All in all, there were not exactly repercussions from the Weasley Weasel Incident. The Slytherins were more proud of having her in their House than losing 150 points, and Edwina had told her she understood why she'd lashed out. Even Prewett and Longbottom were no longer openly hostile toward her in Defense class, though this was likely more due to fear. Bruin Weasley was released with no lasting injuries and a slightly less obnoxious demeanor, and during her "detentions," Riddle was teaching her Occlumency.
Although she was grateful to learn it for its usefulness, the lessons themselves were far from fun. Stateira often ended up on her knees about 10 feet in front of Riddle, panting and exhausted. Over and over old, latent memories flooded her mind as she tried desperately to block them out. Many times she succeeded but not until the end of the lesson.
Since many of her older memories featured Alexander, it was very difficult to keep her mind blank. An ache pinched her insides every time she saw her brother and scenes of both of them in their old flat or plying in the rubble-filled, dusty streets of London.
There was one memory in particular that appeared one time in April that reduced her to tears: one night in early 1942 when it seemed like the whole city was raining debris from buildings, cars, and streets. The bombs had been coming frequently, and it was ambiguous whether the protection spells on their muggle building would be effective against them. Gran had refused to go to the basement with the muggles and obviously they couldn't leave her, so she, her daughter, and three grandchildren sat in the flat, listening to the walls shake and windows rattle. This had frightened five-year-old Hollis, so Alexander had started to play a game with him called "Would You Rather?"
"Would you rather have a birthday every month or eat cakes every day?"
"Would you rather be a tiger or a lion?"
"Would you rather ride a broom or be Disillusioned?"
Stateira had joined in immediately, but after about 10 minutes, Gran, instead of looking out for unsuitable language, also played along. That got their mum in, and all five of them were having a ball thinking up questions. Hollis had been completely distracted from the noise. It had been maybe the first time they'd all sat together and smiled so much since the before the Blood Traitor had left.
Stateira realized she was yet again on the floor with her face in her hands. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her breaths uneven.
"I'm sorry," she whispered through her fingers. Humiliated, she stood up, wiped her eyes, and tucked her handkerchief back into her robes. Too ashamed to look at Riddle, she bit down on her knuckle and clasped her wand, pointing it at the floor.
She heard him take a few steps closer. "See, that's the source of your power, right there. Control that, and you will—don't!"
Startled, Stateira looked at him, wide-eyed. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from her mouth. Her finger was gnawed and she felt blood on her lips.
Still holding her wrist, Riddle inspected the bite marks. She expected him to be disgusted, but his face didn't show any signs of it. When they met each other's eyes, a look passed between them that she'd never seen from him before. She had no idea what it was, really, and it was fleeting, so she didn't ponder it. He let go of her and said, "I'll be right back."
As his back disappeared into his office, she took her handkerchief back out and wrapped it around her finger.
He came back with a tiny jar in his hand filled with slightly foggy clear liquid. As he extended it to her, he instructed, "Pour this into a bowl and submerge your finger into it for a couple of minutes."
Stateira took the tiny jar and held it up to inspect it out of curiosity. "It's essence of murtlap," he told her.
"Thank you, Professor." She smiled at him but tore her eyes away, feeling foolish. As she left the classroom, she wondered from where on Earth Professor Riddle had acquired his seemingly infinite supply of patience.
One week later, Stateira threw off his Legilimency spell but not by blocking her mind. "Throw off the spell by any means," he'd said, and her means that evening were unexpected by both parties.
When they were back in the flat with Alex and Hollis, Stateira was able to focus on the present enough to yell, "Protego!"
Memories were still flashing, but there were entirely unfamiliar: a group of children walking in two neat lines being led down Vauxhall Road, the same group at a large table in a bare, cold brick building, chatting and horsing around, except for one dark-haired little boy in the corner; then they were in the Slytherin common room looking at a group of indiscernible boys sitting near the fire… Then a bright, blank wall of nothing, and they were back in the classroom.
"Well, you succeeded in lifting the spell," Riddle said calmly, "but blocking your mind is much more effective than a Shield Charm because the charm requires more concentration, which is more likely to distract you."
She nodded, still ruminating over what she'd just seen, trying to make sense of it all. He'd apparently gone to a boarding school as a young boy, but what kind of school took wizards that young?
"Stateira, may I ask you a question?" Riddle said suddenly. "About Alexander?"
Immediately snapping to attention, her heart sped up and her chest felt constricted by an unseen force. "Er, of course, sir.'
He looked like he was choosing his words carefully, probably wary of setting off a crying fit again. "Did he ever say anything about Dumbledore after…1945?"
"No, sir," she replied, shaking her head firmly. "He's never mentioned him. I reckon to avoid incriminating himself or the others of the Magic Army."
"What about his wand? Did he say anything about it? That he'd gotten another, perhaps?"
If Stateira wasn't confused before, she certainly was then. "Er, no, sir. All I know is that the Ministry confiscated it after he was arrested."
He nodded, eyebrows joined together, thinking hard. She wondered what prompted him to ask such a personal question, but at least now the score was more even in terms of bringing up unorthodox subjects.
"Professor?" she asked tentatively. "You lived by Vauxhall Road? You know, I live about 10 blocks away from that very spot!"
"Yes, I know, Stateira," he replied. "I've viewed countless memories of yours. I can tell you your exact address by now."
She heard the words, but they didn't sink in. She was too busy fully rehashing Riddle's memories. If he'd grown up near Vauxhall Road and that building was a school filled with muggle kids, did that make him a…?
"Half-blood," he said suddenly, making her flinch. "My mother was a witch, my father a muggle."
Stateira nodded, unsure what to think of this news. "Oh." Her mouth was dry. "I mean, I don't care," she added. "It's not your fault what your parents…chose to do."
Again his expression was unreadable, but he was looking at her intently now rather than off in the distance. She could sense that she had edged closer to an invisible boundary, so she excused herself to start the rounds. They'd already extended the "detention" into the late night, like a few others before it.
