Chapter 35:Let me be, let me go

3rd July 1994

Lysander Floo'd into Ásgeir Rowle's home at the agreed upon time and was met with the burly face of his host, waiting for him with an outstretched glass of firewhisky. Lysander happily took the drink and tried not to gulp it down immediately, lest the man sense his desperation.

"You look like dragon shit," Ásgeir said. He was built with a large stature, pale, with ice blue eyes and blonde hair - just like his son's - that Lysander had never noticed before.

Lysander drank the remaining liquor, feeling it burn down his oesophagus and warm his belly in response. If he looked that bad there was little use pretending with Ásgeir. The man was ruthless - always had been.

"I've had a trying week."

Trying was a polite way of saying that Lysander was running out of ideas on how to accomplish what Riddle had asked of him, and now he was standing face to face with the father of the boy he had in his dungeons. It was more than 'trying'. It was fucking cruel.

"Your guests keeping you busy?" Ásgeir asked, sipping his own drink. He looked Lysander over keenly, trying to find the chink in his armour in order to dismantle it.

"You could say that," Lysander replied. He was never one for the politics of it all - perhaps the main reason why the hat had put him in Ravenclaw. Lysander had never bothered with the subterfuge of his Slytherin peers, much to the disgust of his own father, but that did not mean that he wasn't able to hold his own when it was necessary.

And it was more than necessary.

"You've missed poker night."

"Do you still play that Muggle game?" Lysander asked.

Ásgeir laughed. "But of course. When the stakes are livelihoods, it makes it all the more thrilling to play."

"Quite," Lysander said. "Unfortunately, I've been busy with work."

Ásgeir's eyes lit up. "Oh? Still hankering on for knowledge about Soul magic, are you?" He took another sip of his drink and then summoned the bottle to pour more for Lysander.

"Not exactly, though I do believe I shall have some interesting findings to share at next year's gathering."

"Next year?"

"It is a delicate process," Lysander said.

"I'm sure the men will be excited to see what they can buy from you next," Ásgeir said.

Lysander smiled weakly. He would need to keep up appearances, but he hoped by the time next year came around, the men waiting to invest in him would have all but forgotten about it. That, or he would be dead from the stress of Riddle.

There wasn't enough space in his head to focus on patents, products or research right now. Theo was on the line.

Which was why he needed to focus!

Lysander stopped himself from taking more than a sip of the topped-up firewhisky in favour of moving himself to one of the seats in the office. It would be an incredibly bad idea to get drunk right now.

Ásgeir followed him to the arm chair and sat, lounging on it with the air of prey playing with their food. Lysander was well used to the feeling in all its iterations by now.

"What did you want to discuss then?" Ásgeir asked.

"Can old friends not simply catch up?" Lysander responded. He smiled at Ásgeir, feeling his desperation shift into determination as he compartmentalised his thoughts. He needed to focus.

Ásgeir swirled the liquid around in the crystal glass. "I suppose, but you've never been one to simply catch up , have you Lysander."

"I suppose not."

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"Merely considering the old days," Lysander said. He took another sip of firewhisky. "And about the nonsense that happened at Hogwarts this year - Dementors, Black, Halley Potter being kidnapped. And all after last year and the Chamber supposedly being opened."

"Evidently not for long enough," Ásgeir said. "Not a single mudblood eradicated. At least the first time it opened, that stupid cunt was finally shut up - do you rememeber?"

He did. Not the girl's name, but the chaos that ensued after it. The half-giant was expelled for one thing. "It seems the headmaster is losing his touch," Lysander said.

Ásgeir scoffed. "He lost his touch years ago! Though the last three years have been increasingly bad."

Probably because of Potter, Lysander wanted to say. But he swallowed the words. All he needed to do today was ascertain whether Ásgeir was going to raise a query about his son.

It was difficult to tell with the man; there was little love lost between him and his sons, and Ásgeir had both an heir and a spare. He was not a man that was overly fond of his family, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't get concerned about Thorfinn if he stayed missing.

"Dippet was senile half the time, but he acted quickly enough when things got out of hand," Lysander said.

"Agreed."

"Theo was telling me that Severus Snape may not be returning to Hogwarts next year after a nasty accident."

Ásgeir hummed, taking another sip. This one finished the amber liquid, and he quickly poured himself another.

"Was your son not considering a Potions apprenticeship with him?" Lysander asked.

"Thorfinn? Not that I was aware of. But it seems he continues to be of little use to me. What good does a Potions apprenticeship do for the Rowles?" he asked.

Lysander took a careful pause, twisting the crystal casually. "I suppose. He wasn't at the feast, apparently. Theo said he'd already left."

"Your boy gossips like a wench," Ásgeir said. "If he left before the feast, then Morgana knows where his is now.

"Has he not been in touch?"

"No." Ásgeir abruptly stood, straightening his robes, and looked down at Lysander. "Probably fucking some blonde cunt in Paris. What care have I, so long as he's back in time to fulfil his understanding with that stupid girl, Lyra Rosier. Her father is increasingly provoking ."

