A/N: Just as warning, this scene contains inappropriate conduct between a teacher and a student, and also a botched abortion.


Chapter XXVII

Pennyroyal Tea

[Hogwarts | April 1944]


There's a small mirror on the wall opposite the entrance to Slughorn's office through the potions' room. V is eyeing it with a newfound interest, having spent most of her life avoiding such things, perhaps now that she's managed to some how stave off capture, and potentially madness, she can make use of these things the way other, proper, devils do. Look at that intricate framing, shining brass. Wonder where he got this from… She approaches the looking glass, her figure looming, unfocused, until she's standing directly before it. And then, with wide, disbelieving eyes, she sees it. The most hideous creature, the most unnatural, inhuman representation of a person she's ever seen. Flat, white skin. Red eyes, unblinking, slits for pupils.

"I smell something brewing in here…must be you, Victoria! Aha! Now I wonder what you've cooked up…" Slughorn's on the move from his office to the potions classroom. He opens the door and sees V's back, sees her engrossed in the mirror. More curiously, he doesn't see a reflection. "Ha ha, clever trick, my dear!" He laughs, clapping her on the shoulder. "Now what's this you've got going here…" It's a short walk to the table where the cauldron's set up and the ingredients are strewn about. "Wormwood, Pennyroyal, Nutmeg, Bayberry…" He picks through the containers. "You're not…" Slughorn turns to V, who is still facing the mirror. His pudgy face is strained, a concerned frown working its way across his lips. "Why didn't you tell me? You know you can always ask me for help."

"If I were to ask you for help." V says in a stiff monotone. "I would have to tell you what I need help with."

"My dear Victoria! You can't just experiment with this!" He extinguishes the flame beneath her cauldron. Then, wrapping his thick arm around the girl's back, he escorts her into his office and shuts the door. "Now let me see what I can do…" He mutters, more to himself, puttering around. Always so confident in his abilities, that ol' Slughorn. On the bookcase is a dusty old volume, which he selects and splays open on the desk before him. As he flips the thin vellum pages, V drifts around the edges of the familiar room, not having to examine anything because she's already mapped the entire place in her mind. She settles herself on the chaise, head back, eyes towards the low stone ceiling crossed with wooden support beams. She can hear the clinking of bottles and jars, the spark of the cauldron, the ruffle of a page.

"There now." He says, wiping his hands on his waistcoat, striding over to sit on the edge of the chaise. V pulls her legs in and sits up, cross-legged. "We'll just let that brew, should take but a few hours. This recipe is old, but proven. Was used for centuries before the healers at St. Mungos invented the new procedure."

"Thank you, sir. You're right, I shouldn't have taken that risk—I should have come to you first." V says mechanically, casting her eyes down.

"Can I ask…If I may…Who the…um…who the father is?" Slughorn stumbles, holding his hands tightly in his lap.

"Take your best guess." a bitter smile playing about V's rosy lips.

"No no no, my dear, I am not passing judgement!" He says, reaching out now, taking her small hand in his. "I merely want to help is all." He's rubbing her hand now, with his strong, well-padded fingers. What's that look she's giving him? Is it…a dare? The corners of her mouth twitch, but not in preparation for speech. He can feel his heart revving inside of his chest, his feet pressing firmly into the floor, his body leaning towards hers…is he really going to do this? And then the kiss, inevitable, anticipated, and so so so inappropriate, yet not altogether unpleasant…for Slughorn at least. He can't sense any emotion in those shining black eyes, but she sees kindness in his, sadness, a deep caring.

"So this is your idea of helping?" She asks, he can't help but think a bit sarcastically.

"I…well…I uh…" His brow furrows. What the hell is going on here? V briefly considers whether this is a dream.

"Professor." She takes a hand and cups the side of his face. "You didn't mean to do that."

"Right…you're right…good heavens, no—I didn't, that was completely inappropriate—please, you must forgive me…" He stammers, blushing severely.

"The father is Tom Riddle." She says bluntly, changing the subject.

"Ah. So he is." Slughorn frowns. "And I assume you weren't planning on telling him…"

"I think it would be best not to tell him about any of this, don't you?" She says as she shifts her hair about her shoulders.