The Slug Club of 1948 consisted of five members, all sixth-years: Abraxas Malfoy, Alphard Black, Icarus Yaxley, Sequitur Delmont, and the lone Ravenclaw, Achilles Longbottom. The Club met up usually once a week, on Sunday nights, but meetings often got postponed due to detentions or the like.
The Slug Club meetings were a place where they could "chat" but upon further inspection, Alphard deduced that it was a gathering of students that Slughorn predicted would be successful, and therefore, indebted to him somehow. That was the only reason he could think of that Longbottom, one of the best in their year, attended.
There was another club that met every Wednesday, unofficial and unnamed. This one was held in Professor Riddle's Defense classroom, and instead of Riddle leading the conversation like Slughorn, he let the boys take over the discussions while he graded papers or something. In this club, only the four Slytherin boys were included.
On one particular evening in late May, Alphard, Abraxas, Sequitur, and Icarus walked to the dungeons at around 10 at night. Since Alphard was a particularly reliable prefect, no one questioned what they were doing. None of them got into too much trouble; only Abraxas and Icarus occasionally landed themselves in detention.
"What's Longbottom even doing in that club?" Abraxas sneered. "He's dumber than a bag of dirt. What's Slughorn even want from him?"
"He's got top marks," Alphard told him neutrally. "Slughorn probably reckons he'll be the next Minister of Magic."
"That socially awkward lump elected in office?" Icarus joined in. "They don't even make professional robes in his size."
Alphard and Sequitur were quiet. The former couldn't attest to what the latter was thinking, but he hated how Abraxas and Icarus treated other students. Their blood status and centuries-old wealth gave them a strong and aggravating royalty complex. Cygnus and Walburga were the same, so Alphard knew he was the odd one out.
They opened the classroom door to find Professor Riddle at his usual spot, grading essays behind his desk, but he wasn't alone in the room. Stateira McElroy sat at a table on the left in the seat Sequitur occupied in class. She glanced up, raised an eyebrow at the boys, and turned back to her exam. She'd been out sick, Alphard remembered, and was evidently making it up.
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, we didn't realize…" he said slowly.
Riddle hadn't looked up from his work. "Gentlemen, perhaps we will meet tomorrow instead."
"It's alright, sir, I'm used to ignoring them," Stateira assured him as she continued to write.
"Very funny, McElroy," Abraxas said, winking at her. "Don't worry, darling, we won't disturb you."
Her cheeks went slightly pink as she turned back to her exam.
"Mr. Malfoy, please do not distract her or I will have to throw you out," Riddle said with a touch of rare impatience in his voice.
Abraxas immediately shut up and pulled out a book.
"I didn't know you read," Icarus remarked.
"This is worth reading."
"The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore? What the bloody hell's so interesting about that?"
"Yeah, what did they write about?" Sequitur asked. "His Order of Merlin and Wizongamot stunts and all that?"
"Well, I've only gotten halfway through, but this Skeeter lady sure doesn't praise him like the others do," Abraxas said, sitting on the table and crossing his arms arrogantly, enjoying all the attention. "That's why it's called The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. Professor, have you read it?"
"Get off the table and into a chair like a human being," Riddle replied. "And yes, I've read it."
Alphard noticed that Stateira had just handed in her exam and returned to her desk unnoticed, apparently doing homework. She was very still, not looking at the roll of parchment she wrote on, and he suspected she was listening intently to the conversation.
"It's quite illuminating," Abraxas continued. "Who would've thought the old fool was best pals with Grindelwald, eh?"
Stateira's head whipped toward him and she dropped her quill. "What?"
"Hell, more than friends if you really read between the lines…"
"Dumbledore and Grindelwald had a friendship?" the girl burst out, but only Alphard heard her.
"And," Abraxas went on, "it was actually Dumbledore who came up with 'the greater good' idea; he was all for wizarding control. And then he turned into a muggle-lover somehow, but I've yet to read that part."
"Accio book!" Stateira cried without warning. It flew out of Abraxas' hands and across the aisle. As soon as she caught it, she opened it to the table of contents, skimming the chapters with her finger, and flipped to a further page.
"I'm unsure of whether I want to go to Greece or the south of France this year," Abraxas was saying, unfazed. "I was in France four times already and I haven't yet been to Greece, so I reckon Greece it will be."
"Miss McElroy, you've gotten an Outstanding on your exam," Riddle said, still not looking up. "Please don't use this terrible purple ink ever again."
"Nice job, McElroy," Abraxas told her, but she wasn't listening, so absorbed in the book that she'd blocked out her surroundings.
Alphard looked at Abraxas uneasily. He was not happy about being ignored. "McElroy? Can I have my book now?"
"Wait a minute," she muttered, staring glassy-eyed at the pages.
Abraxas exchanged an incredulous look with Icarus. Girls didn't ignore them or tell them to wait. Just as Abraxas took a breath to call her name, she slammed the book on the table, eyes wide in shock. "I can't believe this!" she exclaimed in outrage. "That old hypocrite!"
"Yes, that's the general consensus among us," said Icarus. "He pegged every Slytherin as Dark just because we don't want to live among muggles and half-breeds."
"He always hated me," she whispered to herself, tuning the rest of them out again. "Because of Alexander's allegiance to Grindelwald's Army, and he helped create it!" Everyone in the room watched her as she stood up, fury breaking out on her face. "I'll be back in 10 minutes!" she declared, and before anyone could say a word, she had already stalked out.
"Er, perhaps we should go get her?" Alphard asked worriedly.
"Perhaps," Abraxas snickered. "I'd sure feel bad for the poor sod who comes across her path. After the Weasley Weasel Incident, I'd bet she'd burn the whole castle down."
"It's after curfew; she'll be fine," Riddle said unconcernedly. "Speaking of which, you'd all best get going. Mr. Black, please return her things to her." He gestured to Stateira's abandoned bag and roll of parchment.
"I'll do it," Abraxas offered.
"Black is perfectly capable. I suggest you don't go looking for her right away. Until next time, gentlemen."
