Greetings! Welcome to Between the Shadow and the Soul. Just a few things to note:
1. As stated in the summary, this story is an AU work. Not all of the characters will be playing their canon roles in the story and I've shifted around timelines quite a bit to make everything work. If this gets confusing at all, feel free to PM me and I'll be happy to clarify as best as I can without giving away any spoilers. ;)
2. Please review! Both encouragement and constructive criticism are much-appreciated. If you are a fellow fanfic writer, you know how meaningful and important it is to receive feedback on your work.
3. Anything you recognize belongs to our dear JKR!
Thank you for reading!
-xx-
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul." - Pablo Neruda
-xx-
August, 1996
Sirius stands at Halia's side, squeezing her hand as her parents are slowly lowered into their resting place at Godric's Hollow.
"I'm sorry, Halia," he tells her and pulls her into a hug. "Lily and J –" his voice strains painfully, "– your parents loved you very much."
The ceremony official keeps glancing in her direction with a concerned expression, surely pondering why she hasn't shed a single tear that afternoon. But even if he asked, she wouldn't have an answer.
After the service, nearly every stranger in attendance pauses to tell her that her parents were honorable, brilliant, and incredibly kind. Of course, there are a few faces she recognizes from the brief lapses in their travels during the holidays: Remus, the entire Weasley clan, and several of her parents' coworkers from the Ministry. They too express their deepest sympathies for her loss and it is these condolences that she believes the most, because she can see the aching in their warm, familiar eyes.
But all these attempts at comforting her feel somehow irrelevant, as though they are meant for another person. And why do all the memories she and her parents shared feel so oddly foreign? Is this what losing the people you love most is supposed to feel like? Is this the mind's way of coping?
It is in this precise moment that she meets Albus Dumbledore for the first time.
-xx-
September, 1996
"Guess it's just you and me now, Moony," Sirius sighs sadly while pouring a glass of Firewhiskey for both of them. A month and a half has passed since the funeral, but his wounds feel fresh as ever.
"After Peter, things were never the same," Remus gazes into the brick fireplace of Sirius' dark, wood-paneled sitting room.
"But with Peter it was different. This wasn't supposed to happen – not to Lily and James."
Remus turns to gape at him with a horrified expression.
Sirius winces defensively. "I just meant…come, Moony, you know what I meant. Peter was off. He had been threatening to do it for months. We sort of expected it, didn't we?"
Remus' expression softens and he places a hand on his now-oldest friend's shoulder. "Everyone has a time, Sirius. This was James' and Lily's. And as much as it hurts to think about it, attempting to rationalize it all will only make the pain worse. Besides, you have Halia to think of now."
Sirius nods and looks down at his drink solemnly. How will he possibly find a way to fill the hole that James and Lily left in their daughter's life?
Then again, that isn't really what they are asking of him at all, is it? By appointing Sirius as Halia's legal guardian in their will, they were simply asking him to provide her with a good, stable life. It is simultaneously a request that he cannot refuse and his last opportunity to do right by his closest friends.
To Sirius, it means one thing, and one thing only: he will not fuck this up.
He and Remus have just finished their second round when Dumbledore arrives at his front door.
"Good afternoon Sirius. Remus," Albus bows his head slightly at both of them.
But Sirius does not invite him inside. Instead, he glances up at the staircase nervously toward Halia's room, where she has resolutely locked herself away for the last month, except for the occasional meal. She is so unlike the girl he had come to know over the years – the one who was always curious and could never sit still for longer than twenty minutes.
"She's still hurting, Albus – so much. Maybe going to Hogwarts isn't the best thing for her right now."
Dumbledore nods slowly once more, as if he had anticipated Sirius' reservations. "May I come in, Sirius?"
The younger wizard stands aside and allows the elder to enter the small London flat, leading him into the sitting room where the neat pile of flaming logs in the fireplace has begun to collapse in on itself.
Sirius crosses his arms and begins to pace as Albus and Remus take a seat on the lone piece of furniture in the room: a couch given to Sirius by James' parents when he was disowned from his own family all those years ago.
"I was thinking that I might teach her myself," Sirius tells them in a tone he hopes is convincingly confident. "Just like James and Lily did."
Dumbledore exchanges a look at Remus, who shrugs, and then peers at Sirius over the top of his glasses. "That is not what James and Lily wanted for her, Sirius. They wanted her to be at Hogwarts with her peers – it's stated quite clearly in their will."
He stayed up the whole night prior, crafting his argument against this very point, but now that he's staring the undeniable in the face, everything he planned to say is now moot. In a matter of seconds, he has lost.