"Yes. Well. Of course." Slughorn says, at odds with how to take the events as they've unfolded. "I won't breathe a word of it. You can trust me."

"I know." She smiles, rises, places a hand on Slughorn's shoulder, and squeezes it tightly. "Thank you." To his shock, she brings her face back to his, planting another kiss, a very brief one, on his lips. The scent of rosemary envelops him. "I'll stop by tomorrow morning before class to pick it up." Slughorn nods, incapable of speech. She slips out the door, and, as soon as he's alone, he flops back on the chaise, feeling his forehead. He suspects that, perhaps, he is sicker than he thought. And for that matter, the young lady as well.


It's so cold. She's shivering violently under a thin white cotton blanket, pulls it up to her face, feels the foreign fiber, and jolts awake. Her eyes don't recognize anything. This isn't Hogwarts. The air is much cooler. Much cleaner. She's in a twin white metal bed, with a curtain pulled around her. She reaches for her wand but it isn't on the bedside table. Instead, her hands close around something smooth and sharp. Holding it up, she sees it a shard of mirrored glass. Little beads of blood collect on her palm where the glass cuts her. It's a sign. She rises from the bed but her body doesn't spring to action as expected. It's almost overwhelmingly difficult to sit up, put her feet firmly on the ground, and stand upright. A wave of dizziness and nausea hits her. Her stomach aches like two hands have reached inside her and are wringing it dry. When was the last time she ate? There's a pitcher of water on the nightstand, which she ignores. No wand in sight. Then she notices what she's wearing, a crisp white hospital gown, and the crest embroidered near the collar—St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Shit. She peaks around the corner, and there are rows upon rows of beds, some with the curtains drawn, some filled with sleeping bodies, some lying empty in the moonlight. She stumbles past the mint-green curtain, her balance shaky, footsteps halting. The healers must have given her something…some kind of sedative…or tranquilizer… She tries to reach back and pluck out the last thing she remembers, but it's tough. Oh that's right. Slughorn. Wait a second…that's right! Slughorn. How could she be so stupid? He poisoned her at the Yule Ball—it wasn't just some accident. And he made that potion she took that morning… But why on earth has he got it out for her?

There's movement in one of the beds. V quickly ducks down behind an empty bed. The tile floor is cold against her bare legs. She has to get out, but it is going to be extraordinarily difficult without a wand. If only she felt stronger, then maybe she could take on her snake form. A few beds down, a half-eaten meal sits discarded on a bedside table. She starts to crawl towards it, under the beds, belly flat against the floor. Silently she slips the tray off the table and starts cramming the food into her mouth. It's some sort of nasty porridge, but she eats every last bit of it. She's still weak though, and keeps crawling beneath the beds until she reaches the door at the end of the ward. Locked. But there's a window. She holds her breath, gives a good wind up, and punches the glass with her bare knuckles. It doesn't make as much noise as she anticipated, but it's sure to attract attention, so she's gotta move quick. She reaches through the broken window and unlocks the door manually from the other side, pushes it forward just enough to slide through, and lets it shut quietly behind her. There's little slivers of glass all over the floor, so she's got to be careful not to step on them. The nurses' station has been left unattended; a cup of cold tea sits beside a stack of parchment waiting to be filed. The plaque on the door she'd just broken glints in the moonlight; the Janus Thickey Ward. She's been here before, to visit her mother—who's bed she probably just crawled under. She blots the blood from her knuckles on her gown before starting to thumb through the stack of parchment on the counter. She finds her records in a matter of seconds.

Name of Patient: Victoria Spektor

Age: 18

Height: 5'10"

Weight: 125 lbs

Eye color: black?

Hair color: black

Blood pressure: 80/60

Reason for admittance: poisoning

Notes: do not leave this patient unattended

So much for following instructions, V thinks, folding the parchment and tucking it inside the band of her bra. A few drops of blood drip from her hand onto the white counter. V takes her finger and traces the shape of a question mark, leaving an ominous note for the nurse when she returns from her break. She pads down the whitewashed metal stairs, her feet freezing, her balance still off. On the ground floor she encounters her first hospital employee. He's sitting at the reception desk, his nose in a large medical textbook, possibly sleeping. V hopes he's sleeping. She sinks as low to the floor as she can, creeping past the reception desk on her hands and knees. The receptionist turns a page. V creeps on. The door is within reach. She just has to reach up, push it open, slip out, and run—all of which, incredibly, she is able to manage without attracting the slightest ounce of attention from the man at the desk. It's not until the door clicks shut behind her that he looks up, appraises it curiously, then shrugs and returns to his studying.

