Tom, surprisingly, is as good as his word, and arrives in the courtyard at precisely 2 o'clock. The afternoon is bright and sunny, but with the unmistakable bite of frost in the air. The few small saplings that litter the courtyard are already succumbing to the slight chill of early autumn, their leaves beginning to transform into the fiery, glittering ornaments that will before long bedeck their bony fingers like jewellery. Despite the wicked sparkle of ice draped thinly across the worn cobbles, Tom strides confidently towards where I am perched on the savagely cold stone lip of the fountain. We're both dressed casually in Muggle clothing, but with our cloaks slung over the top to keep out the cold. I smile to greet him without thinking, then let it drop almost immediately, puzzled at when I became so glad of his presence. I put it down to loneliness; I deliberately go out of my way not to make friends, not to get attached, so it's natural that I occasionally crave the company of people other than Aristomache. He stops before me, and I rise to meet him. "Shall we?" he asks politely, a hint of a smirk lingering on his features.
"Of course," I reply just as smoothly, and take his proffered arm. His touch offers no body heat, as if his very blood is icy. But then, I suppose, my skin is equally cold, although that's due to the way my bodies are crafted.
We walk a short way in companionable silence before Tom breaks it to ask me what I had in mind to do in Hogsmeade. "I thought we could go to the Three Broomsticks for a drink," I say absently, my focus mainly held by keeping up a small heating charm on myself. "Then, we can do whatever you want. There's plenty of interesting shops. I've actually been meaning to buy some books from Tomes and Scrolls myself."
He raises and eyebrow, intrigued. "What kind of books?" he enquires.
I decide to reply with the truth. "Divination. Prophetic dreams, specifically."
"Why?" he probes. "You didn't take Divination for your OWLs."
I shrug. "Just a hobby. Hopefully I'll be able to make a prophecy by the end of the year."
He chuckles, somewhat disbelievingly. "You believe in prophecies? I thought they were all just made up. Nonsense to lure in gullible people."
I turn my head sharply to look at him. "You narrow-minded imbecile," I state, as if talking to a child. "Of course prophecies are real. As are all the other forms of Divination. It's a complex art, and few people have the gift, but that makes it no less real. I've known several Seers personally."
His eyebrows lift in surprise. "Really?"
"Yes," I reply. "There was one woman I met that, every time she saw someone for the first time, she would have a vision of their death." I sigh, and watch my breath cloud in the air. "It can be a terrible gift to have."
Tom's eyes narrow in curiosity. "Did she see your death?" he asks, after a moment.
"Undoubtedly," I reply offhandedly.
He waits for me to continue, then tries to prompt me to say more. "And?"
I laugh. "Tom," I say. "Do you really think she'd tell me? And for what- to have me struggle against an inescapable fate all my life? No. I'm better off not knowing." No need to mention the fact that I was still so afraid of death that I did everything in my power to avoid it. And now, thanks to his fool of a mother, my immortality is in jeopardy.
"I suppose," he muses, but I get the feeling that he would've wanted to know how he dies, just so that he could avoid it.
Before long, we reach the Three Broomsticks. It's a wonderfully warm haven on a day like today, the crackling log burner in the corner offering a welcome source of heat. I notice several curious glances from other students being directed our way as we enter together, especially from those in our year. I suppose that this is the first time we've been seen together out of school; sitting together in class is one thing, but this is entirely another. I grimace at the thought of all the rumours that will no doubt be circulating within a few minutes. Carefully, I disentangle my arm from Tom's and tell him to find a table whilst I go to the bar to order our drinks.
"Do you need some money for mine?" he asks. There's a bitter undertone to the question, and I remember that he has no fortune of his own, no vault in Gringotts. All his money must be provided by the Ministry's trust fund, an amassing pot of wealth for poorer students set up initially by myself, when I was twenty-eight. I suppose I wanted to make sure that children like me, born with nothing, could still have a shot at greatness at the school I built. It feels gratifying to know that, over nine hundred years later, my legacy still continues on. Even if I'm more famous for my attempts to prevent muggleborns entering Hogwarts.
Something swells within me, then, for Tom, and I realise that it's sympathy. No, not sympathy; empathy. I know, too, how it feels to have nothing in the world. Godric never understood- and, how could he? He spent his entire life wealthy and loved. He never knew what it was to be destitute.
"Don't be ridiculous," I tell Tom. "I'm paying." And when he begins to protest, I say "Listen. I'm absolutely loaded. I have more money than I could possibly need, so please help me to get rid of at least some of it." It's true. I have fifty-three Gringotts vaults, each piled high with gold and jewels.
He relents, and I walk over to the bar, unravelling my long green-and-silver scarf as I go. The landlady, a plump, round-cheeked young woman with a healthy, ruddy complexion, greets me, smiling jovially. I think for a minute, then remember that her name is Mademoiselle Auberge. I recall distinctly when her mother bought the inn, about forty or so years ago. At the time, I was a tall, broad-shouldered man named Raymond Barnett, whose eyes I recollect particularly for being this wonderful stormy grey. It took me absolutely ages to perfect the colour.
"What can I get you?" she asks, in her lilting, musical voice. I smile winningly back.
"Two Butterbeers, please," I return. "Oh, and a couple of shots of Gurdyroot gin." I glance slyly over at Tom, who is now reclining on his chair in his usual languid fashion. Sensing my attention, he mouths What?, brows furrowed. I smile wickedly and shake my head. Then, just because I can, I reply Nothing, straight past his occlumency shields and into his mind. His knee bangs against the table as he sits upright too fast, shock registering for a fleeting second before it vanishes smoothly into his façade with practiced ease.