-xx-
There was once a time that being seated under such close scrutiny of Dumbledore would make his insides squirm - a time before he mastered Occlumency. But that time seems so distantly behind him now as he lounges comfortably in the chair opposite him in the Headmaster's office.
"Did you have an enjoyable summer, Tom?"
"Yes. Quite nice." He doesn't bother to reciprocate the question; through all his interactions with Albus, he has made it abundantly clear that small talk is an unwelcome pleasantry.
Not that it stops the old fool from trying anyway, if only (most likely) to annoy him.
"A student arrived today–"
"Two hundred students arrived today," Tom smirks and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair.
Dumbledore gave him one of those irritatingly patient, all-knowing smiles and Tom regrets his quip immediately.
"Go on," he waves his hand and sighs boredly.
Dumbledore looks rather pleased with himself for a moment before donning a more serious expression. "This student, Halia Potter, will be transferring into the sixth year class at Hogwarts this year."
"Transferring? From where?" Throughout his seven years as a student and five as a professor, Tom knows of only one transfer student: a boy that had been denied from every other magical institution in Europe because his MAGIQ score bordered on that of a squib. Tom always thought his alma mater was far too accepting of inferior minds, but that instance proved it once and for all.
"She was home-taught by her late parents, James and Lily Potter."
Brilliant – another doltish reject. But he'll bite, as long as it means getting this interaction over with as soon as possible. "Why do their names sound familiar?"
"They attended Hogwarts a few years before you, and were Magical Ambassadors for the Ministry. They were very well-respected. Shortly after returning from Ethiopia in the beginning of August, James, Lily, and Halia were admitted to St. Mungo's with stubborn cases of Alcelonia Gallus. Tragically, James and Lily's cases were far more severe than Halia's and they were never able to recover."
Tom nods. Right - he read about it in the incredibly vague Daily Prophet obituary that made him doubt Lily and James Potter were just a run-of-the-mill pair of Magical Ambassadors.
"I brought Halia to Hogwarts this morning so we could review her O.W.L. scores and ensure that her placement in the sixth-year class was appropriate. I also suggested that she complete her sorting at that time rather than waiting until the first-year ceremony this evening so she might avoid unwanted attention – she agreed."
"Alright." Where exactly is he going with this?
"You'll be pleased to know that she was sorted into the House of Slytherin."
No, not pleased. Not anything. Why would he care at all? And what does Dumbledore want him to say?
"Good for her?"
Albus sits back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. "I was hoping, Tom, that you might help her adjust to her new life at Hogwarts. Myself and the rest of the staff will of course do our best to provide her with whatever support she needs, but I thought it would be nice if you could connect on a more personal level with her. She will need someone she feels she can trust and confide in."
"But Sir – surely this should be Severus' responsibility, given his position as Head of Slytherin House." Tom is quite bitter about this of course, but it's not as though he can waltz around touting his heritage – not after his rather impulsive time as a sixth-year, anyway. It turns out that opening the Chamber of Secrets and accidentally-on-purpose killing a mudblood girl with the mighty creature that lives inside is frowned upon, even if the girl is unpopular and highly annoying.
"I am not asking Severus, Tom. I am asking you." Dumbledore's eyes seem to twinkle when he says this, probably because of Tom's growing impatience. Dumbledore may act like a bloody saint to everyone else, but beneath it all the old man is clearly a sadist – at least when it comes to him.
"Well, may I at least ask why?" Tom can't even think of anyone less suitable for this job than himself: his ability to maintain a complete lack of personal connection to his students (apart from those he believes could one day reach a level of influence) is truly a great point of pride for him.
"Her O.W.L. scores were slightly above average for her year in nearly every subject…But Defense Against the Dark Arts is where she excelled particularly; she was one question away from a perfect score."
Tom blinks. "She missed a perfect O.W.L. score by one?"
But that was impossible. In his fifth year O.W.L., he missed it by two.
Dumbledore beams. "Quite an astounding young lady, wouldn't you agree? She's been at Hogwarts for all of five hours and has already broken a record held by one of our most impressive faculty members."
He sniffs. "I suppose I should have a word or two with Perkins in the Ministry Examinations Office about the relaxation of O.W.L. standards."
Dumbledore ignores him. "She's a very troubled young girl, Tom. I believe that of all our staff, you are best equipped to help her, particularly given her distinction and apparent interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
It's quite simple to read between the lines here: You are an orphan, ergo you can automatically relate most to the troubled orphan girl.
Is Dumbledore honestly stupid enough to believe this is actually the case? Probably not. In reality, he's just a lazy old man and his shirking of responsibilities to the rest of the staff is nothing new.