Alphard gathered Stateira's things, trying to slide the parchment into the bag as neatly as possible as the others said goodnight to Riddle. After escorting them back to the common room, he set off to find her. He knew he should heed Riddle's warning and leave her alone, maybe just plop her bag in front of her door in the prefect's quarters, but he couldn't. He feared not only for other students but for the girl herself. Ignatius Prewett said that the walls and floor had shaken under their feet as she'd dished out her anger on Bruin Weasley, and as Alphard recalled it, he considered turning back. Would he even be able to stop her?
However, after two hours of searching, Alphard was forced to return to the common room without Stateira, exhausted and anticipating with dread his Charms exam the next morning. On the way back, he thought of Dumbledore and his supposed friendship with Grindelwald. According to Skeeter's book, Grindelwald had gotten kicked out of Durmstrang at the age of 16 for conducting Dark experiments. Was that the beginning of the end of the partnership for Dumbledore? Was it Grindelwald's behavior that had made Dumbledore question his beliefs? Was his distinction between wrong and right clear…or blurred, like Alphard's and so many other Slytherins'? Perhaps that was why Dumbledore had always been a bit biased against Slytherin House. Maybe it reminded him too much of what he had been.
The tables and figures in the Great Hall were slightly blurred, as if strong waves of heat were rising from the floor. Next to Stateira, Beryl Fawley, Aurelia Parkinson, and Druella Rosier sat eating breakfast and discussing the upcoming weekend at Hogsmeade. They did not invite her. She was the plainest out of all of them, yet it was her that handsome Professor Riddle paid the most attention to. What did she have that none of them had, besides high marks and a blood-traitor family?
Stateira was not trying to be invited; she knew she never would be. She was different, not like them. Powerful, special. The words repeated themselves over and over in her head, but they didn't relieve the anger coursing through her veins.
Her eyes slowly scanned the Great Hall, taking in the dumb Gryffindors, the insignificant Hufflepuffs, the conceited Ravenclaws. No, Stateira was not like them. They all worshiped Dumbledore, that old, hypocritical, muggle-loving fool.
The plate under her teacup cracked, signaling that it was time to get out of there before she became dangerous. Her first idea was the first-floor bathroom, ready to blast the sinks apart, but at the last moment before she pushed open the doors, she turned and ran the other way. Not having a conscious destination, she realized she was heading toward the dungeons.
Thankfully, she had enough sense not to barrel into the room in case Riddle had a class, but he didn't. He was at the desk, reading The Daily Prophet and drinking tea.
He looked up at the sound of the door opening. "Good morning, Miss McElroy. Has Mr. Black given you your belongings like I asked him to?"
"Professor, I'm ready to—to use my magic," she blurted. At her wavering voice, he set down the newspaper and stood up. "I have to get it out. Please, I'm…I'm going to throw a fit…"
"Sit down and tell me why you're so angry."
She sat in the first seat at the left front table. A few seconds passed before she could pull her hand away from her mouth. Again she felt a smidge of blood on her lips, but she couldn't unstick her tongue. "Dumbledore," she finally spat.
Riddle was next to her now with a hand on her shoulder, leaning in and whispering, "Clear your mind," in her ear.
"Clear it, Stateira, that's it, calm and clear…"
Mercifully, a blank wall appeared and Stateira calmed down almost instantly. She closed her eyes, tension draining out, as something soft and cold grazed her bottom lip. When she opened her eyes, she saw that Riddle had wiped the blood from her mouth with his thumb.
"I've got a meeting with Dippet in 20 minutes. Keep your mind clear until tomorrow night. You'll have an opportunity to exercise it. Until then, you must control yourself."
"Yes, Professor." Wearily, Stateira stood up and left as he returned to his desk.
As she entered the corridor and closed the door behind her, she noticed a group of fifth-years passing by on their way to Merrythought's class. One of them, Antonia Longbottom, was staring at Stateira intently, eyebrows raised in question.
"There's something going in there," Antonia insisted. "That's not normal."
She, Edwina Boot, and Achilles Longbottom sat in the library, talking quietly. They all had a free period until Edwina and Achilles were due in Arithmancy. Antonia had just came from Defense with a fervent air of solving a mystery and told them she'd just witnessed Stateira McElroy exiting Professor Riddle's classroom, alone, with a satisfied expression and a bloody finger.
"What's the bloody finger got to do with it?" Achilles asked, trying to keep traces of a chuckle out of his voice. "You reckon he bit her?"
"I don't think there's anything going on," Edwina said sensibly before Antonia could retort. "There doesn't appear to be anything out of the ordinary in our Defense class, right, Achilles?"
The boy shook his head. "No, nothing. Not sure where that 'favorite' rumor came from anyway."
"It comes from the fact that any other student would've been expelled for publicly torturing Bruin," Antonia whispered harshly. "And don't even say it's her marks, Achilles, because you know damn well yours are just as good as hers."
Stateira McElroy was slightly better at practical spell work than Achilles, but Edwina knew there was not much use arguing with his sister. Antonia Longbottom was a firm believer in doing what was right at all costs, which was more of a Gryffindor mentality than a Ravenclaw one. Tall for 15 years old with her blonde hair always pulled back in a no-nonsense bun instead of the elaborate curls Edwina and the other girls were experimenting with, Antonia had no use for things that weren't practical. If she didn't agree with it, she cast it out entirely. Despite her good intentions and self-preservation, she was a bit difficult for her friends, classmates, and brother to handle.
"We don't see anything, sis," Achilles told her, "but we'll check again, I suppose." He was blonde like Antonia, but his hair always fell across his face, and he wasn't the type to speak up. Unfortunately, as a result, he could be a bit of a pushover.
Edwina couldn't understand why Antonia was so concerned about Stateira when the two girls weren't friends anymore—didn't they all have their own problems? Edwina recalled an offhand remark Stateira had made about her mother not bothering with her, which reminded Edwina of her own father, drinking glass after glass of gin, lost in another time. Perhaps Antonia, whose parents were together and relatively happy, had nothing to preoccupy her.
When they'd left her in the library to head to Arithmancy, Achilles asked, "You reckon we should talk to McElroy?"
She glared at him out of the side of her eye. "I'm not going to spy on her. Contrary to what your sister thinks, we are friends."
