsus,’ she spells, chanting an ominous line of Latin, as Iris’s chest refuses to mend.

Slumped down at Iris’s side, Irene’s arm aches and burns in pain. Her shoulder senses the numbing cold of whatever spell hit her. The adrenaline must be running out. She wants to open her mouth, say something, but nothing comes. Inside, she feels her heart breaking.

Why is this happening? Why them?

The crunch of snow echoes behind. It reminds her they’re sitting out in the open. Irene stands on shaky legs. Minerva twitches, nearly breaking her trance. They share a glance. If she stops now, they both know what will happen. Minerva’s jaw tenses—her chanting continuing.

‘Allow me to introduce myself now that I have your attention.’

The figure slowly walks out of the fog, flourishing his wand. A golden spell shoots towards the sky once more. They meet eyes. And of course, it’s that persistent man. Irene grits her teeth. Her right arm, heavy. It refuses to rise. In fact, is that her panting? She wavers on unsteady feet. Her body won’t obey her.

‘Faramund Burgstaller.’ He smiles, baring his teeth.

Irene slips her wand into her left hand and points, not bothering to respond. Behind her, Minerva continues her spell.

‘Nothing to say? Your manners need some practice, Miss Irene. That’s what your friend over there called you, correct? Miss Irene An Hill.’

She flicks her wand in an Incarcerous.

He easily smothers it, tutting. His feet stop scant meters away. ‘Why don’t we chat?’

Irene grits her teeth. ‘I have no desire to talk to a maniac.’

‘Oh, but shouldn’t you humour me? The professors aren’t coming, and I can tell your friend doesn’t have long.’

Her wand twitches.

‘Ah, ah, ah. Patience is a virtue, child of Qi.’ He steps in closer.

Her pulse rises rapidly, vision spotting black. Qi? Does he know? She breathes slowly. Iris said they were looking for someone. At this distance, Irene can see him clearly. This man was looking for her. Her chest trembles. It hurts. Who is he then? Blonde. Grey eyes. Wrinkled and pale skin. A middle-aged wizard. European. Fontius’s warning is the first to come to mind. Her breathing speeds in panic.

Grindelwald’s men? Irene’s throat goes dry.

She bites her lip. On edge, she feels the weight of her body, the cold of winter. Her breaths are haggard, laboured with exhaustion. This isn’t good. Her legs are starting to twitch and cramp. Too many months static in the castle. This is why her mother liked to run. It keeps you in shape for the worst of moments. Irene wonders if Iris will end up like her, too. Irene’s heart twists. Her magic stirs restlessly in her chest, impatience roiling under her skin.

‘Now, let’s not think ourselves into a maze. Come to me, and we won’t hurt anymore students.’

Her fist tightens. She can stop this. She only has to submit. Then he’ll let them go.

‘No,’ her mind is quick to stop her. It’s a lie. She knows, despite the fatigue that places a fog over her, she knows he’s as likely to lie as he is to keep his promise. Submission is nothing more than a gamble with her friend’s lives on the line.

Stop him. Her core is a wild thing that she’s caged, but now she holds the key. She can’t—won’t—risk them. Not if she can do something. Her heart constricts once more. Something inside her is tearing. But she won’t have a repeat of her mother.

Irene drops her wand. Its warm hums go silent as it slips past her fingers. She steps forward. The crunch of snow squeals under her leather boots. He smiles as she draws closer. Irene closes her eyes, stepping forward. Beneath her ribs, magic indignant and hateful stirs.

Crack!

The sound of apparition carries. It distracts him. Irene opens her eyes.

Her sclerae flash silver as she leaps, mustering all the strength she can. Her fingers latch onto wood. Something passes in his green eyes as they widen, but he doesn’t spell. He can’t. Irene’s hand is on his wand. The core’s magic sputters out in her grip. Her other hand claws at his wrist. Leather fabric blocks her. She’s not strong. Not large enough to pin him, but skin to skin contact is what she needs.

They tumble to the ground. Snow kicks up, blinding her, frosting to her lashes. She holds through it. His limbs thrash. A kick to her stomach, a headbutt to the chin. But finally, her fingers slip past his gloves, past his coat, shirt, and onto warm skin.