On the bright side, Tom will surely find a way to spin this into a favor later, which could prove quite useful in the coming months. After all, if the draft of the Ministry educational reform proposal waiting patiently in his office is any indication, there will soon be significant changes at Hogwarts and he'll be damned if Dumbledore tries to stand in his way one more bloody time.
-xx-
Halia swore earlier that morning that she would make use of her fresh start at Hogwarts by leaving some of her grief behind in favor of a more upbeat attitude. But now, this newfound morale is getting crushed quite efficiently by her attempts to navigate the labyrinth of the Hogwarts dungeons.
Seriously? She can wind her way through foreign cities alone for hours without getting lost, but can't handle a bloody dungeon? This is what she gets for staying in one place for too long after years of constantly changing scenery. Sirius did the best he could to make her feel at home, but all she wanted the past month was to escape. To keep moving.
And now she is here – for months. In Slytherin, no less.
What would her parents say? They were so proud of the fact that they were Gryffindors and had even brought her here to see a few Quidditch matches between their Ministry assignments. Her father was so starry-eyed in nostalgia as he rattled off all the various plays in jargon she tried desperately to keep up with while her mum spent the entire match socializing with their fellow alumni.
It doesn't help that everyone Halia knows who has graduated from Hogwarts was in Gryffindor as well. Her stomach churns anxiously at the thought of telling Sirius.
"You're a shoe-in for Gryffindor," he told her just before she left with Professor Dumbledore that morning. "But you'll be fine anywhere so long as it's not Slytherin." It was clear when he stuck out his tongue that he meant it in his typical, light-hearted way…but still.
She even tried begging the Sorting Hat to place her elsewhere – anywhere else. But after at least three minutes of unintelligible musings, it announced resolutely that Slytherin was the best place for her to be.
Bullshit.
She would make the best of it, though, and the very least she could do is figure out why the Sorting Hat decided to put her here.
But where is here, exactly? The tour that the Headmaster gave her that morning while showing her to her dormitory lasted all of five minutes and, judging from the fact that she is passing the stone bust of some bearded philosopher for the third time, it was rather insufficient.
Relief hits as a door opens further down the corridor and a tall man with jet black hair steps out of the shadows.
"Erm, excuse me?" Halia jogs down the hall to catch up with him. "Would you mind telling me how to reach the Great Hall?"
The man turns, greeting her with a startlingly scornful look on his angular face. He stares at her through his dark eyes for a few moments with such a disdainful expression that it almost compels her to apologize. For what? No idea, but the compulsion is so strong that it's almost palpable.
"You must be Miss Potter." His voice is deep and monotone at first, but it warps into what could only be described as disgust when he says her last name.
"…Yes?"
His right eyebrow quirks up slightly. "Is that a confirmation? Or are you asking me to tell you?" The flat tone of his voice is flooded with condescension.
"Yes. I mean, no." Her face flushes in embarrassment as her speech quickens nervously, "Yes, I am Halia Potter and no, I am not asking you. My apologies, Sir, it's been a long day." She offers him a weak smile. Perhaps they would relate over the travails of everyday life and continue this conversation in a far friendlier tone.
But judging from the way his thin lips remain pressed together in a slight frown, this will not be the case.
The unpleasant man suddenly turns on his heel and treads away from her without another word. She would be relieved if it wasn't for the fact that the Welcoming Feast would begin any minute now…
She rocks back and forth indecisively on her feet before giving in and following after him. "Are you on your way to the Great Hall as well?"
"Obviously."
Halia's eyes are trained directly forward as she struggles to keep up with his quick pace, memorizing every detail of the corridors to make her next escape from the dungeons far easier. She doesn't even need to glance up at him to know he's rolling his eyes at her; it's quite evident from the patronizing way he draws out the word.
Maybe she's overreacting. After all, reading people was never her strong suit and there are endless explanations for his rudeness: perhaps he's just socially awkward or just received some particularly awful news.
So she tries again.
"Are you a professor? What do you teach?"
"Potions."
"Oh! You're Professor – Snape, yeah? Head of Slytherin? Professor Dumbledore mentioned you." She manages to sound upbeat, but her insides sink simultaneously. Of every name on the substantial list that the Headmaster had recited to her that morning, why did he have to be her Head of House?
This time, the prick doesn't even bother to respond to her.
Halia wouldn't mind the rudeness quite so much if there was a legitimate reason behind it. But what could she possibly have done in the first seconds of their encounter to offend him so profoundly?
And does he actually think she's just going to stand there and take this?
"Well, let me just say that I'm really excited that I was sorted to Slytherin – it was definitely my first pick." Her voice drips sarcasm. It's a decidedly small step toward regaining her pride, but a rather satisfying one nonetheless.
Professor Snape gives her a derisive snort and the remainder of their trip is spent in silence.