"I know, Edwina, I'm not suggesting that. But if Antonia says something to her, it's not going to be good. Stateira just…doesn't seem to be very stable right now. Do you reckon she may need, I dunno, someone to talk to?"
As they reached Vector's classroom, Edwina thought about the other sixth-year Slytherin girls. They all came from rich and respected "Sacred 28" families, and Stateira didn't seem to be particularly close to them. Abraxas Malfoy paid her a fair bit of attention but Edwina suspected a different interest behind that.
Alright, Edwina said silently to herself. I'll speak to her tomorrow after classes. Not that I think she'll fly off her rocker, but…better safe than sorry.
She found her after supper the next day on her way to the Slytherin common room, trailing behind her housemates. Edwina caught up to her and gently took her arm. "I'm sorry to bother you, Stateira, but, erm, can I have a word with you?"
"Alright," said the other girl, surprised. "Here or in private?"
"In private's best, I think." Edwina's throat was constricting slightly and her heart was beating quickly but her resolve didn't waver. She knew she would regret keeping quiet if Stateira hurt herself or someone else.
She led her to a corridor on the second floor that didn't see a lot of traffic due to raging insults flying from a portrait of a bitter, squat old man in a black bowler hat. "I can't think of a way to ask this in a subtle manner," Edwina said, "so I'll just come out with it. Are you alright?"
Stateira's eyebrows jumped up for a moment, but she quickly rearranged her face back to blank. "Of course I am. Why would you think I'm not?"
"Well…" Edwina shuffled her feet, looking down at both girls' matching, secondhand Mary Janes and grey knee socks. "It's just, I've seen that you're a bit…tense, like you're trying to bottle something up. My mum used to say that those who lash out are hurting the most—"
"Is this about Weasley?" Stateira cut her off flatly. "I don't regret what I did, alright? He asked for it by having a go at my brother."
"No, I know," Edwina assured her quickly. Stateira narrowed her dark eyes, and Edwina could see that she wore more makeup than usual. Was she going off to meet a bloke?
"Oh, I know what this is about," Stateira said coolly, nodding in mock-understanding. "I've seen you around with the Longbottoms. She set you up, didn't she? Thinks I'm up to no good?"
"What?" Edwina let out. "No!"
"What did she tell you? That I'm evil, right, a prejudiced madwoman?"
It was quite unpleasant being on this side of the girl's sneering. Her voice was fake-kind, as if she was talking to a child.
"No, Stateira, I don't—"
"Save it, Boot. I'm not sacrificing animals or whatever this school thinks Slytherins do. Now please excuse me, I'm late, and do say hi to Antonia for me? Tell her I'm a fan of her new shoes. They suit her."
She turned her back, striding toward the stairs. "Where are you going?" Edwina blurted out before she had any time to think.
"Not that it's any of your concern," Stateira called over her shoulder, "but I've got detention until the end of time, remember?"
Edwina watched her leave, trying not to correlate her newfound confidence and extra makeup to her Friday evening detentions. No, she thought firmly. Antonia can't be right. Well, at least she was not going to burst at the seams anytime soon.
No, Stateira McElroy was not bursting at the seams. Quite the contrary; she had almost complete control. Thanks to her built strength and Professor Riddle's instruction, the uncontrolled bursts were a thing of the past. Now she could create almost anything she wished, or destroy, or control…as evidenced in a recent detention when she placed a spider under the Imperius Curse. How much power to have over something! Never again would anything exert that power over her, she told herself
Confidence had a physical effect: she strutted around, alone or with the Slytherin girls. The mental effect gave her a feeling of invincibility. So what if Edwina Boot wasn't her friend? Stateira could do better than some half-blood Ravenclaw and that's if she even wanted friends, which she did not. For what did she need them?
All of this confidence had a slight downside, which was more attention from her Slytherin male counterparts, particularly Malfoy and Delmont. The latter wasn't too difficult to deal with, but the former more than made up for that. Switching tactics from ignoring him and hoping he'd give up, Stateira decided to accept his invitation for the end-of-year Slug Club party in the hope that he wouldn't be too impressed with her after spending time with her.
What actually happened was that she'd had two glasses of rosemary champagne—how potent could the stuff be anyway? It catered to women—and had gotten slightly drunk. She thought she was clear-headed enough to disguise it, but apparently, Malfoy had not been fooled. In an empty classroom after the party, he held Stateira by the waist and kissed her on the mouth. She would have preferred him to have asked, and he wasn't very gentle, so she was tense and wished to pull away. But she did need to learn how to kiss, being 16 already, so she made a better effort. She kissed him back and ran her hand through his hair, pretending it was not blonde and sleek but thick, wavy, and dark.
Three weeks before the official end of the semester, Stateira was on her way to her detention when she found herself behind Malfoy, Yaxley, Black, and Delmont, all talking in low voices. Not wanting Malfoy to spot her, she let them take a couple more steps ahead before following and listening.
"The Dark Lord is gaining followers with each passing day. Even my father's wondering if he should back him up, but he doesn't even know who the bloke is. Supposedly he's even greater than Grindelwald."
"Cygnus knows, but he won't tell me," Black replied. "He's joining him as soon as the Knights start establishing themselves."
"I wonder what it takes to be a Knight?" Yaxley asked more to himself, since none of the others seemed to have much information.
"Definitely something to prove your allegiance to the Dark Lord," Malfoy said. "And something to prove that you're really for the cause, like jinx a mudblood or something."
The Dark Lord? Stateira thought. Who on Earth is that? Someone in the UK?
Up ahead, the corridor split into two, and the boys were taking the west one to the common room while the right led to the Defense classroom, so Stateira had to leave the conversation. She was deep in thought as she walked alone, wondering about this Dark Lord. His "Knights" sounded very familiar to the soldiers of the Magic Army, but nobody knew where Grindelwald was, and Alexander had referred to him as Leader, not Lord.
"Good evening, Stateira," Riddle said, breaking her out of her reverie. "You're 10 minutes early."
She hadn't even realized that she had walked into the classroom. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I'll just have a—"
"No, let's get started. Please close the door behind you. Have you remembered to practice Occlumency?"