The cold ebbs.

Silver tendrils spike from her body, latching onto every inch of his. He struggles, tries to spell a few incantations, but his wand is inert. He screams a litany of curses in German, calls her choice names she doesn’t care to register.

A heady feeling pools in her gut. Protect. Irene falls into that destructive hunger. She takes her fill. No reservation, no hesitation. Protect them. She reminds herself why she’s doing this. But heat floods in. The pleasant fullness of her stomach and taste of such vibrant magic blinds her, strays her from meaning. Ravenously, she sucks the power from his chest, watching as it starts to dim, darken. Her eyes close. ‘More,’ she thinks. And then….

And then nothing.

The heat’s gone.

Nothing flows into her. She did it. The pleasure’s left to sit in her stomach. Her source, all dried up. She stopped him. No more to suck out. An empty shell sits in the blonde man’s chest. His eyes are a lifeless grey, mouth open in either a curse or a scream. Irene’s heart stutters.

She scrambles off the body, feeling sick. The spark of her silver eyes fades while her stomach twists.

Oh, God.

Nauseous, Irene retches—faces the white of the ground as her stomach purges. Yellow bile colours the snow.

Chapter Text

Hospitals are the same everywhere. Regardless of the magical or mundane, they remain white, sterile, and smell of the dead. Minerva stares into the palms of her hands.

It’s been a long week. Possibly one of the longest in her life. The aftermath of the attack was gruesome. Dozens injured, few dead including one professor. Elroy. Her stomach twists and a wry thought appears. That would explain why he wasn’t there after the attack. She shuts her eyes.

After the fight, Irene’s guardian— coworker? — Evan Prewett and his fiancé, Gladys Macmillan had shown up, stumbling upon Minerva in an alley. She had dragged the two other girls in a desperate attempt to hide. When found, they’d helped Apparate both Iris and Irene to St. Mungo’s, but Minerva had chosen to remain behind. Believing she could assist, she and Macmillan had joined Hogwarts’ professors along with other able-bodied prefects after the attack. To evacuate the students, they needed people, wanted adults, but they took what was available.

Her stomach writhes again. The memory of blood and soot covered students, crying children, and wailing parents won’t leave her. A cowardly thought passes through. Maybe she shouldn’t have helped. Minerva closes her eyes and slumps back in her chaise.

They had taken statements the day of the attack from any students willing to talk without a guardian. Miss Macmillan had suggested to keep the manner in which the man died vague, emotional, when explaining it to the aurors. That wasn’t hard. Not when the event had left Minerva shaken.

The day’s paper sits atop her lap. Minerva hasn’t heard any news from Irene’s pseudo-guardians since thus, leaving her to find information elsewhere. The Prophet’s already released multiple speculative articles on the matter. Grindelwald, the German wizard responsible for the attack on MACUSA, the Italian Ministry, and the current terrorizing dark wizard. They’re calling him a Dark Lord. He’s been all over the front pages. All over the news. Yet, nothing regarding the investigation has been released. The head Auror in charge of the case has kept the press out.

Allowing the paper to slip into the cushion’s crack, Minerva glances to the bed in front of her.

She’s sitting in an oversized private hospital room. Reserved for only the top paying clients of magical Britain. Here, a crowd of loved ones could sit and stand comfortably, awaiting good or bad news. Minerva shifts in her soft chaise, feeling out-of-place in this bare space of three. To her left, on the bedside table, is a fine collection of flowers and candies. Many of them addressed from Iris’s parents—Lord and Lady Fawley—and yet Minerva has only heard they visited once in the week-long stay Iris has had at the hospital. And that, that just doesn’t seem right. Her own mum and dad, despite their constant disagreements, would never leave her side if this happened to her. And now, with years of hindsight, Minerva wonders if she’d hit a nerve in the summer of first year.

‘You should get some rest, Minerva,’ Longbottom says. ‘You look terrible,’ he says but not meanly.

His face is pale, eyes tired. Even when he leaves for the night and returns in the morning, he still looks exhausted. The pale violet of the evening’s setting sun does him no favours.