When they arrive, all of her fellow students are settling in at their respective tables while a stern-looking witch lines up the first years in the front of the room. They're all so small with such wide, bright eyes as they stand before the Sorting Hat. She tosses the dirty old thing a bitter glare before heading over to the Slytherin table.
In the crowd, she spots the flame-haired Weasley lot at the Gryffindor table, and shoots them a grin and a wave. Ron is too busy chatting up a somewhat familiar bushy-haired girl to notice, but Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny all greet her happily in return. Their expressions become confused and then horrified when they realize that she is not walking toward them, but toward the opposite end of the Hall – a reaction that does little for her confidence.
She takes a deep breath and picks a seat towards the middle Slytherin table. Fortunately, as a round of introductions begins, it is quite apparent that her Slytherin peers are far more charming than Professor Hooked-Nose.
An attractive, platinum-haired boy with a Prefect badge pinned to his robes is the first to introduce himself, extending his hand as he sits down across from her. "Draco Malfoy. My father– he's Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Directors, surely you've heard of him– mentioned that there would be a transfer student for the first time in years…" He scans her up and down, and not particularly discreetly. "Apparently he left out a few details. And you are...?"
"Halia," she grins flirtily, shaking his hand. "Halia Potter."
He leans in closer without releasing his grip on her hand, a small smirk on his lips. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Halia. Slytherin is honored to have you."
A girl with shoulder-length, mousy brown hair and a sour expression sitting directly to his right clears her throat and glares at him.
Draco releases Halia's hand and leans away. "Ah, and this is my –...This is Pansy…Pansy Parkinson."
"Nice to meet you," Halia beams at the girl, noticing that she is also wearing a Prefect badge.
"Pleasure." But it's clear that it isn't, given the way her sour expression remains firmly planted on her birdlike face.
"And this is Crabbe and Goyle." Draco waves his hands dismissively toward two rather pudgy boys sitting on the other side of Pansy. They both respond with a small nod in her direction without quite meeting her eyes.
Soon after, she meets grim-faced Theodore Nott, makeup-caked Tracey Davis, Milly Bullstrode (who, somewhat ironically, bears some resemblance to a bulldog), the very reserved Daphne Greengrass, and a long-lashed boy named Blaise Zabini. She learns that each of them, along with Draco, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle, are in the sixth-year class as well. It could certainly be far worse; with the possible exception of Pansy, they seem moderately pleasant and most certainly harmless. Perhaps her earlier worries had been unwarranted after all.
Blaise jumps into conversation with her immediately, conceitedly informing her that he finalized his third modeling contract before boarding the Hogwarts Express that morning. Halia tries desperately not to laugh, particularly when she sees Draco roll his eyes in such obvious envy, and she is just about to crack when the Sorting Hat saves her with its song.
The Great Hall is buzzing with infectious excitement when it finishes and the Sorting Ceremony begins; in fact, Halia soon finds herself so caught up in it all that she begins clapping enthusiastically with each new addition to Slytherin.
Dumbledore stands when the Sorting concludes. "Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you."
Halia raises an eyebrow and looks around at her House-mates. "Bit of a nutter, isn't he?" He had seemed at least normal, if not incredibly wise, when she met him for the first time at her parents' funeral and for the second that morning when he came to escort her to Hogwarts. He was quite old, though, and it didn't seem like that much of a stretch to assume he had some mild form of dementia. Poor man.
Halia is staring at him in pity when his bright blue eyes suddenly shine her way, as though he can tell exactly what she was thinking. She tears her eyes away from his and across the table at Draco, flushing slightly in embarrassment. Thankfully, no one around her seems to notice.
Draco snorts while scooping a mound of mashed potatoes onto his dinner plate. "You wouldn't believe some of the things he brings up in meetings with my father – did I mention my father's the Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Directors? Anyway, in my opinion, the old man is completely unfit to be Headmaster."
Halia raises her glass of pumpkin juice to her lips to hide her smirk, doubting very much that Draco's opinion was actually his and not just his father's. "Who would you pick, then? If Dumbledore wasn't Headmaster?"
Draco looks rather surprised at her question, but then turns to survey the staff table. "Snape, perhaps?"
Well, Professor Hooked-Nose would really have to work on his communication skills if that was the case.
"Something funny, Potter?" Pansy sneers.
"Snape just seems…rather unlikely, is all."
A strange look crosses Draco's face as though she somehow offended him, but then he leans toward her with his elbows on the table, smirk on his lips, and fascinated gleam in his pale eyes. "Well then. Who would you choose, Halia?"
She shrugs and cuts into her perfectly golden-brown Cornish game hen. "No idea. He and Dumbledore are the only staff I've met so far."