"Erm, not really, Professor." She looked down, embarrassed. After learning an Unforgivable, she'd gone on a nonverbal spell-casting blitz as a sort of test to see if she still possessed that amount of skill.
"Right, that's why we'll be practicing it tonight. That way you can have a more interesting lesson for your last detention next Friday."
Stateira perked up at that. What spell did he have in mind? Before she could ponder any more, flashes of the past few days popped up in her mind. Riddle had cast the spell nonverbally. Quickly gaining composure, she warded him out right in the middle of Edwina Boot's confrontation. However, the next time, he got so far so fast, all the way until they were in a particularly horrid memory of summer 1941 in the Blood Traitor's house. He and the Muggle were discussing the "mad girl" in the house.
"I don't know if you've got asylums in…your world, but if so, I recommend she stay in one," the Muggle said.
"Her grandmother would never go for that. They care more about keeping up their family image."
"Well, that's between you and them. After all, I didn't give birth to her. I don't want her here anymore."
"Don't worry…"
The Blood Traitor always said that, but he never meant it except for when it came to his wife. The Muggle was an exception to all.
Stateira felt her knees slamming against the stone floor as the wall finally came and threw off the spell. Before she had gotten herself upright, Riddle said, "Legilimens!" and more memories came, even faster this time, until she recognized a strange dream she'd had about a month prior that she'd forgotten about immediately upon waking up.
Then, with horror, not a memory or a dream came, but a daydream she'd had in Defense class. She'd finished her exam early so, as per the rule, she rolled up the parchment and waited quietly until instructed to hand it in.
Riddle had been at his desk, grading the exams from his other class, and Stateira had glanced at him and thought about how handsome he really was. Although she had told herself that blokes were a dangerous waste of time, something had awakened inside of her when he'd wiped the blood off her lip. The scene changed into a dark room that sort of looked like a prefect's. Since Stateira had never seen a teacher's bedroom, her imagination had to fill in the blanks.
In her mind, she stood in front of Riddle, looking into his dark eyes as he held her in his arms. One of his hands lifted to touch her lip as he leaned in… They were locked in a passionate embrace… And the stupid wall came then, after the whole blasted thing had played.
"Merlin's beard," Stateira groaned, mortified. She was on her knees again, hands covering her face. "That wasn't fair."
"Imagination and memory are in the same part of the brain," Riddle said, and she was sure she heard traces of amusement in his voice, which was preferable to anger, but she was still horrified at her mind's betrayal all the same. "You see how deep your opponent can go, how fast?"
Stateira nodded, standing up and keeping her eyes on her shoes. She was never, ever going to be able to look Riddle in the face again.
Fortunately, her embarrassment helped strengthen her resolve to keep him away from her imagination, and she was able to construct a stronger wall. By the end of the lesson, she had blocked him immediately the last three times, so she was rather triumphant, albeit still red-faced.
As she left the classroom, she remembered the Slytherin boys' conversation about the Dark Lord, how he wanted to rule over muggles. She wondered what Riddle thought about muggles, but she knew if she asked, he would be unable to answer honestly.
Edwina closed her copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore and rubbed her eyes. She had been reading ceaselessly all weekend and did not know what to make of it. Dumbledore had consorted with Grindelwald to build up a powerful, dominating wizarding race? That seemed so very unlike Dumbledore. Granted, she hadn't known the man well simply by talking his Transfiguration classes for two and a half years, but he'd always struck her as kind and fair, not biased like the Slytherins always claimed. However, that might have been because Professor Dumbledore had always praised Edwina for her skills and excellent grasp of the theory.
Briefly, she flashed back to 1945, the beginning of her third year. The mood had been joyous, for both Grindelwald had been defeated and the muggles had finally ceased the bombs, which had made a terrible mess in both their world and the wizarding. Professor Dumbledore had been awarded an Order of Merlin, first class, for his victory, and there was talk of him becoming headmaster of Hogwarts the following year. He came back in October 1945, relieving Ernest Dunst of his substitution while Dumbledore had sought Grindelwald.
Then, over winter break that very same year, an article was released about his murder on 26th December 1945 by the Magic Army, to which the Ministry had no known location. His spot at the staff table was empty once again, and a haze of suppressing blackness had descended upon Hogwarts. Dumbledore, regarded as a treasure among wizards, was still mourned in 1948 by a large margin of the population. Francine Skeeter was an exception, apparently.
Edwina was pulled in opposite directions by Skeeter's words and everything she'd known about Dumbledore thus far. She didn't know with whom to hash it out. Not Stateira, of course, for anything related to Dumbledore was undoubtedly a sore spot. The only other true confidante Edwina had was Antonia Longbottom. Despite Antonia's irritating behavior as of late, Edwina went looking and found her in the Quidditch field.
She was with Amelia Llewellyn, another fifth-year Ravenclaw, and surprisingly not with Bruin Weasley. "Hello, Antonia," Edwina said as she approached them. "Could I have a word when you have the chance?"
"Oh." Antonia's pale eyebrows raised in surprise; it had been a bit since Edwina had sought her out. "Of course, Edwina. We can actually talk now, since Amelia's going to go talk to Cadmus Greeley anyway."
"No!" Amelia turned a fierce red and covered her mouth. "I'm not ready!"
"Oh, don't be silly, dear, you want him to ask you to Hogsmeade next weekend, don't you?"
"Well, yes…"
After another of Antonia's convincing pep talks, Amelia tentatively walked across the lawn to where the members of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team were horsing around, enjoying the rare chance to keep it lighthearted instead of drilling for the final match.
"Alright, what's happening, Edwina?" Antonia asked, eyes on Amelia, who stood off awkwardly to the side.
"Aren't you still going steady with Bruin?" Edwina blurted out of nowhere. That certainly hadn't been what she intended to ask.
"No, I'm not," Antonia replied, turning to look at her. "I had to drop him; he was dreadfully annoying. Is that what you wanted to ask?"
"No," Edwina said hastily. "I wanted to ask about, erm, Dumbledore. Have you read that book?"
Antonia scoffed, visibly disgusted. "Of course not. I refuse to even touch that rubbish. That Skeeter woman seeks only to tarnish his name."
