The Jordan Quartet: Book 1

The Assassin, Part 1

Written by Glitter, plot mostly by Dolphingirl with help from Glitter

In the wreckage of the Prewett's house, he stood. His name, feared to speak for so many years, was tattooed over the wooden doorway in smoking black letters. He stood, enjoying the sight of the bodies of Gina and Marcus Prewett, sprawled in grotesque positions, one still clutching three splinters and a unicorn hair. Blood flowed freely from Gina—in places her skin had been totally peeled from her face—and the glittery white of bone was everywhere—Marcus's bones. The rest of his body lay there like a deflated balloon.

Alexander Prewett was immune to it all; he crouched beneath a smoldering pile of half-melted bricks. He was rocking back and forth, hugging the body of his younger sister, Katy, to his chest. It had been quick and painless for her, not so for him. In his heart was a tearing emptiness that nothing could ever cure.

The assistant watched this scenario through dark eyes. He knew not the Prewetts and was glad he hadn't—just watching brought sweat to his face and a queer lurch in his stomach. Doubt was heavy on his mind—he could never torture and kill people—well, maybe he could kill, as long as it was fast. Painless. Not so—messy.

Voldemort looked up, noticing two things at once. The first was a teenage boy, clutching an eight-year old girl to his chest. The second was the barest twitch of a finger from the two-year old he had presumed dead. He waved his wand, absentmindedly killing the boy, who fell to earth with a wet thud and a choking moan. His keen eye missed the shiver that ran through his hooded servant.

Using his magic as a scoop, he picked her up. She was asleep, twitching slightly in fitful dreams. He studied her. She had black hair, long eyelashes, and a determined mouth. As he stared, her eye snapped open, and she ran her brown eyes over him. There was no fear in her gaze, only anger.

He smiled. Smiled and laughed until his stomach hurt. The Death Eater beside him winced. The girl continued to glare, her eyes practically shot sparks. Voldemort smiled again. "Severus, take her." He ordered his hooded assistant. "I shall find her amusing—if not very, very useful." Just before Severus Apperated away, he heard Voldemort mummer "Her name is to be Jordan."

~

Fifteen years later, many things had changed. The child had grown, no longer a child but a young woman, strong and dangerous. Her face was no longer baby-round and smooth; a number of tiny scars were scattered around a face that was narrow and strong-boned. Although she was well-fed, there was a wasted look about her—hollow cheeks, bony wrists and arms. And of course, she was still stubborn and unafraid.

As Wormtail, her keeper, found out constantly day after day.

"Shan't."

"Shall."

"Shan't."

"You shall, or Master will hear," snapped Wormtail, waving his wand impatiently at the teenager who was bluntly refusing to use the Killing Curse on a large amount of kittens.

"I shan't. It's wrong." She shook her shaggy chin-length black hair out of her eyes. "What have they ever done to deserve such a death?"

Wormtail, unwilling to waste time finding an answer to this, shook his wand under her nose. She calmly turned it aside and pointed her own wand at him. "I'll try the curse out on you, then."

He paled. "Th-th-that's not allowed," he stuttered.

She kept her wand level with his eyes. "I couldn't care less," she said darkly, smiling. "You have until the count of three to get out of here and if I see you again for the rest of today, I shan't be so lenient." Wormtail stiffened, and she nearly laughed. "One, two—" she stopped, watching his back retreating down the hall. "THREE!" she roared, setting off an earth-shaking blast that had the house-elves scurrying for cover and Wormtail running for his life.

She laughed, then went over to the kittens. Freeing them from their body bind, she began to play with them. One, the smallest and darkest, was darting away from the others, pouncing wildly at the slightest opportunity. She smiled and picked it up; it bit her. She didn't mind—fighting shows spirit. "You're so cute!" she told him as he wrestled with her fingers. "And so quick"—he bit her again—"and so ferocious!"

"He reminds me slightly of you, Jordan."

