OLIVIA:
"Fantastic," Remus grinned as he stood up and brushed himself off. "Now, try it again, but non-verbally," he instructed.
I looked to Sirius nervously, who stood on the opposite side of the top floor landing with his arms crossed. I really didn't like practicing dueling spells on Remus. Even after a couple of weeks of practice, I felt guilty about hitting him with jinxes and hexes. But no matter what, he didn't complain. Sirius gave me a nod, "You're doing very well. Keep going," he encouraged.
I took a deep breath and turned back to Remus.
"Whenever you're ready," he said, bracing himself for the spell.
With a swift wave of my wand, I yelled Levicorpus! inside my head. Just the same as before, his feet swung out from underneath him and above his head, leaving him dangling in midair. Quite honestly, I was surprised that anything happened at all. Nonverbal magic wasn't taught until the sixth year at Hogwarts, which I wasn't entering until September.
"Yes!" He exclaimed while hanging upside down. "Excellent!"
Sirius flourished his own wand and Lupin fell back to the ground with a thud. "You learn rather quickly," he noted.
Remus nodded his agreement, "Standard dueling spells aren't particularly challenging, though they usually take more than a few repetitions to get them down. I must say, I am impressed with your teachability. You must be very bright to have mastered nonverbal casting as well."
I smiled, not knowing what to say. It wasn't often that I was praised for my intelligence. "What's next?" I asked eagerly.
They both shook their heads. "I think that is enough for one afternoon," Remus sighed, "though I admire your enthusiasm. Tomorrow, we will begin to work on conjuring a Patronus. This will be much more difficult than anything we have practiced thus far. You'll need to be rested. Good work today though."
"Thank you," I said awkwardly. I didn't take compliments well. Together, they both disappeared down the stairs, leaving me alone on the landing. I retreated back to my room, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of our afternoon of hard work. When I opened the door, the massive owl was back, perched on the back of an armchair. He cooed softly at the sight of me. By now, he had grown to recognize my face. I walked over and stroked the top of his head.
There was another letter tied to his leg. Draco and I had been writing back and forth all summer, speaking about nothing in particular, but trying to keep our minds off of the real world situation. As much as I loved having Fred and George around, I didn't like to discuss anything too serious with them. They were always so jubilant and cheerful and I hated to bring them down. I was so grateful that I had someone like Draco to talk to. I hadn't told him where I was, but he knew that I was being kept in hiding. I told him about the lessons that I had been receiving and he seemed a bit envious.
I unfurled the letter and sat down on the chair to read it, absentmindedly petting Hamlet's head. In it, he talked about a book on Alchemy that he had snuck from his father's library. Though I wasn't particularly interested in Alchemy, I liked reading about the small joys that he had found, despite everything else. He also wrote about the nightmare he had been having. It was the same one that he had told me about at the end of term, but it had gotten more frequent and vivid. Reading about it in such detail made my stomach twist into knots. I could see it behind my eyes, the Dark Mark etched into his pale skin. I could see the pained look on his beautiful face. And worst of all, I could hear his agonizing scream echoing in my mind. My heart ached for him.
I put the letter down in my lap as I read his last few lines, taking a deep breath. His last lines hung in my mind. It's going to happen one day, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. My heart clenched, knowing that he was right. I had been trying so hard to escape the influence of the Dark Arts for my entire life, but I had just gone and gotten myself romantically involved with a future Death Eater.
But this was different. This had to be different. He didn't want this any more than I did. He was not like his parents. He was not like my parents.
I wrote him back, attempting to provide some level of comfort. I also told him of the loneliness that I was beginning to feel. Even with the company of Remus, Sirius, and all of the Weasleys, the confinement to the inside of this house had started to grow incredibly isolating. He, more than anyone, knew that I loved to be outside, but I hadn't seen the sunlight in over a month. That certainly didn't remedy the fear and anxiety that had been festering inside of me since the end of term.
Carefully, I folded my letter and gave it to Hamlet. He snatched it in his talons before disappearing back into the unlit fireplace and out the chimney.