"But he was consorting with Grindelwald. That's been backed up by Bathilda Bagshot, and she is Grindelwald's great-aunt or something, in addition to a friend of the Dumbledore family. I don't think she would lie."
"Of course it hasn't, Edwina; Bathilda has more integrity than that," Antonia said harshly. "That deplorable Skeeter twisted up her words, as per her usual method."
Edwina didn't quite have an answer for that, knowing little of Skeeter's background.
"Listen, Edwina." Antonia's voice was softer now. "Albus Dumbledore may have been on the wrong side of things once, but who, at the age of 17, makes perfectly sound choices all the time? The poor bloke's sister was killed, as if he wouldn't have steered away from the Dark Arts on his own. He brought Grindelwald down, which everyone seems to be forgetting."
"Yes, you're quite right," said Edwina, even though she still felt doubtful. What would've transpired if Ariana Dumbledore hadn't gotten killed? How long would it have taken him to go against Grindelwald, if ever?
"Dumbledore was all that is good," Antonia said sadly, resting her chin on her hands and gazing across the field, not really seeing it. "There may not be another Light wizard of his caliber for years."
"Dad used to say that the very brilliant tend to gravitate toward the Dark," Edwina said, which did nothing to lift Antonia's mood.
The conversation ended when Amelia came back over, grinning broadly, her cheeks no longer red. "He asked me!"
"Oh, that's wonderful, dear," Antonia said unconvincingly. "Let's go back to the castle and think of how to style your hair…" Her voice grew cheerier as she kept talking. They waved goodbye to Edwina before walking off.
I'll just forget that depressing book, Edwina decided, taking a detour around the later as the late afternoon sun shone on her back. What was the use of bringing Dumbledore's misdeeds to light and ruminating over them, anyway? The man had died, and no one was likely to forget his great contributions anytime soon.
One week later, Stateira forwent a roaring end-of-term party in the common room to attend her last detention. One week from that night, every student would be boarding the Hogwarts Express. Sixteen detentions, she thought, I thought I'd never see the end. But if she was honest, she enjoyed Riddle's lessons and, most of all, his praise.
When she arrived at the classroom, she found it empty. An open book and parchment lie on the desk, as if he'd been copying something and left in a hurry. The book was titled Treasures of the Hogwarts Four, and his notes were indiscernible. Not wanting Riddle to walk out of his office and catch her poking around his desk, she walked around it and waited.
She checked her watch: 8:20; she'd been 10 minutes late shaking off Malfoy entangling her into a dance. Had Riddle forgotten it was Friday? Or was he avoiding a repeat of last Friday's embarrassing performance? Her cheeks were burning at the thought of it.
After another slow 10 minutes, Stateira knocked on his office door. No reply, but she noticed an inch-wide gap between the door and frame. He hadn't locked his office. It appeared that the lights were off, but there was a faint white glow coming from somewhere inside, as if from a tiny silver lightbulb.
Turn back, lass, Stateira's voice said inside her head. Turn back now. Her body disobeyed, her hand pushing the door open.
"Lumos." A quick walk-around showed that the office was plain and bare, with only a desk and a single bookshelf filled with unrecognizable spines arranged neatly on the shelves. The real show-stopper was the Pensieve in the corner on a small table next to a door that presumably led to his bedroom.
Advancing toward the stone basin, Stateira felt a thrill of excitement. She'd never seen a Pensieve before but knew its purpose was to store memories. Had Riddle taken them out of his head on the chance that Stateira would break through his mind again? The thought was flattering, but if she was going to cross the line, she couldn't stand around thinking.
With the tip of her nose less than an inch away from the shimmering substance that was neither gas nor liquid, Stateira peered down into the basin. All she could see was grass with an orange glow cast on it by the emergence of dusk, and the top of a head of dark, wavy hair.
At last she plunged her face in and fell through spinning blackness. Just as she thought she was about to hurl, she landed upright on an unfamiliar hillside next to whom she recognized as the former Slytherin prefect. His hair was shorter and he looked a touch younger, but other than that there were no differences between this teenage boy and present-day Riddle.
He looked angrier than Stateira had ever seen him. She followed his gaze to a handsome manor house on top of the hill. He crept up to the front door, looked around, took out his wand, and silently opened the door.
Inside was elegantly decorated in gold and silver ornaments atop intricately-painted flowered wallpaper. To the left was a dining hall similar to Black's, and to the right was a crystal-clean kitchen with strange appliances connected to the walls with cords. Stateira recognized a few of them from the Blood Traitor's house.
Down a hall lined with portraits of the same scowling muggle man, it seemed like, a door was ajar and voices were floating out of it: a woman's and two men's. Riddle silently walked up to the door, kicked it open, and disappeared into the room. There were cries of shock, and by the time Stateira entered the red and gold wallpapered sitting room, Riddle had raised a wand, but it wasn't the same one of yew he used in class. This was a shorter, darker one.
An impeccably-dressed elderly couple sat on a velvet and mahogany couch, clutching each other's hands and gaping at Riddle with fear, while a middle-aged man sat upright in a high-backed leather chair. There was something familiar about this man, very familiar… He, too, had black wavy hair, although streaked with grey, and dark eyes.
"Who are you?" the man yelled. "What do you want?"
"Don't recognize me, Father?" Riddle sneered. "We do look quite alike, don't you think?"
Comprehension dawned on the man's face and he began to sputter. "I—what—how did you—?"
"Did you not think your mistake would come back to haunt you?" Riddle was so angry, he was having trouble keeping the wand steady. His lips were tightened in a snarl and his voice was dangerously quiet. It was little wonder the three muggles seemed to be frozen in fear. "What's the matter, Father, you don't like magic? Is that why you left her to die, you filthy coward?"
"No, listen—your mother—she—"
"Was a witch, yes," Riddle finished. "And you're nothing but a pathetic muggle. You have lived 16 years longer than you deserved to."
He pointed the wand at his father, who shook his head imploringly. "No, please…"
"Too late for begging, Father. Avada Kedavra!"