The so-named Jordan wheeled, allowing the relief to show in her eyes when the visitor only turned out to be Lucius. "Hello, Lucius," she said evenly, dragging a loose string on her gray robes across the floor for the kitten to play with. "How's everything?"

He glanced back and forth, his pale green eyes taking in every inch of the room. "There is talk of sending you to school, possibly Durmstrangs."

Jordan's face fell. "What could they teach me?" she asked, gently flipping the kitten over and tickling its feet. "Why not Hogwarts?"

"An excellent school, Hogwarts," Lucius said, "My son, Draco, attends it." A sneer grew upon his face. "The Headmaster, however, isn't satisfactory."

Jordan raised her dark eyebrows. "Why not?"

"He believes in giving opportunity to Muggles."

"With no magical power?" she asked, her eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hair. "That's just silly."

"No…Mudbloods." His voice was heavy with contempt. "Half blood. Muggle-born." Jordan wrinkled her nose, but didn't say anything. She was busy trying to detach the black kitten's claws from the hem of her robes. Lucius frowned slightly. "What is your position on the Mudbloods?"

Jordan pursed her lips, using her wand to change the size of the kitten's ears. "I've never met any." She flicked one of the kitten's ears, which had expanded to roughly the size of a dog's. They immediately began to shrink.

"They're horribly stupid," Lucius muttered, one particular Mudblood on his mind. "Well, some are."

Lucius Malfoy. We need to talk.

Jordan flinched slightly as the cold voice echoed through the room—a reminder that the Master was everywhere. Lucius paled, then swallowed and nodded. "Yes Master, I'll be there in a moment." He Apperated away.

Jordan sighed. She liked Lucius—sometimes—because she could tell him what she thought. Master would have fits if he knew she spoke her mind; he said that withholding your feelings gave you the power of mystery. She privately thought it was a whole lot of nonsense.

She scooped us the kitten—whose ears were now only slightly too large for it's head—and paced her chamber. It would have been nice if she had been allowed to decorate it, but no. Instead she simply had stone walls and a bed, dresser, and a small bedside table. She hated it, but knew better than to ask if she could have another room. Jordan had made this suggestion once. She had spent two years in a dungeon cell.

Jordan. Upstairs.

She hesitated, knowing what was next and hating it.

Now.

There was an unspoken power behind that word that forced her to rise. She trudged out of the room, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Up the stairs, past portraits, frames, and ghosts to an abandoned landing. Unlike the rest of the underground ruin, this was clean and polished, shiny black metal and stone.

You take a long time. Hurry.

Jordan frowned and stepped into the middle of the chamber. "The Speaking Chamber!" she shouted, her voice echoing around the room. Suddenly the room began to spin, faster and faster, and just when Jordan wanted to scream from the pressure, it stopped. No longer was she surrounded by black—now she was in a room of green metal. There was only a whirling circle at one end of the room; a portal to the Masters room.

Jordan. You are seventeen now.

Jordan nodded, keeping her eyes focused slightly above the spinning circle. "Sir."

You are of age in the wizarding world. You are trained in the Dark arts, some Light Magic, and a great ability with dragons. What say you?

Jordan almost blushed. It was true, she did love dragons—their ferocity, their cunning, and their fire—and she wasn't all that shabby in magic. She supposed it was her wand—willow and phoenix, nine and a half inches—that helped, because she was frankly horrible at the Wandless magic. "I say you are too generous, Master."

Your Master is giving. Now, my Death Eaters and I wish for you to undertake a mission. As you may already know, the Headmaster of Hogwarts is Albus Dumbledore.

Jordan nodded. "Lucius and the rest of your Eaters have a great loathing for him," she said carefully. The Master tended to twist her words.

He was the only wizard who kept me at bay in my younger days, said the Master with some contempt. He now runs Hogwarts.

Jordan's forehead wrinkled as she frowned. "So Albus Dumbledore's at Hogwarts. What's the point?"