I remained there, sat in the armchair contemplatively, thinking back to the times that I had spent with Draco. I remembered his dimpled smile and the glint in his eye when he spoke about something he loved. I remembered the way that he made my heart flutter just by looking at me. And then there were the little things, like the way that his grey eyes always reflected his mood, growing darker and stormier when he was angry or upset. Or the way that his nimble fingers pulled at his clothes when he got nervous.
A creaking floorboard pulled me from my thoughts. My eyes flashed up to see Sirius looming in the doorway. "Am I interrupting?" He asked respectfully. I shook my head. "I just wanted to say that we are both very proud of your progress so far."
I smiled slightly, "Thank you."
"I have to admit, I was a bit nervous about teaching you after seeing you yell at Kingsley like you did," he grinned, stepping farther into the room.
A small laugh escaped my lips, but I didn't say anything in return.
"Olivia," He said, suddenly sounding deathly serious, "I see a lot of myself in you." He leaned against the mantlepiece, his eyes resting on me softly. "We are both sort of the odd ones out of our families. You and I, we both come from a long line of Slytherins."
I nodded, agreeing. "Did you ever feel like you were trapped? Like no matter how hard you tried, there would always be that bit of darkness inside of you?" I had been wanting to ask someone that for a long time. Throughout my entire life, no matter my house or the marks I made in school, I could always feel it like a dark cloud looming over me, casting its shadow on everything I did.
"Definitely," he sighed, "And it doesn't go away. But it certainly helps to surround yourself with the right people. Those Weasley boys seem to care a great deal about you."
I smiled at the mention of them. "I don't know what I would do without them."
"You know, I knew your parents when we were at Hogwarts. We were in the same year," He noted. He was staring at one of the many photographs that rested on the mantle beside him.
The mention of my parents had the complete opposite effect. I felt my lips curl into an involuntary scowl. "What were they like?"
"Absolutely fowl," He said matter-of-factly, pulling his eyes away from the photos. "And nothing like you. I can guarantee that. When I was told that I would be teaching magic to a Riddle, I was quite honestly horrified. But Remus assured me that you were something special, something different. He was certainly right about that."
I could feel my cheeks growing red hot in embarrassment.
"You are far more powerful than you understand, and that can be very dangerous. But you also have to power to help so many people. The blood of the second most powerful wizard of all time runs through your veins. That doesn't have to be a bad thing. Voldemort may have fallen to the Dark Arts, but he was also at the top of his class at Hogwarts, as was your father. And it seems that you have kept that tradition," he said lightheartedly.
I shook my head, not wanting to accept his praise "I'm no Hermione Granger."
He laughed, "Sure Hermione is very clever, but book smarts are nothing against natural born talent. Of course that is nothing against her, she is a phenomenal witch. But power cannot be learned from a textbook."
Perhaps he was right. Hermione was what everyone at Hogwarts aspired to be. She truly was the brightest of us all, and she made the best marks possible. The professors adored her. But perhaps knowledge wasn't everything.
He reached forward and picked up the photo that had captured his attention. "Your father played Quidditch with Regulus. They were very good friends." He made his way over to me and offered me the picture. I took it. "Kieran was the best Keeper that Slytherin had seen in years. He went his entire sixth year without being scored upon. Team captain as well."
My jaw fell open. I had never heard of such a feat happening at Hogwarts, possible because people refrained from speaking of my father. I watched the picture. My father stood in the very center, a sly smile spread across his face. He looked exactly like what I had seen of him before, mostly photos of his trial and arrest from the Daily Prophet. But he was also entirely different. He looked almost normal. "What about my mom?" I asked. I had heard plenty about him, but she was entirely a mystery to me.
Sirius pursed his lips, "Anastasia was gorgeous. The girl that every guy fawned over. But everyone was also terrified of her. A real temptress."
I nodded, trying to process it. When I remained silent in thought, Sirius sighed. "Well, I will leave you to your thoughts. I look forward to our Patronus lesson tomorrow."