‘What do we say about the pot calling the kettle black?’ Minerva cocks a brow. ‘The healer says she’s due to wake up anytime this evening.’

And Minerva’s not leaving. Waking to an empty room is no way to celebrate someone surviving this.

He shakes his head. ‘Stubborn. But we wouldn’t be in the same house if you weren’t. I’ll go grab another pepper up. Looks like we are in for another long night.’

Graham stands and exits the room. Minerva sighs, wondering if she should’ve asked Blythe or someone else to be here in her stead. But here she is, a ghost haunting Iris’s bedside. Surely, if she woke any other face would be more pleasant than Minerva’s own.

There’s a moan. Then ‘ugh,’ comes a long heavy groan. And, ‘Godric…. I feel like—’she coughs, wheezes‘—I’ve been sliced in half.’

Her throat sound dry.

Minerva’s on her feet.

‘I’ll get a nurse,’ she says.

‘Don’t,’ Iris says more firmly than a witch in her position should be able to. She heaves again, is silent for more than a few minutes.

‘Give…me a moment.’

Minerva conjures a glass of water, handing it to Iris. Her attention lingers on the white bandages, peeking out from Iris’s hospital gown. Guilt smothers Minerva as Iris continues to drink water. With unsteady hands, Iris plops her glass on the bedside table and turns to her.

‘Thanks.’ Iris clears her throat in a cough. She sounds better now, voice still rough with disuse, but better.

Minerva averts her eyes.

‘Goodness, Minerva. Have you been crying?’

She frowns but the irritation’s all dried up, so it comes out sadder than planned. Her eyebrows refuse to knot. Minerva needs to say something. Tell Iris sorry, thank her for surviving. Nothing comes out while her lips quiver.

‘Now, now. Don’t start again. I don’t think I could bare to see it.’ Iris grimaces. ‘I mean if anyone’s going to cry, it’s me. I’m the one who woke up to your face rather than my fiancés.’

Minerva closes her eyes to take a breath. She doesn’t understand the levity in Iris’s tone. She almost….

‘I should call the healer,’ Minerva thinks. But what comes out is, ‘You almost died.’ And Fortuna she sounds ruined.

Iris doesn’t respond. But unfortunately, days of little sleep and heightened emotions prompts Minerva to fill in the quiet that’s been long-suffering.

‘I’m sorry,’ she quivers. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she shakes.

She’s normally level-headed. She shouldn’t be reduced to tears, but all the same, they come. Her head ducks in shame.

‘If I wasn’t arguing with you—I’m always trying to argue—that wouldn’t have….’ Her throat tightens. ‘God, I’m so sorry, Iris,’ she chokes.

Iris starts, ‘that wasn’t—’

‘Iris,’ Graham breathes.

Minerva looks up—her shameful tear-soaked face on display. Graham rushes into the room, gathering up Iris in his arms.

Minerva looks the other way, rising to her feet.

‘I’ll get the medi-witch,’ she says.

She steps out of the room. Fingers furiously wipe at her face as she walks to the Healer’s station. Her legs are heavier than usual as she makes her way down the halls. In fact, all her limbs are like lead. Exhaustion, like that after a quidditch match. Minerva rubs her hand down her face. She’s tired, emotionally exhausted, and it’s stripping away her control. Minerva takes a long breath in and out. It isn’t the time nor place.

With another shaky breath, she’s at the counter. There, a young apprentice for St. Mungo’s follows her back to Iris’s room and begins spinning spells to check on Iris’s current state. When she’s finished, she leaves to grab some potions.

Minerva stands near the exit, brushing out her skirt pleats and waiting for a chance to leave as a cart of potions rolls in—Miss Grant distributing the potions and salves while explaining their purpose. Minerva turns to leave.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Iris tells Minerva as Miss Grant wheels the cart, and herself, out.

Minerva does, waiting for the room to grow silent with only Graham, Iris, and her.

‘You’re an idiot, you know that?’ Iris says, watching as Minerva’s face twists into confusion. ‘I can’t believe I thought you were smart.’

‘Iris,’ Graham pleads.