There was heavy sarcasm behind the answer. The point, Jordan, is that you will go to this Hogwarts. You will kill Albus Dumbledore.

She swallowed. Hard. "How? And why me?"

There was a lengthy pause, broken only by hissing and spitting. Nagini has foreseen that you will succeed in killing Dumbledore. You also are seventeen, the age of the seventh year in the school. I have taken care of the entrance tests that you are supposed to take when you enter Hogwarts. Dismissed.

She bowed so low her shaggy hair brushed the floor. "Thank you, Master." Jordan turned and left the room, her mind anywhere but the castle. Her brown eyes were thoughtful as she wondered how she was going to kill Albus Dumbledore. The only things she was really good at were Dark Magic and magical creatures—particularly dragons.

The thought sent her down another corridor, past her room to a solid wood and steel door decorated with small figures of copper—she could see the dragon's bane worked into the metal—placed in a circle around sleeping bronze dragons. She smiled, then pushed open the door, reaching for her wand in the same movement.

The torches had been extinguished long ago, but there was really no need for them, not with the sparks that flew from the nostrils of the dragons. She held up her pale hand next to the dark scales of the Hungarian Horntail. Just one of those scales was bigger than her whole hand. Next to the Horntail lay various other types, from several Canadian Commons with glimmering brown-gold scales that were the size of a large cat to the great Antarctic Icefall that was easily the size of a brontosaurus.

She giggled and tickled the belly of one of the Commons, who snorted tiny jets of flame and rolled over. One of the Chinese Fireballs was awake and moved towards her gracefully, it's large golden ruff flat along its neck. Humming softly under her breath, she reached out a hand to it, palm up. It sniffed, delicately, then moved closer, humming the same tune.

She sighed and stroked its ruff, though she had to stand on tiptoe to do so. She was a great deal taller than most seventeen year-old girls, but the dragon was quite tall too.

"Jordan Pre—Marvolo, get out here immediately!"

The Fireball started, snorting tiny jets of flame at the doorway. Jordan scowled at the shadow of Wormtail's fat personage shifting nervously from foot to foot outside the doorway. He didn't like dragons. Quietly she moved towards the Icefall, poking her underbelly—all that she could reach!—to wake it up. She snorted and moved her great head towards the little human child. Jordan nodded in respect as the vast blue eyes turned on her.

The dragon cocked its head questioningly, her eyes filled with sleepy annoyance.

Jordan nodded towards the door, glaring her dislike of the shadow that crossed the crack in the door, shifting back and forth. She smiled wickedly and placed a hand to her mouth, moving her fingers, then flapped her hand, shooing Wormtail away.

The snowy scales shifted as the Icefall heaved itself onto heavily clawed feet. She blew a few test sparks at the door.

Jordan nodded, her teeth glinting in an evil grin of delight.

Wormtail's shriek was audible throughout the castle, as was the roar of the Icefall as it projected blue-white flames at the door; though they did not pass the ring of copper dragon's bane they heated the hallway to unbearable levels.

The other dragons looked up as the tall girl thanked the Icefall, then dissolved into giggles. The dragons warily sniffed at her for a second, then relaxed. They were used to her.

JORDAN!

Jordan winced as a tiny chip of stone fell onto her head from the high ceiling. The yell shook the castle and startled all the dragons into fiery bursts of shock and rage. Jordan scurried out. It was one thing to be with sleeping dragons that didn't see her as an enemy. It was an entirely different matter to be with angry dragons who didn't really care if they squashed you into the ground.

She found herself back in her room facing a large trunk that was bulging with black cloth, books, and what appeared to be a broom.

"That was foolish, Jordan."

Jordan whirled, gasping when she saw the cloaked man, taller even than her height of five foot ten. "Uh-oh," she muttered, backing into her bed. At the rare times the Master had to talk to her in person, she was in big trouble. She fingered the still-puffy scar at the small of her back—a relic of the last time he had appeared in person.