Yes, Lysander remembered just what happened to the people that provoked Ásgeir in their youth. Quite a few had ended up in the hospital wing over the years when he was done with them.

"You keep your sons on a generous leash," Lysander said with a smile.

"Ha! Ulrik is far more obedient. If I had stopped with him, I'd have lived stress free. But their mother insisted on another - at least one more for a girl. Well. She got Thorfinn."

Lysander hummed. "Better two than none," he said.

"Better none than the worthless," Ásgeir responded. He downed his drink and then chucked the crystal to the ground. It smashed, sending small glittering shards all around them.

An elf immediately popped in to snap away the glass and replace it before leaving.

Ásgeir filled the glass once more. His eyes were locked on the bottle as he raised it level with the new glass, and poured more alcohol into it, filling it higher than it should have gone. When he was finished, he held the bottle out to Lysander. "Drink," Ásgeir said.

Lysander waved his hand, but Ásgeir insisted again.

"I know you didn't just come here to talk about that fool of a man and my worthless son's education. Come now, Lysander, I know you better than that." Ásgeir's grin was devilish. Calm and confident in his statement and the knowledge that if Lysander left now, he wouldn't have the opportunity to bring it up again.

Lysander felt trapped in that knowledge. He was unused to feeling that way around anyone other than Riddle, and if it wasn't for the carefully constructed Occlumency barriers, he might have punched that smile off Ásgeir's face.

"Very well," he began. But he wasn't going to have this conversation with Ásgeir standing over him, so he stood. It was a stupid thing, to feel that niggle of satisfaction to see they were the same height, but he'd been under an immense amount of stress lately. He would allow himself this small win.

"I told you earlier I was contemplating on the old days; our school days were much more…ambitious, were they not? The Knights saw to that."

Ásgeir raised a blond brow at the name. Riddle had called his inner circle the Knights of Walpurgis - a childish play on Walpurgis Night, in which demons and witches awaited a gathering. But its second meaning – a nightmarish event – was never lost on their peers.

Neither of them had been a part of it as they were older than Riddle - and Ásgeir had once refused to bow to a half-blood - regardless of his lineage. But Ásgeir had been on the precipice of it at school, and he had certainly joined the Death Eaters later on.

"Old friends are rising again."

"Is that so?" Ásgeir asked. "I thought them long gone."

Lysander shook his head. "Not as gone as some would wish."

Ásgeir watched him for a moment. Then he laughed. Without any notice, he laughed heartily, followed by a large gulp of his drink. "And what does our friend want from me?"

"He wants to know where you stand."

"Funny that he's not here to ask himself," Ásgeir said. His hand moved to his side where he began to tap the pocket that Lysander was sure held his wand.

"Is that your answer?" Lysander asked. He ignored the fact that Ásgeir had placed his hand inside the robe pockets. If the man tried to curse him then at least he would have an excuse to relieve some of the frustration that was building.

"You know me, Lysander. I like proof before I make a stand."

Lysander hummed, trying to stall for time. He didn't know what was going on; Ásgeir had been one of the first to join the Death Eaters; he'd revelled in the chaos and destruction of it all, and as far as Lysander knew, he was an adamant follower. So why was he stalling?

"A bold statement to make. Do you not believe he's returned?" Lysander asked. Ásgeir finally moved once again. He walked over to the table and placed his glass down. The distance was good.

"I believe something is about to happen. But for all I know, Sirius Black is going to break his cousins out of Azkaban."

Lysander frowned. What an odd thing to say - especially considering he now had all the Aurors chasing after him for trying to kill Potter. Why would Black ever go near Azkaban again?

Ásgeir had some sway over the Department of Law Enforcement, even if it was marginal. The Rowle's had once upon a time been primarily responsible for catching and containing the Dementors - though it was perhaps because they were rumoured to have brought them over from Scandinavia - so a breakout didn't reflect well on them.

Though…perhaps that was why Ásgeir was reluctant to join until it was clear. "I suppose your position is understandable. Our friend has plans in the works. I had hoped that you would be willing to join - like old times."

"Times change, no?" Ásgeir said. "Though perhaps not people. Let's see how much power our friend has before I lend my services. It's been a while, after all. Rowle's don't crumble to the feet of posture."

What did that mean?

He'd not expected it to be simple, but Lysander had hoped that Ásgeir's seemingly fanatical exictedness about the Dark Lord would at least make him amenable to discussion about joining Riddle. At best, he would have offered up himself or his son for the cause - as many of the Purebloods had the first time around - but that was a pipe dream.

What could he say or do now?

"You always have been strong willed, Ásgeir," he said instead.

"Norse blood is stronger than English."

"No doubt," Lysander said, walking towards Ásgeir and placing his own glass on the table. "But we can be quite persistent when we want something."

"A battle of wills?"

"It's no fun otherwise, is it?" he asked.

Ásgeir grinned.