‘No. Minerva, if you think that a crazy woman carving me up is your fault, you’re mad. ‘I mean what’s wrong with you? You stitch me together calmly while I’m’ —her voice rises— ‘I’m bleeding, then cry like a child when I insult you. Where’s your snark, anger? We hate each other. You’re supposed to gloat, shove a life debt in my face, not be here when I wake to say sorry. You can’t just,’ she quivers.

Then a tear trails past Iris’s lashes. Her body shrinks in on itself. And Iris has always been on the shorter side, but she’s never looked so tiny, vulnerable. It comes to Minerva that she must have been terrified, must still be terrified. Graham is the first to move. He tries to console her, but she pushes him off and wipes it away as if it never happened.

‘You know what, Minerva? Don’t be sorry. Yeah, be sorry for first-year. Sure, I was being a snobbish prat, but I didn’t deserve a face-first trip to the ground.’ She frowns. ‘Actually, now that I think twice, you should grovel while you’re at it.’

‘Really, Iris?’ Graham chides.

She brushes him off. ‘But everything else? A ten-second argument didn’t cause this….’ Iris’s skin pales, eyes glazing, but she shakes herself out of whatever thoughts she was having. ‘You saved me. I have a life debt to prove as much. So…thank you, but no more self-pity over this or I swear I’ll hex you into a stay at this very hospital.’

Some guilt remains but a knot loosens in Minerva’s chest. She offers up a small smile as thanks and straightens herself.

‘I should leave the two of you to it then,’ Minerva says.

‘Before that.’ Iris stops her, gestures to a seat.

Minerva slides back into the armchair.

‘After I…lost consciousness, what happened?’ she asks.

And that’s. Well. Minerva chances a glance at Longbottom. She hasn’t spoke of what happened. Not to Macmillan. Not to the aurors. Truthfully, she doesn’t completely understand it herself, but she knows whatever occurred is a secret and a dangerous one. One that Irene had urged her into keeping after that day in Gryffindor Tower.

‘Do you want me to step out?’ Graham asks.

‘No.’ Minerva shakes her head. ‘It’s fine. Just.’

She sighs, points her wand, and the door closes. With another swish and murmur, she’s cloaked them in a privacy spell.

‘When did you pass out?’ Minerva asks.

‘A little after I was cursed,’ Iris says. ‘I heard some shouting and your spellcasting but it’s a bit hazy.’

She nods.

‘You didn’t miss much. Irene lost it…a bit, went off spelling anything she could at the woman who attacked you. One eventually landed. She did something, turned the woman to stone.’

Turned her to stone with a Duro, is carefully left out of Minerva’s account.

‘Then she came to check on you, us, but that guy with the blonde hair showed up and well….’

Her throat bobs.

‘Did, did something happen to Irene?’ Iris wets her lips, bites them nervously. She’s chewing on her lower lip, gaze on her sheets in through, then looks up. Her eyes are focused, steady. ‘I remember, they were looking for someone. In the alley, they’d asked if Irene was “her.” We escaped, and I told her to not use names, but I don’t know what happened after I lost consciousness.’

And that…. Minerva’s eyes shut, tight. ‘God,’ she breathes out like she’s been punched. She’d called out to Irene to get her attention, maybe more than once when they were duelling side-by-side. ‘I think I—' she bites her lip ‘—I messed up.’

Iris purses her lips. ‘What do you mean? Irene, is she?’ her voice shakes.

‘No. No. She’s fine.’

Minerva frowns. She had visited Irene, but the other girl was quiet and a bit absent at the time as if she hadn’t even registered that Minerva was there. Maybe fine isn’t the right word.

‘She’s back with her guardians. Head Unspeakable Fontius came to take her after her discharge.’

‘Then what of the other?’

Minerva’s face pinches. ‘There was a tussle. But he won’t be bothering anyone ever again. Irene made sure of that.’

When Minerva looks up Iris’s expression is steely. She must understand then.

‘I see,’ Iris says.

When Irene first wakes, it’s to a room at St. Mungo’s and the worried and relieved face of Evan. She doesn’t remember much of what she says then. Doesn’t remember much of what he says either. Something about finding her and the others in Hogsmeade. And then she’d asked questions.