"I came to warn you," he spat, he red eyes glowing with anger, "That you shall stay out of trouble, or you shall meet the fate of my other, unfaithful servants."

Jordan shivered. Was it just her, or was the room getting colder?

He reached out a hand. She was out of room to back away, so she closed her eyes and willed herself not to screech.

Something hit her head, once, twice, three times. Jordan winced at the sting, and the prickling pain that followed. She peeked open an eye to see what he was doing. The Master was holding what looked like a large golden spindle. In his other hand he held a plain wooden mirror, which he passed to her. She brought it up to her face, puzzled by the raps. When she saw her reflection, it dawned on her what exactly the spindle had done.

Three thin streaks of gold punctured her otherwise plain black hair. She felt them. They were just as ratty and uncombed as the rest of her hair. A hand clamping on her shoulder redirected her attention.

"That is to remind you of who you are serving." He paused. "I dare not burn you with my Mark." He glared into Jordan's eyes. "Remember who you serve, Jordan. Never forget!"

His words echoed through her head, growing more powerful by the second. By the time they faded, it was morning, and Jordan collapsed, asleep, on the bed.

~

"You're kidding."

Jordan was in a very bad mood, and being woken after three hours of sleep and made to put on less than comfortable clothing had not improved her attitude one whit. She stared at her reflection, which was wearing too-big jeans with too many pockets and a shirt that had a large '17' on the front. The sleeves barely reached past her elbows. Her sneakers had disappeared under the jeans, and no matter how much she protested, they had forced her to comb her hair and actually style it.

It was not the best morning she'd ever had.

She ripped her hair out of the ponytail, letting it fall into its usual state of disarray. Narcissa Malfoy, who had assisted with the dressing, tossed her a brown fisherman's hat. "If you won't do something about that mess, hide it!" she snapped. Jordan wasn't the only one whose patience was worn thin.

Jordan jerked it over her eyes, picked up the black kitten—newly christened Namir—and picked up her trunk—magically lightened—and headed out the door. After walking through the portal, she stopped and glanced around. She understood instantly why she needed to put on these ridiculous clothes.

The train station was swarming with people dressed in similar style, some checking the clock, others boarding trains, some pushing carts and carrying owls. It wasn't hard to figure out which group to watch.

"—Yes Mother, I know. Blaise, go away!"

Jordan turned to see who was talking and was promptly walloped over the head by somebody's passing purse. She swore loudly and vividly, causing many mothers to glare a warning and the children to look at her in awe. She smiled. "Kids, you've learned a new word today. Use it with discretion." The mothers quickly herded their children away before they could be corrupted worse.

"Hey. You're new around here."

Jordan spun to find herself face to face with a mass of electric blue hair. Beneath it was a pair of brown eyes a shade lighter than her own, a large T-shirt, and a pair of baggy jeans. The boy that was attached to said items smiled. Jordan didn't smile back, but she answered "Yea. I'm going to Hogwarts."

"Same. I'm Matt Zabini, Seventh year, Slytherin." He stuck out his hand. Jordan stared at him unabashedly. "This is the part where you shake my hand and say who you are," he pointed out, brandishing his hand again.

Jordan gripped it. "Jordan Marvolo, seventeen, no clue what Slytherin is." She noticed that he was only an inch shorter than her.

"Slytherin is one of the four Houses of Hogwarts." When Jordan continued to look blank, he added "Y'know, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

"I don't get it."

Matt sighed and rubbed his temples. "You're worse than Cho." Jordan raised her eyebrows. "When you get into Hogwarts, they Sort you. With a hat. The hat looks into your brain, shuffles things around, finds everything about you, and puts you in a House."

Jordan felt something pinch in her stomach. She didn't like the idea of anything, even a hat, shuffling around her mind—who knows what it could do with the information it found.