So it's a rainy April night in London and V Spektor's standing on the sidewalk in a white knee-length hospital gown, soaked to the bone, with a bloody right hand and a broken bit of a mirror. She can't get back to Hogwarts, and she sure as hell can't stay where she is, so there's really only one option…

The knowledge that her family's home is a crime scene doesn't impact how she pictures the place will be when she arrives that night. Upon approaching, however, it becomes clear that things aren't as they should be. The gate has been chained shut, and she can see through the bars that the windows are boarded, along with the front door. There's another entrance, of course, around the back by the elm tree, which she quickly sets off for, but she's beyond peeved that the lock is there, that anyone dare put a lock on the gate. What right have they to put a lock on the gate?


The far end of the Slytherin table is dead silent, save for the scraping of fork and knife against china, the chewing and sipping, the shuffle of papers, of feet beneath the table. Tom Riddle takes a few bites of the food on his plate and sets his fork down, unable to stomach much of anything. Lestrange keeps glancing over at him, yet Riddle does not meet his eyes. Instead, his eyes are on the door, until Julia Pembroke enters. Riddle rises abruptly and intercepts Pembroke before she reaches the table.

"I need to ask you something." He says. It might be the first thing he's ever said to Julia.

"What?" Pembroke is stunned. "Um, uh, sure…"

"Not here." He grabs her arm and leads her forcefully from the Great Hall, through the Entrance Hall, and down a passage that leads to the kitchens. Pembroke doesn't put up a fuss, doesn't even ask where he's taking her, she's too nervous.

"What did she say to you that afternoon?" He demands.

"Umm…she said, uh… I don' remember. Nothin important…" Pembroke stammers.

"Something happened. I tried to get it out of Slughorn but he wouldn't…cooperate." Riddle says through clenched teeth, gripping Pembroke's arm tighter. "And nobody else seems to know anything about it. I thought maybe you…"

"Whatcha doin'…hey! Those are my thoughts, get out!" She yanks her arm away, which doesn't prevent him from using legillimency but still, at least she can get some distance. She regards the Head Boy—slim and sleepless, left eye twitching—with extreme unease. "Sorry, I mean, I'd tell ya if I knew, really. I'm worried too ya know."

"I don't really care." Riddle says angrily. "But you're right, you don't know anything." And without another word he turns his back on the stocky, red-haired Slytherin girl and stalks off down the corridor.

"Bloody hell," Pembroke mutters, rubbing her arm. "Fuckin' wanker…"


The padlock, though sturdy, does not bar Victoria's entry to her family's former home, and neither did it keep looters from ransacking the old place, lifting everything that wasn't too conspicuous and leaving hardly anything of monetary value behind. Granted, these must have been muggle looters, because some of the things, including priceless volumes in her father's library, along with trunks full of family photos, correspondence, etc. remained untouched. The hangings had been ripped from the curtain rods, leaving the windows uncomfortably bare. As V sits, cross-legged on the floor of the sitting room, she can see her own reflection, cast by the fire in the grate, upon the glass as she leafed through old letters, newspaper clippings, photographs, and postcards she'd found in an overturned trunk someone had flung down the staircase. Barnaby as a child, holding a quaffle twice this size of his head but just as red. Lucinda and Mrs. Spektor in the garden, both up to their elbows in fresh dirt, with various specimens to be planted scattered about. Mr. and Mrs. Spektor on their wedding day, his grim grin out-shined by her beaming jubilance, gripping her bouquet like it were the triwizard cup. And as she's going through this pile, already resigning herself to the strong possibility that there isn't a single picture of herself in the mix, she finds herself gazing at a much younger version of herself, a mess of long black hair and pale limbs, climbing on top of a statue of an angel, her small hands splayed to cover the angel's eyes. She sets the photograph aside. Then, another, of her and Septimus sitting together on the sofa, cast in shadow, each with their nose buried in their own book, V cross-legged, Septimus with his right ankle resting on his left knee, a cloud of smoke billowing from the pipe clamped between his teeth. She sets this one aside as well. There's a rustling upstairs. Then, was that the tinkling of broken glass? A heavy thud on the floor just above her, possibly from a rock being tossed through one of the windows. She snatches up the two photographs and leaves the rest scattered about the floor. Oh so quietly, made possible by her bare feet, she creeps to the corner and tucks herself inside a cupboard, just in time to watch a few brawny teenage boys crash down the staircase and start casing the stripped place for silver, gold, jewels, whatever they can sell.