‘Where’s Iris? What’s happened to Minerva?’

‘Gladys is with them. Miss Fawley is in recovery. Don’t worry.’

‘That man did…I—?’

And her throat closes. She closes her eyes. It’s too real to be a nightmare. So, she apologizes.

After, the only answers she can remember are of her friends’ well-being, and of the deaths and injuries of both students and Hogwarts’ faculty. Her shoulder throbs under the bandage. It hurts.

Before she knows it, Evan is replaced by a nurse. Or maybe two. It’s all a bit blurred over. There were potions as well. Potions for the mind, for the body. Then a woman in official robes knocks on the doorframe. An auror. What was her name? She questions her about the attack, about Iris’s injuries, about the…. And something broken inside Irene rattles. No tears or cries. But it comes loose. The fissure collapses: the final vestiges left in pieces.

‘I killed him,’ she chokes out.

The woman—auror—her clothes, as black as coal, eyes, as piercing as silver daggers, nods her head with her lips in a grim line.

Irene can’t remember what was said after. She can’t remember at what point the auror left and what point Evan returned.

Just like that her stay at St. Mungo’s ends. She’s discharged to make room for other patients.

Fontius arrives soon after. He takes her to Evan’s family cottage in Ireland. He’s rigid, watching Irene from the corner of his eye, careful to not get to close to her, as if unsure of how to act or behave. She’s spun glass in his eyes. It doesn’t fit the usually callous man.

Is he worried he’ll make it worse?

Regardless, he has business to handle and that leaves little freedom to allow her to her own devices.

The bell chimes, a face reaching the visiting hour on the clock, as Fontius comes through the front door of the cottage. He’s wind swept, snow stuck to his beard and hair, evidence he was in some hurry to get to and from somewhere. Irene turns to him, from her seat on the floor, peaking over the side of the couch. Sees the dull grey of winter peak through the French windows, stealing the warmth from Evan’s family home’s orange and gold décor. It fits in with the stoic expression on Fontius’s face, as if he’s come to an answer. As if he’s determined to find the truth.

Irene’s stomach heavies. To her front, Evan stands from the plush brocade couch.

‘Fontius,’ he says.

‘Prewett, is Miss Macmillan out?’ Fontius asks.

He sweeps into the room spelling both the snow and his coat from him, all the while keeping conversation with Evan. He’s in a hurry

‘Yes. She went to the muggle market. We need more potatoes.’

‘Alright. Our discussion will have to wait then. I have only a few hours allowed before I must return to my office. Our trace on Ramhart has gone cold. Considering the timing, the attack on Hogsmeade must be related. Perhaps he even orchestrated it.’

Irene stiffens.

‘He’s been in Greece for months. How?’ Evan asks.

Fontius is pacing, arms clasped behind his back, pensive. Irene thinks Fontius must not know she’s here, behind the couch, for him to be speaking of this in front of her.

‘I’ve yet to work out the details—or anything other than circumstantial evidence. He’s written many articles regarding his distaste for the Statute of Secrecy, he’s had ties to the northern continent of China, and we’ve confirmed a meeting with Hasapis. There’s no lack of motive.’

‘Is that why Gladys is joining the Hogwarts staff?’

Fontius breathes out, stopping in front of Evan.

‘At the time, it was my paranoia. Now she is there as both a protector and investigator. She was always going to make a talented Hit Wizard or Auror.’

Evan’s back is to Irene. She can’t see, but his silence must mean he’s nodding.

‘What of Irene?’ Fontius asks.

Irene swallows.

‘She’s sitting behind the couch,’ Evan says plainly, ‘We were playing a muggle card game, Crazy something.’

That little admittance causes Fontius to frown. Irene stands.

‘Crazy eights. It’s called crazy eights. I learned it from a little boy who lived next door,’ Irene says.

‘You shouldn’t eavesdrop. And I should do better to watch my surroundings,’ Fontius says.

There’s a serious edge to his expression. Irene tries not to look to sheepish as he continues to bore holes in her from his scrutiny.

‘Prewett. I need to speak with Miss Hill in private. I’ve put this off for long enough. Come child.’