Green light flooded the room as Riddle repeated the curse twice more. Stateira was unable to move, eyes wide, jaw open, and then she started to spin away…
She landed in a cemetery under pale moonlight in the same hot summer night. It was difficult to breathe; her lungs felt like they were tightening inside her chest. The air was completely silent except for the rhythm of bugs in the tall grass surrounding the stones. Stateira was standing behind the teenage Riddle, who was kneeling in front of the last stone of a long row. The one next to it read MARVOLO GAUNT with indiscernible dates carved underneath. Then Riddle leaned forward and she was able to see the name on the first stone:
MEROPE GAUNT
1907-1926
Riddle was resting his forehead against the stone, his breathing labored and uneven. Stateira was locked in place, trying to process what she was viewing. Then she spun away into the darkness and landed firmly on her feet in front of the Pensieve. The shimmering liquid-gas settled once more.
Stateira was gasping, her hand over her mouth, as she registered what she had just witnessed. But there was something different about the office; it wasn't so dark…
She turned toward a soft glow coming from the desk lamp, and, with a thrill of horror, saw Professor Riddle standing in front of the desk, casually leaning against it. Her insides instantly turned to steel and she started to tremble.
"My, what a curious young girl you are," he said in the same quiet voice he'd used with his father. "Dippet had warned me that you're a bit rebellious, but I didn't know you would go this far."
"Professor, I'm so sorry," Stateira breathed. "I don't know what I was—"
He held up a hand and she shut up immediately. "You were wondering how I feel about muggles," he said. "From what you've just seen, you can deduce that I despise them. My filthy muggle father found out my mother was a witch and left her pregnant and destitute. I grew up in an orphanage raised by muggles. They told me I was mad, but I was not. I was more powerful than them, better than all of them. Doesn't this tale sound familiar, Stateira? How very alike our fathers were, how easily they cast us aside like we were the defective ones."
Stateira's cheeks were wet with tears, and she was sniffling, her teeth chattering behind her clamped lips. Well, this is it, I suppose, she thought, quivering with fear as Riddle stepped forward. I'm going to die…
"Silly girl, you needn't cry; you're not going to die," he assured her, reaching up and wiping a tear from underneath her eye. "Unless, of course, you plan on telling someone what you've seen?"
"No, sir, no, of course not—"
"I can trust you, yes?" He was smiling now, but it looked odd, out of place. "You know, I've heard others say you're my favorite student, but I'm not sure you believe that. You should. They are correct."
"Th-thank you, Professor," she choked out. He was so close now, his face inches from her own, the back of his fingers caressing her cheek. Then he abruptly pulled his hand back and turned away.
"Fix yourself and go to your dormitory. It's getting late."
"Yes, sir," she said and shot out of there before he could change his mind about trusting her.
It all hit her in the common room, which was now calm but littered with dishes, assorted rubbish, and a few bodies sprawled out on the sofas. Handsome, charismatic, patient Professor Riddle had methodically murdered his father and—she assumed—his grandparents at only 16, the same age as she. She couldn't fathom using a Killing Curse now or ever in the future.
Stateira should have felt disgusted or horrified at the murder, because that was what society deemed wrong. Society says, Alexander always said in a nasally, condescending voice when he talked about the Ministry protecting muggles. Alex had murdered also, and his sister was not disgusted with him. On the contrary, some days she was filled with a longing for her brother so strong, she felt as though she could uproot trees from the Forbidden Forest without lifting her wand.
No, she wasn't disgusted with Alexander or Riddle. Afraid of the latter, maybe, but more in awe. How brave one had to be to take such revenge! And how filled with hate… Did she even hate the Blood Traitor anywhere near that level? If she had to speak out loud, she would have said yes. Inside her head, deep inside the place she wouldn't go, she knew she did not. If he sent her an owl with just one word, she would take him back in a second. But she knew he wouldn't say it, too ensconced in the Muggle by now.
Her eyes were filling with tears as she entered her room and closed the door. Riddle's father, also a muggle, left his pregnant mother… such an amazing wizard, left in an orphanage… No wonder so many wizards hate muggles, she thought savagely. Look what happens when you mix them.
To cast the Killing Curse—how? How does it feel to snatch the life of another?
As she lie on her bed, she closed her eyes and brought up the memory. Riddle must have wanted to do that for years. All of that anger, all of that confidence, that power, at only 16 years old…
Her hand moved up her leg and slid under her nightgown as she remembered his words. He is so powerful and I am his favorite. Her cheeks were flushed, her toes curling with a sudden rush of desire. Involuntarily, her hand met its destination between her legs and her face turned into the pillow as her back arched.
Edwina felt like she was the only Ravenclaw that wasn't thrilled about the end of term. She did not want to go back to her shack in Ottery St. Catchpole where it rained more often than not. She would be stuck inside with her father, trying to entertain Callista, who was now nine and at the age where all play activity last year was considered dull. Edwina could Apparate, which somewhat relieved her but not by much since she couldn't risk taking Callista with her.
Bruin Weasley lived in her village, but Edwina didn't care for him at all, not to mention he hadn't spoken to her since his and Antonia's separation. Sometimes Edwina loathed her shyness; what use was it when she hadn't anyone to talk to? She didn't even have anyone to share her high exam scores with. Then, three days before term ended, Stateira McElroy approached her on the grounds.
"Good afternoon, Boo—Edwina," she said briskly, ready to plunge into rehearsal, but then she raised her head and looked at Edwina for the first time since that dreadful confrontation. "I, er, I just wanted to say… Well, I hope you have a good summer…" She trailed off, her eyes on the ground. "And also that I'm sorry for…wigging out on you. I acted appallingly."
"No, you didn't," Edwina said gently. "I know you've got a lot on your plate."
"Well, it's alright now." Stateira smiled, and it was genuine in place of her usual cold one. "A bit of a rough year, you know how it goes."
"Yes, for me, too," she found herself saying. "I did not care for 1947, but at least it wasn't '38."
"What happened in '38?" Stateira asked, intrigued.
"My mum died."
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" And she looked it, too, covering her mouth as her eyebrows slanted up. "Why haven't you ever told me?"
