"Come in, Charles." Professor Clearwater's voice was gentle, but tired. A dull weight lifted off Charles' chest; his head of house was not angry at him.
The office was almost as familiar to Charles as the Ravenclaw common room; he had perhaps been in it more often than any other member of his house, considering both his innumerable scheduling of classes with upper years, and his detentions. A suit of armour bearing the Ravenclaw crest on its rusting chestpiece inclined its head at Charles. Charles hesitantly nodded back.
Charcoal, Professor Clearwater's niffler, was perched on a small pillow on the Professor's large, black desk, between neatly organised stacks of parchment and a few textbooks with magically-mended binders. It was playing with a tussling chocolate frog.
Charles took a seat. The Professor's arms were crossed on the table, and Charles saw a frown beneath his daintily combed beard.
"So, what's been happening, Charles?" Clearwater's eyes bore into his own. Charles looked away; although he could reveal his debacle with Smackhammer, he couldn't mention a thing about Riddle. The idea of letting off steam about his unrequited love, however, was appealing; although the Professor wouldn't understand, he would be better at sympathising than at least any of the boys in his house.
"Stress, sir… you see… I like a girl, but I don't think she even knows that I do, let alone, well, like me back."
"Oh dear. Well, lad, you're going through a time which all young blokes eventually endure through. Don't fret, though, as eventually, the girl will like you back, or, as cruel as it is to say, you'll move on. I remember the first time I thought I loved a girl. With the benefit of retrospect, the whole ordeal was pretty stupid." Clearwater said, with exaggerated sagacity.
"How did you deal with it, sir?"
"Ha. I was a little younger than you were, but a whole lot more faint-hearted. Never even talked to the girl. At some point, my heart just put her aside. Maybe this isn't the answer you're looking for, but trust me; like I said, your issue will resolve itself. Don't fret on it, Charles. In a few years time when you're out in the world, as a ministry bigshot or a leading spellcrafter, this will all seem very silly indeed."
Charles' indignation flared; his professor had no idea what he was going through. He said it himself, he never talked to the girl. Julie was Charles' best friend, but unfortunately, nothing more, to her. Even his head of house's habit of offhandedly complimenting Charles didn't get through.
"I suppose so, sir."
"If you don't mind satiating my intrusive curiosity, would you mind telling me who the lucky girl is? Is it, by any chance, Phaedra Gamp?" Clearwater asked, haughtily.
Charles knew that wizarding society usually involved older men with younger women, but he also knew that, high school convention often dictated couples in the same year group. He definitely couldn't say a thing about Julie.
"Sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I don't think I'd be comfortable with you knowing."
"That's understandable. In any case, Charles, in spite of your stunning of third years and burning of tapestries, I still owe you one for all the pride you've sired for my old house. I am quite confident that Miss Gamp is very fond of you, in case you haven't noticed. She looks at you the way in charms, the way you pore over post-NEWT tomes." Charles had not, in fact, noticed Phaedra's affections. He was relieved that Kirke hadn't dobbed on him, glad for the Gryffindor's sense of petulant pride. But there was a more pressing issue.
"Sir - how did you know that I… burned the tapestry?" Charles asked, his voice strained. If there was a witness to his interrogation of Kirke, he would be forced to reveal his situation with Smackhammer, and potentially then risk all his nascent plans with Riddle.
"I didn't, but I thought that you did. Now, you just confirmed my suspicion; otherwise, I would've had to requisition your wand after this detention, and spend a considerable amount of time looking into its wardwork to see an itinerary of spells casted over the previous day." Relief flooded Charles' veins, but a scowl crossed his face at his head of house's deception.
"Well, thanks for letting me know about Phaedra, sir." Charles' mind drifted to the buxom, black-haired fourth year girl. Charles had no idea what Phaedra Gamp saw in him, if Clearwater was right. The notion of a girl his own age desiring him seemed impossible. Phaedra was attractive, Charles thought, but in no way comparable to Julie.
"It's the least I could do. Anyway, I still have you for another three hours tonight, and every Sunday thereafter for the next five months. Perhaps you could help me grade these third-year essays on the banishing charm? Don't be too harsh on Vickers, though-"
"Vickers?"
"Walden Vickers. The third-year boy you stunned. Apologise to him, by the way; I've asked him to make amends with you, too. Anyway, I recall the essay you wrote on the banishing charm, when you were in first year. When I read it, I felt as though I was a second-rate beater who'd accidentally caught the world-cup winning snitch."
"Sir - you give me too much credit -"
"Don't be coy now, Charles. Anyway, here are the essays. Try to evenly distribute the grades."
"You're sure Riddle will eat these?" Yaxley asked.
"In fact, they're the only ones he eats. I've bought this three times and shared them in the dorm each time. Trust me - they are the only ones Riddle eats." in Antoine's palm was a small, dark chocolate oyster. It was charmed to slowly oscillate between closing and opening, and it was 95% pure cocoa. Antoine found it disgusting.
"You better be right, Rosier." Yaxley pointed his wand at the potion vial, unscrewing it. A short, elegant stream of the crimson liquid, which glowed with a brilliant luminescence; like what Antoine imagined the blood of veelas looked like, spurted gracefully from the vial. The end of the stream was suspended in the mouth of the chocolate in Antoine's hand.
With another movement of his wand, the enchanting crimson stream flowed back into the potion, leaving a single droplet of red in the mouth of the chocolate oyster.
"Liquo. Induresco." Part of the oyster's lower shell melted slightly, absorbing the droplet of despair, before solidifying again. It made an amusing, slight moan in pain.
Antoine placed the oyster back in the ornamental cast of his large-sized, premium quality assortment box of Honeyduke's. With a gesture of Yaxley's wand, the unhitched ribbon around the box tied itself. The box looked as good as new.
They never spent time in Tom's room on Sunday mornings. Edgar knew that Tom was a creature of habit; to set a new precedent like this could only mean the inauguration of a new schedule, or some important event.
Already, there was Gurganus Goyle, Mulciber, Spritedust, Avery, Lestrange, Alphard Black, Jürgen Drachenzahm, and himself. Lydia Cotterill, Tom's doll-attaché, was not invited. Edgar hoped they didn't have a falling out; he found Lydia's unabating adoration of Tom quite amusing. While Avery, Ed Spritedust, Lestrange and Alphard looked confused, Mulciber, for all his customary sobriety, looked extremely stern. He was in on Tom's plan. Jurgen's thin face had an unreadable, but uncomfortably alien, expression.
Edgar fidgeted at the sleeve of his robe.
"Tom, who are we waiting for?"
"Rosier, Karkaroff, and Borgin."