"Starting to regret ever getting involved with that girl now, aren't you Tom?" Lestrange yawns, stretching his arms above his head, then crossing them upon his chest. "You always said you were above that sort of thing anyway."

"I don't regret a thing." Tom's brow is furrowed, eyes on his parchment, re-reading an essay he'd just written.

"Got you all distracted now though, doesn't she. And she ain't even here." Lestrange smirks.

"Distracted?" Tom looks up from the essay, his cold eyes meeting Lestrange's.

"With all this worrying about where she's gotten off to, what's happened to her…"

"So you're insinuating that her wellbeing and whereabouts aren't of any importance, I take it. That she hasn't been a significant help to what I'm trying to achieve?" Although he hates to admit it, V is more than just a significant help, she is indispensable.

"Oh, excuse me then — I didn't realize your goals had shifted…" Lestrange laughs.

"There are some people in this world, Lestrange, that are gifted with superior intelligence and skill. Although, seeing as you aren't among them, it might be a bit of a stretch to expect you to recognize excellence in others. To be honest with you, I have been wondering for quite some time why I've allowed you to become so integrally involved with my plans in the first place. Thus far, you've only proven yourself a hinderance." Tom says, dipping his quill into the ink bottle and scratching a few notations at the bottom of the parchment. Lestrange glares at him.

"A hinderance?"

"I am afraid I am no longer in need of your 'support'."

"You can't kick me out of the knights! I'm a founding member. I'm…to be honest with you, I'm one of the only friends you've got in this whole bloody castle."

"I am afraid it is just too much of a risk to continue to associate with someone so, how should I put it…delusional…" Tom casually scratches another note.

"That's it." Lestrange pounds the table, upsetting the ink bottle all over Tom's nearly finished essay. His words now drowning in a sea of slick black, Tom carefully sets his quill out of reach of the spill and draws his wand from his pocket. Lestrange's face is beet-red as he scrambles to his feet, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and Riddle. He's not quick enough, and within seconds, the grimy Slytherin boy is writhing in agony upon the common room floor, his former 'friend' standing over him.

"That's it." Riddle mocks, and lets Lestrange enjoy a few more moments of intense physical pain before lifting the cruciartis curse from him.

"I'm…I'm…sorr-"

"I'm done here. And I believe it would be in your best interest, Lestrange, to stay out of my way." And with that, Tom gathers his books and quill, and stalks off to his dormitory, leaving Lestrange lying on the floor.


The next morning at breakfast an owl drops a newspaper on Tom's plate, nearly toppling his goblet of pumpkin juice onto his lap. He picks up the thing and regards it with skeptical curiosity, as it is not only a muggle newspaper, but, upon reading the date, one from December 31, 1926. He glances quickly at the students around him before casually unfurling the paper, flipping through it's yellowed pages for some sort of clue to explain why someone sent him this. But his puzzlement only lasts a brief moment before it dawns on him—of course he knows who it's from. Who else? On page six there's an article about a wealthy young man from Little Hangleton who had engaged in a scandalous relationship with a poor villager, and how the girl claims she is pregnant with his child. Scratched in red ink in the margin next to the article is a question mark, followed by a series of numbers.

"Is that a muggle newspaper?" Avery asks through a mouthful of toast.

"Seems like it. Someone's idea of a joke, most likely." Tom says cooly, folding the paper and shoving it into his bag.

"So Malfoy's in. A bit curious as to why Lestrange is no longer involved, but I told him to mind his own business."

"Good." Tom nods stiffly and returns his attention to his breakfast.