Edwina did not know how to answer that honestly without involving her blood status, so she settled on, "I'm still a bit fussed by it, I suppose."
"Well, of course you are. You know, '38 was dreadful for me, too. That was when Mc—my dad left."
Although Edwina had already known this, there was weight in the admission from Stateira herself. There was a silent pause.
Swaggering down the lush hillside was a group of sixth-year Slytherin boys led by Abraxas Malfoy, undoubtedly coming to flirt with Stateira.
"Listen." She grasped Edwina's hand suddenly. "Let's write to each other over the holiday. I live at 127 Irvington Alley, unit four, Lambeth in London; can you remember—?"
"You live in London, Stateira?" Alphard Black interrupted. "I didn't know that! Maybe we can meet in Diagon Alley one of these days. I'll bring my cousin, Lucretia…"
As Stateira was swept away, she turned to wave at Edwina, smiling and rolling her eyes. Edwina vowed to remember her address: 127 Irvington Alley, unit four, Lambeth… 127 Irvington Alley…
She repeated it over and over in her mind as she meandered over to the Black Lake. It was a good place because most of the other students were in the common rooms or dormitories, tracking down their belongings. Edwina had packed the week before, only leaving the things she used every day from her trunk.
"Edwina!" a female voice called, and she turned to see Antonia Longbottom trotting toward her, shoes sending pebbles from the shore flying.
"Hello, Antonia," Edwina said dully, hoping not to hear a diatribe about a rule-breaking student or how house-elves in the kitchens were unfairly treated. Antonia, lately, had a way of exhausting a person without even touching them.
"I saw you over there with McElroy," she said without preamble. "You're not friends again, are you?"
"Well, yes," Edwina said with as much defiance that she could muster. "She apologized to me. She's not half-bad, you know."
Antonia shook her head. "Please. Not half-bad when she wants something from you. You know what she did in her first and second year? Told her father that Hogwarts had a yearly tuition. So he sent her 2,000 galleons without question. Who, at 11 years old, cons their father out of that type of money? A true Slytherin if I've ever seen one."
"Her dad left her," Edwina said curtly. "So what if he's out a few thousand galleons? He's rich anyway."
Her unexpected response knocked Antonia down a few notches. Seizing the opportunity, Edwina continued, "I've just remembered I've forgotten to pack my cauldron, and I'll have to take damn near everything out of my trunk to fit it in, so I'll be seeing you…"
Edwina turned and walked to the castle, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her arms. She was reluctant to go indoors, but she had all summer to be outside, assuming it didn't rain too often.
"Edwina?" Antonia called from behind her. "Will you write to me?"
She was still standing in the same spot, looking slightly chagrined. Edwina remembered how close they'd been last year, when Antonia had been reluctant to discuss Stateira and how they'd spent hours making up funny stories and scenarios. Edwina had lost count of how many times her side had hurt from laughter in her fifth year. Would that Antonia ever return?
"Yes, of course I will," Edwina assured her.
Stateira was skipping down the hall, completing rounds for the last time of the 1947-1948 school year. Black had been sort of slacking off, so to appease Head Girl June Finch, she took it upon herself to go round the whole castle. There was nothing else to do, anyway. Her trunk was packed, clothes picked out, and everything was ready for her to board the Hogwarts Express at 10:00 the next morning.
She had planned to move through the dungeons quickly or skip them altogether. However, when she approached the Defense classroom, she realized she should at least thank Professor Riddle for his lessons and talking her out of expulsion. That was the intention she told herself she had, at least.
The classroom was empty and dark, but his office door was again ajar with faint orange light pouring out of it.
"Professor Riddle?" she called out. "It's Stateira McElroy…"
"Enter," his voice said from behind the door.
He was sitting behind the desk, which had the familiar display of heavy textbook, parchment, and quill. Stateira pulled the door closed, trying to get it at the same exact angle it had been at before, stalling for time. Her stomach was so unsettled, she felt like she was constantly swallowing, trying to keep the churning at bay. Her palms shook as she pressed them to her sides and took a few steps toward the desk.
"Professor, I, erm, I just wanted to say thank you…for the lessons, and for persuading Dippet not to expel me, and…"
He sat straight, his quill down, and watched her with no expression on his face. His undivided attention was having a strong effect on her body despite all of the nerves, concentrating on one area in particular.
"And, erm, being so patient with me." She let her gaze drop, no longer able to meet his eye. "It helped…quite a bit."
"You're welcome, Stateira," he said quietly. "Is there anything else?"
"N—oh! And have a good summer." Smiling bashfully, she glanced at him before turning and walking to the door. She frowned; the door had completely closed, unnoticed, and when she grabbed the knob, it didn't turn. Heartbeat now thudding in her ears, she turned back around and found herself face-to-face with Riddle.
"Are you sure you've got nothing else to tell me?" He was smirking now, his voice teasing.
His tone and proximity were creating a warmth inside her that spread through her stomach and legs as she nearly doubled over. "Well," she finally said after licking her lips. "I think you can see the answer to that, sir." She was surprised at how playful and steady her voice flowed out.
He raised his eyebrows and chuckled softly. "Indeed I can."
Stateira's mind was in uproar. She wanted him; she didn't want him. Get away, lass, get out. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the turmoil and unable to form a coherent thought.
Then, she felt a warm breath and she was pulled forward by her hips. Her arms reached out, wrapping around his neck, as a cold hand held the side of her face and their lips met.
Over the dreadful summer of '41, the Muggle and her nasty friend, Gertrude, had taken Stateira and Hollis for a rare treat to the cinema, a large room with seats facing an enormous screen, to view a film called Alice in Wonderland. Young Alice had fallen into an odd, unfamiliar world, and it was she who Stateira felt like now, kissing Professor Riddle, like Alice down the rabbit hole, but instead of bewildered, she was excited to enter this world—
Then he pulled away, gripped her by the shoulders, and sternly shook his head. "We can't do this now."
"Outside of Hogwarts—"
"It's not Hogwarts. You are underage…"
"I'll be 17 in August," she said hurriedly, breathlessly.
"Well, then." The teasing tone was back as he touched her bottom lip with his thumb. "I shall see you in August."