"Well," Blaise gestures to the left side of the staff table, "there's Trelawney, Professor of Divination –"
"Bloody useless subject, that is," Tracey rolls her eyes.
" – Sinistra, who teaches Astronomy; Flitwick…he's Head of Ravenclaw and teaches Charms…Burbage –"
"Professor of Muggle Studies," Draco sneers. "The only subject more useless than Divination or Care of Magical Creatures."
Halia sighs internally. Apparently, the blood-purist mentality of Slytherins really did exist and wasn't as much of a misguided rumor as she hoped. What would they say if they knew that she was a half-blood?
Probably little. Although the surnames of her new acquaintances were associated with the pureblood elite, there had to be other half-blooded or even muggle-born students in Slytherin. It was mathematically illogical to assume otherwise.
Blaise continues his naming of staff members, interrupting her thoughts. "–Sprout, Professor of Herbology and Head of Hufflepuff; Dumbledore and Snape of course; Riddle –"
"Oh, I'd definitely vote him for Headmaster." Pansy exchanges a smirk with Milly.
It's easy to see why. Riddle looks surprisingly young compared to the rest of the staff and provides a substantial contrast to Professor Snape, with whom he is engaged in some sort of discussion. Where Snape's face is sharp edges in all the wrong places, Riddle's has them in all the right ones. Then again, she supposes anyone sat next to Snape would seem like a ten, or at least a mid-eight.
But then again, perhaps she's biased from her earlier encounter with Professor Hooked-Nose.
"What does he teach?"
"Defense Against the Dark Arts. He's a strict grader but also a Slytherin alumni, so we usually end up with decent marks at the end of the term," Blaise nudges her with his elbow. "Try not to worry too much if you get a 'Troll' on your first paper."
Clearly, Blaise isn't aware of the fact that her O.W.L. score in the subject broke the prior Hogwarts record. But the last thing she wants is to become the new Slytherin House tutor, so she keeps her mouth shut.
After dinner, Halia migrates with the rest of the Slytherins back to the dungeons and makes her way up to her dormitory, which she learns she will be sharing with Daphne, Tracey, Milly, and (regrettably) Pansy.
When she kneels to dig her pyjamas out of her modest trunk of belongings, Daphne leans against her bedpost. "I just wanted to say…I'm sure you don't want to talk about it, but I'm sorry about your parents. My mum saw them around the Ministry sometimes. She said they seemed nice."
"They were brilliant," Halia nods. What else was she supposed to say? Was this going to become a pattern? Hopefully not – the thought of receiving any sort of pity from her peers is a dreadfully uncomfortable one.
Daphne opens her mouth to speak again, but Pansy suddenly bursts through the door of the dormitory and storms right up to Halia.
"Stay away from my Draco, Potter. He's mine." Her arms are crossed over her chest and leers toward Halia threateningly, her thin, mousy hair falling in front of her face.
She smirks. "Does he know that?"
Shit. She said that aloud and not just in her head, didn't she?
Pansy looks furious, but before she can spit out a single word, Halia shrugs. "Don't worry, Pansy, I have no interest in Draco. He's not at all my type and last spring I began seeing the French Minister's son …"
"No bloody way –you're dating Pierre LeBlanc?" Tracey's eyes widen and Pansy's frown deepens.
Halia smiles dreamily and removes her hairbrush from her trunk, running it through her hair.
"Something along those lines. It's complicated." A lie, but it's becoming clear quite quickly that whoever's beau is fittest runs the show here. And even though they weren't technically dating, she and Pierre had snogged. Well, once, while drunkenly playing Spin the Wand with a few other teenage children of international politicians' that she became acquainted with throughout her travels.
"That is, like, so amazing." Tracey giggles. "Is he a good snog?"
"Oh, yes. Very." Another lie.
The glare that Pansy gives her before trudging off to get ready for bed is astonishingly satisfying and she falls into the deepest sleep she's had in months.
-xx-
"Enter."
The Minister's large leather chair is turned to face the arching, floor-to-ceiling window that offers a remarkable view of the snow-capped Southern Bavarian Alps. All that can be seen of the man himself is the top of his grey-blonde head, which tilts slight to the side as he speaks. "Any word of the trade deal with Egypt? Or will our embargo on flying carpets continue into the holiday season?"
"I have heard only whisperings, Minister, none of which have produced useful leads."
"That is for me to decide, Dolohov. Not you." The chair spins, an ephemeral look of disapproval deepening the wrinkles of the Minister's usually jovial features.
Antonin folds his hands in front of him and looks down at the floor in appropriate shame. "My sincerest apologies, Sir."