I pay Mademoiselle Auberge out of a heavy, velvet purse, then deftly levitate my drinks tray to carry it to the table. Tom's eyes follow me intently, burning with an almost livid curiosity and disbelief. He waits until I'm seated, then bursts out in a furious whisper "You're a legilimens too?"
If you're going to talk, I think to him, do it in your mind. Legilimency is not a talent I try to advertise.
He still looks infuriated, but catches on, trying to use his own legilimency to speak to me. I let down my guard of occlumency just enough for him to do so.
And when were you going to tell me? he asks, anger rippling more through his thoughts than his face.
I just did, I reply casually. Oh, try some of the Gurdyroot gin. It's an acquired taste, but I rather enjoy it.
He ignores me. Who taught you? he persists.
I pause, swirling my gin around in the shot glass, then swiftly knock it back, relishing in the line of fire down my throat. No one, I answer, deciding not to dance around the truth any longer. I taught myself.
He looks rather taken aback. Me too, he divulges, after a moment.
There's a short lapse into silence, then I begin speaking out loud again. My voice sounds jarringly loud, even in the buzz of the inn. "I meant it about the gin. Try it."
He hesitates, watching me keenly, but does as I suggest, reaching for the glass slowly but downing it rapidly.
I wait, smirking uncontrollably.
He chokes, gasping for air, his eyes widening. A rare flush creeps up his neck as he continues to cough for a few more seconds. Then the worst of the inferno releases its hold on his throat, leaving him winded and breathless and more than a little undignified. I cackle wickedly at the priceless expression on his face.
He clears his throat, the half-flush dying down. "An acquired taste?" he says civilly, a menacing undertone to his voice, but for the first time, I sense that it's in jest.
"You'll get used to it," I assure him.
We stay in the inn until the last dregs of our Butterbeers are drained, then wander out into Hogsmeade's streets. I ask Tom if there's anywhere he wants to go, but he replies that the bookshop is fine, so that's where we head.
I favour Tomes and Scrolls over its Diagon Alley counterpart, Flourish and Blotts, mainly due to the availability of more advanced and niche spellbooks. Inside, it has a dry and dusty atmosphere, the towering bookshelves dimly lit by sputtering oil lamps. The scent of ancient parchment permeates the store, mingling with the enduring sense of power radiating from the books. Unsurprisingly, Tom instantly gravitates towards a small, shadowy corner on necromancy, running his long, thin fingers over the gilded spines.
Why necromancy? I ask him mutely.
Why divination? He enquires in equal silence.
Fair enough, I think, and leave it at that.
I feel, more than see, the faint smile tugging at his lips.
Turning my attention back to the divination section, I trace the titles absentmindedly, looking for anything that sparks an interest. My pursuit of divination knowledge is not new or sudden; I've been trying to learn the art at a leisurely pace for about twenty years now, but the particular fascination with prophetic dreams stems from my suspicion that my recent nightmares perhaps hold some significance. I can't see any other reason why I would abruptly, without warning, experience recurring dreams about a mysterious Harry that I've never met.
My focus snatches on a small, leather-bound tome, inscribed with gilt symbols down the spine. It's the language that snags my notice; an ancient Greek dialect, one I recognise as being used around the Delphi region about three thousand years ago. I crook my finger at it, and it slides out, dropping easily into my outstretched hand. The embossed cover reads: Η προφητεία των ονείρων, meaning something along the lines of "The Prophecy of Dreams".
It feels heavy in my hand, heavier than it should be based on appearance. I open it carefully, allowing the aged and yellowed pages to gently fall apart, revealing the mass of crammed symbols and diagrams within. I leaf through deftly, observing the swathes of script, all in the same dialect as the title. The book has a faint but cloying scent of incense and herbs, the pages strangely warm to touch, as if heated by some lingering, ageless power.
A miniscule, stylised drawing in the corner of one of the pages catches my eye. It depicts a large, snake-like creature lying at the bottom of some sort of crevasse, or fissure. Simple lines denote some kind of fumes wafting upwards from the serpent towards a crude three-legged stool on the surface. It's captioned: πύθειν, which I think roughly translates as "to rot".
Suddenly it dawns on me. This is a sketch of the site of Pythia, or the Oracle of Delphi. The serpent is the legendary Python, allegedly slain by the god Apollo, the stool is where the Oracle once sat and the fumes are the pneuma: a sickly-sweet scent coming from the decay of Python's body.
I buy the book immediately.
To his credit, the wizened store owner makes no comment on my purchase, instead offering to look for some similar books for me. He's back before long, loaded with archaic volumes. I flick through a few of them, then just decide to buy the lot.
By the time I'm finished and stuffing the last of the books into my handbag, charmed with an undetectable engorgement spell, Tom has at last settled on purchasing a small but thick manuscript bound in black leather and stamped with tiny, silver letters.
"What's yours about?" I ask him as we leave the shop.
He smiles furtively. "Things far beyond your understanding."
"Try me," I reply dryly, more than a little irked by his answer.
He stares straight ahead, into the distance, frowning slightly. I peer into his mind, and see that he's debating whether to tell me. He's not sure if he can trust me, but confiding in me is ultimately beneficial to his cause if he wants me to join his followers.
I say nothing, waiting.
At last, on a more deserted strip of road, he turns to me, scrutinising my face. Then, he says, "What do you know about Horcruxes?"
Author's note: Congratulations on getting this far! I felt like it was about time I wrote an author's note, so here it is. First off, thank you to all my wonderful readers. It means the world to me that you're taking the time to read and (hopefully) enjoy my work.
Secondly, feel free to leave a review, if you are so inclined- especially if you spot any spelling mistakes I've missed :)
Love you all,
Amy Grace xx