"There are four Houses, each with—hey, are you listening?" Matt glared at her. He waited for Jordan's nod before continuing. "Okay, so each House has different traits. Gryffindors are brave, Hufflepuffs are loyal, Ravenclaws are smart, and Slytherins are evil." He smiled wickedly.

A chime clanged from the clock. Matt glanced up and paled. "Holy—" he muttered, racing over to his trunk. "We need to get to the train!"

Jordan watched him as he dashed towards an apparently solid barrier. She winced as he hit it—but then he vanished. Against her better judgment, she followed, hoping for a miracle. Shutting her eyes, she dashed at the barrier, waiting for the crash.

It never came.

Before she knew it, she had her eyes open and was feasting on the sights before her. A large red steam engine huffed and puffed at the back of a large crowd. Her mouth fell open. She had never seen so many people at once.

Namir saved her. His wild thrashing as he escaped brought her back to Earth, and her immediate problem. What to do.

Following the lead of other students, she stored her luggage in a compartment, then found someplace to sit. Remembering Namir, she got up to search for the black kitten.

"Oh, hello, Jordan," said Matt's voice from behind her. "Missing something?" Jordan spun. He was holding a small ball of black fluff at arms length. She observed that he also bore heavy scratches on his arms. "Oh, may I introduce you to my friend Cho Chang?"

"Let me through, you big idiot," laughed a girls voice from behind him. "I can't see him."

"Her." Jordan really resented being mistaken for a guy. "I'm a girl."

A round face with sparkling almond-shaped dark eyes poked itself from behind Matt. "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to." Cho Chang was nearly nine inches shorter than Matt, Asian, and very pretty.

Jordan seated herself and took Namir from Matt. Namir appeared none the worse for his adventure and settled himself on her lap, purring while watching them closely through slitted yellow eyes.

"Sorry 'bout that." Jordan glanced up at Cho, who was looking abashed and worried. "You aren't really mad at me, are you?"

Matt elbowed Cho, who glared at him. "Cho's conscience was inflated a bit over the last year," he explained, "And it's getting on everyone's nerves."

Jordan nodded, not really understanding. She was more interesting in figuring out exactly what their weaknesses were. It was a game she had played since she was seven and had sat in her Master's court—sizing up new arrivals to the Dark, guessing how long they would last—and had become almost automatic.

Matt, she thought, was deeply fond of Cho in a guardian kind of fashion—not lovey-dovey at all. He didn't look like he really would care about being uncomfortable if it would help, she mused, but intense pain or threatening Cho would easily bend him.

Cho, on the other hand, looked as though she would remain solid for a long time, but, Jordan thought critically, she looked more like the person who could be bent by simple things—like fright.

"Jordan? Earth to Jordan?"

She shook herself out of her trance to see Cho peering at her. "Are you okay? You sort of drifted there—like you were far away."

Matt, looking equally worried, jerked at her hat playfully. "Hey, you can leave if we're boring you. Or we can leave."

"Oh no," said Jordan quickly. She didn't like the thought of sitting here alone—the Master only appeared to hurt her when she was alone. As a distraction—to herself as well as Matt and Cho—she pulled off her hat and plopped it over Namir.

"Cool hair," Matt remarked. "How'd you get the streaks to stay so bright when your hair is so dark?"

"Oh, my Uncle Tom bewitched them," she lied quickly.

Be CAREFUL. She shivered as her Master's voice crashed into her brain. She quickly thought over everything she was doing. Be careful, Jordan, she reminded herself. Play it safe and you'll live to see the sun rise.

"Jordan? Do you always drift off like this?"

Matt shook her arm. "You're starting to look like Trelawney," he informed her.

"No, she looks more like Morathia remembering her accident. She doesn't look like Trelawney because you can tell that bug-eyes is faking," Cho mused.

"Who?" asked Jordan blankly.

Matt grinned. "Trelawney. Biggest faker and second most annoying teacher in the school."