The Minister nods, his face brightening. "I want you to prepare a list of every flying carpet incident that has occurred in the last twenty years – work with Hier und Jetzt to put a story together. And get Whitehorn from Nimbus a meeting with Krämer from Development Permits. If Britain has refused to sell him a site to build his second factory, we shall make it known that his business is welcome on German soil."
"Of course, Minister Grindelwald. But do you believe that Egypt will fail to meet our demands? We are one of their largest buyers, after all – we're bound to win."
The Minister's booming laugh echoes off the cavernous castle walls. "The way we win, Dolohov, is by making their decision irrelevant." Then he crosses the room, clapping Antonin on the shoulder. "That is all for now. If you'll excuse me, I must be off to check in on my dear wife."
Antonin bows his head respectfully. "How is our Lady recovering, Sir?"
"Spectacularly. Almost too spectacularly to believe, actually." A muscle twitches in his jaw. "If little else in the way of flattery may be said of her, my Ariana is certainly tenacious."
-xx-
It watches through stone, cold and ancient, and the misty haze, fleeting and impalpable. It watches as a girl and a man– presumably her father based on the likeness of their jet-black hair and thin faces– sprint up the top of the rocky platform. They double over, panting until their breathing steadies, and then proceed to argue about who won the impromptu race.
"I think Halia was first," declares the third member of the party to reach the cliff, a woman with dark red hair that whips around her heart-shaped face in the wind.
Halia. That name – a name that seems so familiar, but so foreign at the same time.
The man sticks his tongue out playfully at the woman and she smiles, crinkles forming at the corners of her bright green eyes, which match identically to the girl's. Halia's.
The red-haired woman glances around curiously. "Do you think this is the place, James?"
He holds up the map and scratches his head, which makes his unruly black hair stand up on end. "I thought so...Nothing seems out of the ordinary, though."
As he speaks, Halia moves closer to the stone wall, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion and left palm extended. "Can you feel that?"
It can certainly feel her – the heat radiating off her skin providing such a welcome contrast to its perpetual frigidity.
"Feel what, sweetheart?" Her mother asks, approaching her.
"That…I dunno…that buzzing feeling."
The mother and father share a concerned look before glancing back toward their daughter.
"You know what? I'm starved," James announces suddenly. "How about you, Hals?"
Halia remains transfixed, staring at the stone wall for a moment, before dropping her palm to her side and turning away.
It patiently watches as they eat, silently chanting her name.
Halia. Ha-li-a.
Why is it so familiar?
HALIA!
The girl drops her sandwich mid-bite and scrambles to her feet.
"Sweetheart?" The red-haired woman grabs her hand and looks up at her in concern. "Are you alright?"
"How can you not feel that?" Halia tugs herself out of the woman's grip and makes her way to the stone wall once more, her palm extended toward precisely the same spot as minutes before.
"Come away from there, Hals." Her father stands, drawing his wand, and his wife follows suit.
"I can't," she whispers. Her green eyes are wide in a mixture of confusion, fear, and curiosity.
Without warning, she presses her palm to the stone façade. Her skin is hot – boiling hot. A viciously sweet sort of burn. And in an instant, the world convulses and everything dissolves into three flashes of light, the first of which is the exact color of her eyes. Then there is white-hot, endless brightness, and finally, the deepest, blackest darkness. Home.
-xx-
The cold morning air stings her lungs as she jogs around the lake, the mist rising off it so similar to the mountain mist in her dream. She slept quite soundly despite it; after all, dreams of her parents had become a regular occurrence ever since that terrible day she woke up in a bed at St. Mungo's and looked over at the leather chair beside her bed to see Sirius staring at her with bloodshot eyes. It was all a blur as he explained what happened:
Sorry. Parents. Alcelonia Gallus. Coma. Water-borne magi-virus. One week. No cure. Admitted. Didn't make it.
It all makes just as little sense as it did then. How had they, two of the strongest people in her world (and quite possibly the world), perish from a mere virus while she lived on?
She picks up her pace, shifting away from the Black Lake and towards the Quidditch pitch where a few Gryffindors are already practicing.
"Oi! If you keep brooding like that, I'm going to start believing you actually belong in bloody Slytherin."
Halia glances up and one of the Weasley twins is hovering in front of her with a wide grin on his freckled face.
"Ha-ha." She mock-glares at him and tips her chin in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. "Bit early in the year to be practicing, isn't it? Scared we're going to beat Gryffindor?"
"Never," he scoffs with a smirk. "Ron's decided to try out for Keeper and asked us to help…"
She fights the urge to laugh as Ron spots her talking to his brother and waves, before promptly colliding with the goal hoop.