With no room for argument, Evan nods and gives Irene a worried look. She thinks about looking at him to offer reassurance, but she knows her face will betray her, just as her stomach is in this moment. All tied up in knots. Fontius’s arm is gesturing up the stairs. She steps forward and goes willingly to the office room on the second floor.

The door clicks shut behind her. The office is a small chamber cluttered by bookshelves that line the walls aside from the modest cut out space that houses a single two-paned window. More books are stacked along the carpeted floor in piles that surround both loveseats and the lone desk at the centre. Fontius moves to sit at the desk, and Irene takes her seat in one of the facing chaises. For a second, she feels as if she’s returned to the summer, when all she’d worried for was her studies and control of her powers. She wishes she could go back.

‘Spencer-Moon has placed Helena Cadwallader in charge of the investigation into the attack on Hogsmeade. We no longer have the luxury of time or secrecy. Not when her son has been admitted to St. Mungo’s,’ Fontius says.

His long bony fingers are laced together in front of him outstretched on the desktop, knuckles whitening. Irene thinks hers are doing the same on her lap.

‘With her team—you’ve met one, Auror Emerson—they will dig up everything and anything they can find. They care little for bureaucracy or regulation and Spencer-Moon prefers it that way. In his mind, it gets the job done.’

The rays from the window glare over them, highlight the age spots and single golden ring that sits on his left ring finger. The emerald gem scatters light onto the glossy mahogany desk, a halo of veridian. Irene feels that knot in her stomach tighten.

‘I have my own opinions on the matter, but I will admit a persistent group of Hufflepuffs are a terrifying thing to face in the matter of justice. Which brings us to the matter at hand, the Festival of Purification offers a window.’

Her nails dig into flesh. Painful, but grounding.

‘With such heavy traffic through portkeys and the floo system, magical traces become entangled and impossible to unravel. I can offer time before the Aurors place their sights on us; however, I will need the full truth.’

Her eyes shut tight. Inside, that torn hollowness seeps into her chest, into her veins.

‘Irene, look at me.’

She snaps her eyes to Fontius. Cold, hard hazel eyes with more gold than green assess her. There is no gentleness, not at this moment, but all the same she knows this is a kindness. Protecting her from this, is the only think Fontius can do for her now that he has failed more than once. She knows it rankles at him, has heard the quiet whispers at night between Evan and he when they believe her asleep. He’s wrathful, meticulous and more importantly, sore to forgive, and he takes her well-being as something of a personal violation. One he cannot let go.

‘I need you to understand. There can be no secrets. There is nothing too trivial to share. Do you understand?’

The window rattles with the wind. Irene squeezes her fingers.

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Good. Now let’s start. Tell me of that morning, from when you woke. What time did you rise? What was on your mind? What drove you from bed?’

It’s like she’s pulled into a memory. The scent of winter dry air and old upholstery are thick in the air. She can feel the cold of the Gryffindor Towers breeze over her night gown. Irene licks her lips.

‘I woke with a start just as the sun rose. I had forgotten about the letter.’

‘What letter?’

‘The letter you sent me the night of Hornby’s attack.’

Fontius sighs. ‘We will return to that later. Continue….’

So Irene goes through her day. Her morning rush to get dressed with Blythe and hurry to the Great Hall, retracing her steps to the hallway Hornby assaulted her. She was late to Hogsmeade because of that. Then there was her outing with Iris, the stores, jewellery, clothing. Irene can’t remember when she abandoned them during the attack.

‘This Mulciber, are you talking about the Mulcibers’ boy, Amedeo?’ Fontius asks.

‘Yes,’ Irene says, she’s starting to shake again.

Fontius pushes another half dose of calming draught across the desk. ‘To prolong the effects,’ he told her.

‘This is the same boy who took you from the closet that Hornby locked you in?’

‘Yes. I forgot to mention I met him before the attack. I bought cuff links for him as thanks.’

‘Hmm. It’s likely you left out other details. We will have to run through this day multiple times before we arrive at the whole truth.’

She swallows the potion down. Her tremors fade.