"First most annoying teacher would be Snape," said Cho, making a face. She pulled down the corners of her mouth. "Miss Chang," she said in an oily voice, "Your potion is a tad too thin. Forty-hundred points from Ravenclaw. "

"He's not that bad—" protested Matt.

"To you he's not bad because he won't take points from his own house!" said Cho, flipping her hair over her shoulder in a gesture of pure annoyance.

Jordan watched the battle for a few minutes, then got up and left. Neither Cho nor Matt noticed because Cho had just 'playfully' slapped Matt, who had retaliated by pulling her hair. Cho slapped him again—well, you get the picture.

"Hey—watch it!"

Tall as she was, Jordan still had to tilt her head back to see the top of this person's head. He was well over six feet and was crowned with bright red hair that looked as though he had been trying to grow it out, but was in that awful in-between stage. With him were a rather pretty girl with brown hair and a boy about the same height as Jordan herself.

She started backwards, tripped over the hem of her jeans, and nearly fell through the open door of a compartment, only saving herself by catching the sides of the doorframe. The shorter boy had black hair, jewel-bright green eyes and a jagged scar running down his forehead. She recognized him from the descriptions given to her by the Master—although he didn't look like he was going to find she was a servant of the Master, she didn't want to take any chances.

Jordan elbowed her way past them hurriedly, only pausing to glance at Harry Potter once. Had she looked longer, she would have seen him wince and clap a hand to his forehead.

~

Jordan ran down the train, found an empty compartment and slid into it, gasping for breath. She was not built for sprinting. There was a stitch that had worked its way into a spot between her ribs that practically made her double up in pain.

"Jordan."

When she started to look up, a hand descended from above and slapped her in the face. Her head snapped to the side with a bruising crack of bone. Jordan whimpered and touched the cheekbone he had struck. It was already tender and had begun to swell.

"I am disappointed in you, Jordan."

"What did I do?" she whispered. "I didn't let anything slip."

His mouth turned down at the corners, his thin eyebrows plunged like hunting hawks. "You are making very unsatisfactory friends. I had hoped you would meet Slytherins."

"Matt is."

"Don't get smart!" his hand descended again, bringing tears to her eyes as it hit her already sore cheek. "Matt Zabini's mother was once one of my strongest allies—but then she met that fool Mudblood Craig. She left my service to have her children—and never returned. Matt Zabini is a half-blooded wizard. The only one in Slytherin for about fifty years," he mused.

Jordan didn't look up, she didn't dare. "So who am I supposed to make friends with?"

Another blow fell, then another. "You aren't going to make friends," said Voldemort. He struck her again—and again. "Stupid—sentimental—attachments!" he hissed as the blows fell.

The last blow shattered Jordan's cheekbone, and she fell to the floor with a sob of pain, shielding her face from his hand. Tears dropped like rain from her brown eyes, dotting her jeans with spots of darker blue. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Remember what I say, girl! This is your only chance! If they don't kill you, I will!" There was a blinding flash of light, then there was only the noise of soft sobs as Jordan nursed her face.

~

"Who was that girl, anyway?" asked Ron, ducking through the compartment door. "I've never seen her before."

"Nobody has," replied Hermione, keeping a careful eye on Harry. "Harry, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine now," he replied, "but I'm not so sure I will be." He scowled and rubbed his scar.

"Harry, there is no way that girl—" Ron began, but at a harsh look from Hermione he stopped.

"You don't think she could be working for—for him, do you?" asked Hermione while busily leafing through a book entitled Magical Maladies. "I mean, he has been getting stronger, but according to this book she bore no signs of being under the Imperious Curse, and how else would he get some teenage girl to work for him?"

"Maybe her mother's a Death Eater," Ron suggested.

"Maybe not."

"Do you have any better ideas?"

Harry sat up. "Shut up, will you? You're giving me a headache!"

Ron and Hermione both shut their mouths with a pained look on their faces. "Sorry."