"We clearly have some work to do." He runs a hand through his fiery short hair. "Anyway, happy first day of Hogwarts! I bet it'll be bloody torture for you to sit in a classroom all day –"
She was hoping for the best, but he definitely had a point. Sitting still for prolonged periods had never been her forte, nor a common occurrence while traveling with her parents.
"– but you know, if you get too bored, I'd be happy to help keep things interesting."
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Oh, the Weasley twins and their endless hoard of pranking supplies and party favors…Thanks to the latter, she had quite a few close calls with her parents while visiting London over the holidays.
"By the way, Fred and I are having a little get-together this Saturday. Stop by, unless of course you've gone to the dark side already."
She rolls her eyes. "Shut up."
The twin revealed to be George winks at her. "The password's Mimbulus Mimbletonia. See you 'round, Potter."
By the time Halia makes it back to the dungeons, takes a shower, and gathers her supplies for History of Magic, and winds her way through the corridors to arrive in classroom 4F, she is over fifteen minutes late.
Perfect. This is sure to make a great first impression. First Snape, now Professor– she glances at her schedule– Binns. Zero for two.
But amazingly, Professor Binns doesn't seem to notice her tardiness; as she slides into the only seat remaining in the very front of the classroom, his droning voice fails to pause even once. Her classmates, however, do take notice and she can hear Pansy's snicker a few rows back.
Halia does her best to ignore it and focuses her attention on the lecture instead, attempting to emulate the furious note-taking and rapt attention of the studious Ravenclaws around her. But George was right earlier; sitting in a classroom was torture for her. She sets down her quill and drums her fingertips against the table, chancing a look at the clock in the back of the room. Surely it's been at least forty-five minutes…
Nope. A measly ten.
Thankfully, after what feels like eternity, the class does end and she's off to Potions. It comes as a substantial relief when Snape pairs her with Daphne for the term rather than Pansy or the air-headed Tracey (whose presence in N.E.W.T.-level Potions is a complete mystery). Even better, the Potions Master largely ignores her and makes no comment as he examines her Calming Draught. It's not a compliment, but at least it's not the scathing criticism that some of the Hufflepuffs receive either.
After Potions, she eats a quick lunch with Theodore, Milly, Draco, and Pansy. Draco is in the middle of bragging about the new Nimbus line of broomsticks his father will be purchasing for the Slytherin Quidditch team when Halia looks pointedly at her watch and says, "Oh, wow. Look at the time…Shouldn't we be off to Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
It's sad, really; that even the prospect sitting through another lecture sounds decidedly more pleasant than hearing Draco say the words "my father" in his self-important tone one more bloody time.
He nods and rises from the table with her. "I'll walk you – the classroom is rather tricky to find and we know from History of Magic this morning how directionally challenged you happen to be. Let me take your books for you –"
She hands them over with tight smile. So much for escaping him. But then her smile turns genuine when she sees Draco turn and pass off her books to a certain mousey-haired girl who is already carrying his. "Here Pansy."
-xx-
After Tom's rather exhausting day of two first-year classes (much of which were spent on the proper way to hold a wand, Merlin help him) and fourth-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, it is a relief to see his small group of N.E.W.T.-level sixth-years settling into his classroom. These students were the very first first-years that he taught, allowing him to introduce the study of dark magic from day one as opposed to back-peddling the unsavory preconceived notions from Professor Merrythought's prior teachings. For this reason, they are arguably his favorite.
Of course, it helps that around half of them are Slytherins – the House which proved to be most adept at following his instruction in the dark arts portion of the class.
Sadly, though, much of the job's initial glamour faded over the first few years of his teaching career, a sentiment that has far more to do with the shift in school leadership than any sort of boredom with the subject matter itself. When Dippet was Headmaster, actualizing one of his greater visions for Hogwarts– such as establishing a whole new course for Dark Arts, his most beloved and pitifully neglected branch of magic– seemed quite possible. But Dippet's retirement and the appointment of Dumbledore to the vacancy had effectively stopped Tom's progress.
"Good afternoon." He stands to greet the class at exactly 1:30 p.m. "As you are well-aware, you will be completing your N.E.W.T.s at the end of your seventh year. Unlike many of your other courses, however, N.E.W.T. preparation will not be the primary focus of this class. The branches of magic and concepts we will cover far exceed the Ministry curriculum requirements; as such, you will have no issue passing your N.E.W.T.s. if you prove capable in keeping up with the pace of the course."
Sure, he rebels by taking a few liberties here and there, stretching the bounds of the class content; but at this point, it all feels like more of a tedious exercise than anything else. He has even timed each his lessons so they last precisely one hour and thirty minutes, not one second over or under. For the last couple of years, it was these little victories that got him by while he dreamt up a new plan and positioned himself in the good favor of the powers that would allow him to realize it. Soon. So soon, now – just a few more months of waiting.