I saw quiet as he turned away, but a question burned inside of me as he made it to the door. "Sirius?" I prompted.
"Yes?"
"What made you keep the name? Your family wasn't exactly the best influence, but why did you still refer to yourself as a Black?"
He smiled pensively. "It's a part of who I am. It's a reminder of how far I have come," he whispered.
I nodded again, gears turning over in my mind. He was right. Denying who I was only gave my parents more influence over me.
"Keep your enemies close, Olivia Vance," He said boldly.
That name was a lie. As much as Emmeline had helped me throughout my life, as much as I loved her, I was not her daughter. "Riddle," I stated. "Olivia Riddle."
DRACO:
I sat perched in the window of my bedroom, a book delicately balanced in my hand. I had had my nose buried in this book seemingly all summer long. I had several more stashed beneath my bed, hidden from my parents. Most of them belonged to my father and I had to sneak them out of his library without him noticing.
Reading had become my escape from everything else happening in my life. I wasn't particularly picky about what I read, as long as it didn't involve any kind of dark magic (though ruled out a lot of things in my father's library). I had found a lot of interesting topic over the last few weeks, anything from Alchemy to House-Elf Psychology.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy!" A booming voice echoed up the stairs, making me jump in surprise. Instantly, my heart rate doubled. It was my father, and he sounded angry.
Quickly, I shoved the book underneath my pillows and threw open the door. "Yes, sir?" I asked nervously.
"Get down here, boy!" He yelled. Suddenly, I felt like I was going to be sick. What had I done that could make him so angry? Had he found out about the books?
He's always angry, I reminded myself, but that didn't help. I ran down the stairs urgently as not to keep him waiting. He was standing at the other end of the grand entry, his arms crossed menacingly.
"Is there anything you wish to tell me?" He asked as I approached.
I shook my head, "N-no sir." And then I saw it. Clenched in his hand was a folded piece of parchment: a letter. I stopped in my tracks in the center of the room. How had he gotten ahold of it?
"Then do you care to explain this?" He held the letter up. I could feel my throat closing up, forbidding me from speaking. "How dare you associate with this Olivia Riddle. She is a blood traitor and an embarrassment to her family. Do you understand this?"
He tossed the letter aside and took a couple steps closer to me, reaching a hand out and grasping my shoulder. Instinctively, I clenched my fists at my sides to hide my shaking. "I asked you a question, my boy," he growled threateningly, his grip growing tighter, nails digging into my robes. I couldn't bring myself look up at him. My eyes remained locked on the ground at my feet. I felt the head of his serpent cane press into my chin, forcing me to meet his stare.
"Yes," I said fearfully, "I understand."
Clearly, he wasn't satisfied with my response. He shoved me away, quickly whispering a curse. I tensed before it even hit me, bracing for the pain. I feel to my knees and gritted my teeth to keep from crying out, white-hot knives piercing every inch of my skin. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that I could no longer see what was in front of me. But this was I pain that I knew. I had felt this before.
Eventually, the pain began to subside, but I remained withering on the floor, weakened by the blow. I raised my chin to meet his eyes, staring down the length of his wand. I could see my mother standing in the doorway behind him, watching. How could a mother stand so idly and watch her son be so brutally tortured by her husband?
"Father," I pleaded, "I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again." Speaking those words hurt me more than I had expected. I couldn't possibly stop writing to Olivia.
"Sorry?" He snarled, "Malfoys do not escape their punishment." He flicked his wrist again and the pain was back, this time even stronger than before. But once again, it faded after a matter of seconds.
"Mother, please," I begged, staring up at her helplessly. Hot tears began to involuntarily fill my eyes.
She looked at my father. "Lucius," she whispered. But it was too late. I was hit yet again with the curse. This time I doubled over, unable to fight the agony any longer. I was screaming more loudly than I'd ever screamed in my life. Wave after wave of pain washed over me until my father seemed to lose interest.
"Pathetic," he spat as he hovered just above me, "you are no son of mine." Finally, he turned away and disappeared down the corridor with my mother at his heels.
And I never wrote to Olivia again.