Harry thought for a few minutes, then said "She has to have some contact with Voldemort or something like that because my scar only hurts when Voldemort's around."

Suddenly a burst of pain from his scar made him gasp and clap a hand to his head. "He's here," Harry muttered, "I just know it."

~

"One more time, Miss Marvolo. What happened, and I want the truth."

Jordan, rubbing her numb but healed jaw, scowled at Professor Snape. Dumbledore's presence was required at the feast, and only a few Professors felt like questioning a seventeen-year-old who was in a high bad temper. Snape had been elected for the job at the urging of Professors McGonnagal and Vector.

"I got into a fight with the door and it won," Jordan said sullenly. She knew she was going to catch it from the Master when she was alone—odd, she thought, that he was going to hurt her when this whole thing was his fault anyway. She chased the thought from her head and forbade it to come back. Unguarded thinking could kill her.

"I am not amused. The truth."

"Said it."

Snape, in answer to this, simply tapped his fingers on his desk for a few minutes. Jordan examined her jaw again. Finally Snape reached into a pocket in his robes and pulled out a small bottle a clear liquid. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, shaking it under her nose.

"Not yet," said Jordan calmly. She had no fear of this man. He wasn't the Master, though he was quite tall for someone who was entirely human. His height stretched three inches over her own.

"This is Verstarium, the most powerful truth Potion in the world. A few drops of this and"—he paused, letting the silence stretch—"you'll be spilling your secrets like gossip."

Jordan tried not to shift uncomfortably. Was everyone in this school bent upon finding out her innermost secrets?

"Ah, Severus! I've just come back from the feast. Has Miss Marvolo told you anything?" Jordan twisted in her seat. An old man with long silver hair and an equally long silver beard waltzed into the room, grinning rather stupidly from ear to ear. She turned back around in time to see the tiniest of frown wrinkles quickly ironed out of Snape's face.

"No luck, Headmaster. She claims she got into a fight with a door and the door won." Headmaster? Jordan glanced at him again, sizing him up as she had Matt and Cho. Frankly—he was old. Age had ignored this man for many a year and was now freely stealing his youthful spirit away. Try as she might, she could only find Age as his weakness.

The Headmaster raised thin silver eyebrows. "Oh my. Maybe I'd better talk with her."

Jordan scowled. 'Talk' with her. Ha, that was funny. Torture her for the answer was more like it.

He sat down gracefully across from her in the chair Snape had been occupying. "So, Miss"—he glanced at the papers in front of him—"Jordan Marvolo, you entered school today with your jaw broken in three places. Do you care to tell me what happened?"

"No." Jordan squirmed under the piercing look he gave her.

"Mr. Harry Potter came to me earlier and told me his scar has been aching—especially when you were around. Do you know why his scar hurt?"

Jordan just stared at him. She was going to be difficult.

"Mr. Potter's scar hurts when Voldemort is near. Do you have any idea why it hurt when you looked at him?"

Uh-oh, Jordan thought. Her mind raced, and suddenly…

Dumbledore started as Jordan began to cry. "Miss Marvolo, what happened?"

"I-I was sitting in a c-compartment with Cho and M-Matt, and I got up and l-left, and th-th-there was th-this ugly guy that looked like a snake, an-and he pulled m-me into th-the empty compartment and I th-thought he was gonna k-kill me!" She placed her head in her hands and sobbed loudly, pinching the tear gland just above her eye. To her great satisfaction more tears streamed down out of her eye, running down her cheeks, meeting at her chin, then falling with a silent splash onto her lap.

Dumbledore patted her hand. "So this man broke your jaw?"

"Y-yes," she snuffled. Drat, now her nose was running.

"Are you aware, Jordan, that this man was Voldemort?"

Jordan froze at the mention of his name. Even his servants didn't say it out loud, maybe not even in their heads. "You said his name!" she blurted, shocked at his foolish bravery.