"Questions? No? Then we shall begin." He snaps his fingers and a piece of chalk begins scrawling out the lesson's notes on the board while he waves his wand and begins moving the classroom's various cabinets and collectibles out of the way to make room for the practical portion of their lesson. "You may have noticed that most your summer readings pertained to curses that result in severely debilitating effects on its victim such as deafness, blindness, and hypersensitivity to pain. These consequences are often permanent unless the assistance of an exceptionally-skilled Healer is immediately sought. Can anyone tell me how long this window of time is, on average?"
"Anyone?" The class is silent, save for the loud squeak as someone shifts uncomfortably in their chair. "Miss Granger?" He sighs internally for reinforcing her pest-like zeal, but it's clear that he has little choice in the matter until the rest of the class gets back into the swing of things.
When he glances up, however, she is not perched on the edge of her seat, arm perfectly straight in the air. "Actually, Halia was first Sir." There is a twinge of despair in the muggle-born's voice, as though the admission that someone has bested her causes her physical pain. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but he manages to subdue a smirk.
His eyes fall onto the student he had all but forgotten about over the past day, a girl with jet-black hair and a smooth complexion. But what is most striking is the way her hand is half-lazily held in the air with a sense of bored arrogance. He crosses his arms and leans back against his desk, any trace of a smirk long-gone. "Ah, yes, our newest addition to the class. Miss Potter, then?"
"I believe the window of time is estimated to be between six and eight minutes, depending on the ability of the caster."
"That is correct." Of course it was; she had broken his O.W.L. record, after all. "Well, it is correct in some circumstances, I should say. For example if the curse is preceded by a Hex-Focusing Charm –"
" – the window would shirk to around thirty seconds. Of course. But the likelihood of conjuring a successful Hex-Focusing Charm in a duel is practically nil."
For a moment, it sounds as though the entire class has stopped breathing. And for good reason – nobody dares to interrupt him.
He's boiling internally at the nerve of her, but Dumbledore's request rings in his ears and he manages to respond in nonchalance – he'd make an example of her instead. "A valid point, but I did not specify that the question was in a dueling context. But let's try again, Potter. What is the first indication that one is near the protective boundary of magically concealed area?"
"A slight shift in air density."
That arrogant tone of hers is really beginning to get under his skin, and now he's bloody determined to find the weak spot in her knowledge. "A slight shift in air density – Sir," he corrects her. "Which hexes can be combined to produce an effect reminiscent of a mild Imperius?"
Once again, she babbles off the answer without a moment's hesitation. How in the…That was easily a N.E.W.T.-level question for anyone who hadn't taken his course previously.
"Swot," Parkinson coughs into her hand not at all discreetly.
"And the number of Lethifold species that have been discovered to date?"
"I believe it's twenty-three, Professor."
Finally.
"Incorrect; there are only twenty-one, the most recent of which was discovered in Brunei in 1932." He smirks smugly. "Like the rest of the class, you clearly –"
She arches an eyebrow at him. "Actually, Sir, that was before the Ministry of Divine Health's classification system changed."
His fingers grip the chalk so tightly that his knuckles begin to turn white and his stomach drops in dread. She's fucking right.
Maintaining his façade of nonchalance becomes substantially more difficult all of a sudden.
"The classification system is subjective. Twenty-one is the number accepted far more widely." He shrugs, and narrows his eyes coldly at her. "Still, how could I have forgotten? Your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. score was quite extraordinary, so I have heard. Not to worry – as I mentioned earlier, the Ministry standards drastically fail to match the breadth of content covered in my course, especially when it comes to the practical applications of theory. So, while a few of your classmates may foolishly believe they are in the presence of brilliance, you can rest assured that you still have a substantial amount to learn."
And he could rest assured that there was no way that a student knew more about his course than he did – clearly, she was cheating and he would damn well figure out how.
Then she leans back in her chair and gives him a smirk, muttering almost imperceptibly, "Well, Professor Riddle, that is certainly a relief to hear."
This act alone basically confirms that the girl must be an idiot. Clearly, she has no idea who she's dealing with. So, he'll let it go for now and instead put her up against Nott, the best duelist in the class, during the practical portion of the lesson. That will teach her.
But his plan backfires, and her success at disarming Nott when he attempts to curse her makes her look even more like a bloody prodigy. It's suddenly quite clear that Dumbledore's request to make the girl feel welcome at Hogwarts must be some sick version of a joke. The goddamn sadist.
After class concludes and the sixth-years file out, he glances up at the clock and scowls; thanks to his irritating exchange with Potter, class had gone over. By a bloody twenty-three seconds, no less – icing on the fucking cake.
-xx-