‘Irene, tell me, what of the Lestrange girl? Has she approached you since your stay in the Hospital Wing?’

Irene shakes her head.

‘No. Of course not. She hasn’t bothered me since the courtyard. Oh, uh, but there is one thing.’

‘Speak. There is no detail too insignificant.’

‘Iris said Hornby’s half-sibling with Lestrange. I’m not sure if that has anything to do with this but I thought you should know since you said to tell you everything.’  

‘I see. My instinct wasn’t wrong then. I will deal with the problem, but do let me know if one of those Lestrange children try anything. Now back on the matter at hand. What happened after the Mulciber boy met you and Miss Fawley?’

‘Couldn’t we look at my memories?’

Irene doesn’t like how her voice edges on a tremble. Fontius mercifully ignores it, shaking his head.

‘We could look. The ministry would accept as much as truth. And I have no doubt after exhausting adult witnesses they’ll move to gather permission from the children’s parents and guardians. But what they don’t tell you is the reliability of memories. Not often are they fixed.’

‘But there has to be some use, or else why would it be admissible evidence?’

‘Yes, some individuals of incredible aptitude are keepers of the most vivid memories, Mister Prewett would likely be one of them, but most commonly they are loosely strung together. Small details are easily rewritten with time, and traumatic experiences are more likely to become twisted.’

‘But you’ll see the rough outline of the day, won’t you? It might make it easier to fill in the gaps.’

‘Miss Hill, the Mind Arts are not made to be easy. Most of those who have talent are temperate by nature—those resistant to wild flares of emotion—as memories and thoughts are entwined with emotions. You, although kind and brave, are not unfeeling and I fear you may be swept away by such sensations if I attempt to take them from you.’

She shuts her mouth and nods.

The rest of the discussion, interrogation, is told with little resistance. He asks Irene about the attack, what she can remember. Frimley’s scream, the people dressed in black, Irene mad scramble to get somewhere safe, Iris bleeding and limp, and the man with dull grey eyes. It comes out easily while under the influence of calming draught, like one of the analytical reports for her Astronomy course.

‘I held him until he stopped moving. My hands were around his wrists, clawing until the leather rode over his palm. He was choking me then. It hurt. I couldn’t breathe and I was afraid, but not of dying,’ Irene mumbles.

The wooden baseboards creak as Irene shifts in her chaise. She’s tired, sore from sitting in the same position, tense, during their hours long talk. Her eyes are starting to sag.

‘It was London all over again. My mum turning from me, leaving me in the street to grab something from the shed. I was scared that Iris would do the same. I was desperate. I noticed him slip away because the pressure on my neck eased,’ she says, then more quietly, ‘I was relieved when he died.’

Soft cushions mould to her body as Irene leans into them.

‘The men who attacked do not deserve your sympathy. They do not deserve an ounce of your guilt,’ Fontius says.

He is far kinder than his usual self, and perhaps that should speak to her, but the words ring hollow to her. That chasm stays there vast and empty. She yawns, rolls in closer to that soft cushioning.

‘When is the Festival of Purification?’

After her words, nothing but the rickety wood floor can be heard. Fontius’s jaw untenses as if to say something, but nothing comes. Rather than whatever protest or question, he nods in understanding and informs her of the date. February the first.

Irene’s eyes drift close after that, relieved to know it’s only a little more than a month’s time away.

The next morning, she wakes in her bed. Safely tucked in sometime after falling asleep on the chaise. When she heads down to the kitchen, a letter sits on the counter from Fontius. Only an afternoon, and he has returned to his work and left her in the care of Evan and Evan’s fiancé Gladys Macmillan.

There, in the solitude of a tiny abode in the countryside, Irene is told to recover. She doesn’t feel much, doesn’t feel much of anything. Though her hands shake, and her breathing comes short in mornings’ wake, there’s no wild wave of emotions demanding to be let out. No grief to consume her mind in moments of quiet. There’s only the silence and a deep frost that persists. Much like the outside’s frigid mounds of ice and greyed palette, she’s grown cold inside. And maybe now she would be able to share her memories with Fontius.

The short weeks of winter break pass. Time comes and goes to say goodbye to the small cottage.