"I find that fear of a name increases fear of the person themselves." He picked up his wand. "Accio!" he said calmly. For a minute Jordan froze, then relaxed as she recognized a Summoning Charm. She turned, wondering what he had Summoned.

Her answer came in the form of a hat which whizzed through the door into Dumbledore's outstretched palm. Jordan's eyes widened in silent admiration. Her Summoning Charms usually caused the object to fly towards her—and past her.

"Now Jordan, try on the Sorting Hat. We'll see which House I am to tell you to go to."

Jordan warily dropped the hat over her head. It neatly covered her eyes, causing her to only see faded black silk.

Hmmm.

Dumbledore had to steady her as she yelped and nearly fell off her chair.

You're a tricky one, you are. You are understandably brave, ugh, I don't even want to think about how loyal you are, not Hufflepuff, you aren't exactly what Helga would have called choice material—

'Shut up' Jordan thought to the hat.

If you say so. Okay, you are smart, but you don't really pursue your intelligence, pity, you could make Rowena jealous if you worked. But then, working is not your strong suit, otherwise I would put you in Hufflepuff.

'Just tell me!' Jordan shrieked at the hat without a sound passing her lips.

Okay, okay, okay! No need to get touchy! Judging by your ATTITUDE I think it should be SLYTHERIN!

Jordan yanked the hat off her head and glanced at Dumbledore. "Slytherin."

"I heard," he said dryly. "The Sorting Hat shouted it loud enough to knock a portrait off the wall." He gestured at a large, gold-framed portrait, then waved his wand, elevating it above the ground. Dumbledore stared at it for a moment.

Jordan gasped in awe. The portrait was beautiful, but it was not the people in it who made it so. There was just this unexplainable beauty of the background, the positioning, the colors—bright, delicately tinted so that it was simply—perfect.

"The founders of Hogwarts," Dumbledore explained, hanging it back on the wall.

She nodded. The two women in the picture were sitting with a man standing behind each of them. The first woman looked like the ideal mother—kind, sweet, and with loads of curly blond hair, dimples, and large hazel eyes. The man above her had a brilliantly ruddy hair and beard and spicy green eyes.

The next two were a shocking contrast to the others. The woman's hair was jet black, straight, and fell down over her shoulders, covering the sleeves of her dark blue gown. Her eyes were large and blue, her skin unblemished. The man behind her seemed to sink into the shadows cast upon them by the other two… his eyes were as dark as railroad tunnels, his hair sleek and just as black. Jordan squinted at the background behind them—she could swear she saw somebody else back there—a tall, thin woman with long auburn hair that was braided into hundreds of tiny braids—

Dumbledore shook Jordan gently. "My dear, you're drifting."

She scowled at him and glanced back at the portrait. The woman in the background had disappeared. "Is there—" she began, then thought better of it and sighed "Never mind."

The Headmaster still appeared slightly puzzled, but didn't question her. "Severus, come in and escort your new student to her dormitory."

The door opened and the man who had first questioned her stepped in. He was shivering and had the hood on his robes up—Jordan could see why as cold air rushed in his wake. "The heating spells are down, Dumbledore," he said. "I mean, they've practically reversed—it's freezing out here!"

"Do you know what happened?" asked Dumbledore, conjuring fur-lined robes out of thin air and shrugging them on.

"Not yet, but—" He broke off as he realized Jordan was staring unabashedly at him, her pale complexion gone chalk-white. She looked almost like a corpse, standing there with her hollow cheeks and sunken, dazed eyes; raised from death only to find her puppet strings had been cut.

"You—you…" her voice trailed off as she shook herself out of her trance. The picture they had made struck a chord in her distant memory. The tall, hooded man next to a taller, older man… "Where do I sleep?"

"You don't want to eat?" asked Snape, raising his eyebrows and looking her up and down.

Jordan gazed at him. "No," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm not hungry."

End of Part One