Lysander couldn't help but think that there was going to be a battle for something. If it was as simple as will, then perhaps he and Theo would be safe. But in his gut, he believed that thought was another pipe dream. Riddle wasn't going to ascertain control as easily as he believed without starting another battle with someone.

Lysander only hoped that it would be over quickly.

4th July 1994

When the shadow fell over her, Halley half expected it to be Riddle. He seemed dramatic like that - and he'd done the same thing last year. But when she looked up, she saw that it was Dumbledore.

Somehow, it was more disconcerting to see Dumbledore, in his fairly plain robes, in Petunia's front garden than it had been to see Riddle. Maybe it was because Riddle had already crossed that line in her mind, but Dumbledore...well she'd never seen him anywhere other than inside school grounds. She didn't like it.

He looked down at her gravely. There was a seriousness on his face that she'd never seen before, and etched into his wrinkles was worry. Halley wondered what was bad enough to have brought him here when she doubted he thought much about her outside of the school term.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Is there somewhere private we can go? I'm afraid I have something quite important to discuss with you."

At least she was being asked before getting taken somewhere without her permission. "My aunt has given me chores to do," she said.

He frowned, and the seriousness turned into suspicion and anger. "What chores?"

"She wants me to de-weed the gardens before they get back from their holiday." Among other things. They had left her an inordinately long list of chores to do while they were away for their two weeks, but Halley almost didn't care. They were gone - she was by herself for the first time in years, and not in a way that felt lonely. She could just...be in the house.

"They left you by yourself?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

He was quiet for an uncomfortable moment. "How do you feel about that?"

She didn't know what answer he wanted, or what he was trying to say. Despite the emotions on his face, Halley wasn't able to read Dumbledore very well. "I like the quiet," she said. "And if I need something, they told me to go to a neighbour."

Well, they had given her just enough to keep herself alive and to prepare them food for when they returned, and told her that the only person she should bother was Mrs Figg. They were incredibly specific about that, actually. Probably because they thought Mrs Figg would tell on them, but she hadn't questioned it. They were leaving.

Dumbledore still looked angry, but there wasn't anything she could do about that. Eventually, he looked towards the house. "I suppose that inside is as good a place as any in that case."

She didn't really want him in the house - she didn't want anyone in the house. Every time she stepped through the house, the hallways, and into the rooms that were filled with pictures of the three of them - of their family - and nothing of hers, it reminded her how much she wasn't wanted.

He would pity her if he noticed, and Halley was done with everyone's pity. But there was nowhere else for them to go, so she nodded.

Bringing the garden tools inside, Halley placed them in the kitchen sink lest they leave more mess for her to clean up. She offered Dumbledore some tea, but he politely declined. Instead, he asked if they could go straight to the front room.

As she sat down, Halley was struck by the fact that she had been outside in the sun doing quite a lot of physical activity. She could smell herself strongly anytime she moved her arms, and a flush of embarrassment pooled in her gut. She looked down, trying to keep herself and her arms as still as they could, just in case it travelled, and Dumbledore could smell it.

She waited for him to speak, but all he did was look carefully at her. His eyes seemed to roam over her, as if checking for signs that something wasn't right. The scrutiny was uncomfortable, but Halley was used to stares. "Is everything alright, sir?" she asked.

Like she hoped, her voice prompted him to speak. "Do you remember your first year? In the hospital wing you asked me why Voldemort was so interested in you."

Halley specifically remembered asking why Voldemort had wanted to kill her so badly. She remembered asking why none of the history books could tell her why he had specifically targeted the Potters that night.

Dumbledore had given her an answer that, even then, had seemed hollow and hadn't made much sense: Voldemort was prideful, and he'd felt threatened enough that he wanted to eliminate the source of what had weakened him the first time.

Eleven-year-old Halley hadn't recognised that Dumbledore hadn't really answered the question. She'd been too busy being scared of yet another person who seemed to wish she was dead, rather than alive. But looking back at it now, she could see that it was a cop out answer.

"Yes sir," she replied.

"It is time to admit that I was not entirely truthful with you."

The confirmation was enough to smart, though Halley didn't know why. Enough adults had lied, what made Dumbledore any different? She had already learnt that lesson, but it had still hurt.

"I wondered if I should have told you, but I wanted you to experience some semblance of a childhood. But…I cannot in good conscience withhold this from you any longer. Not when Voldemort is so close."

She was confused. How was Voldemort any closer than he had been in her first year? He'd turned into some sort of wraith. He didn't even have a body.

Dumbledore swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbing up and down through the thin skin. It was somewhat uncomfortable to look at.

"I thought he was gone," she said.

Dumbledore frowned. "You don't need to lie for him, Halley."

"Lie for who? For Voldemort?" Why would she lie for him? Where would she even have met him to be able to lie about him?

"Halley –" Dumbledore let out a short breath, as if was trying to collect his thoughts. He was still frowning, but now he'd shifted forwards to the end of the overly large recliner. "Halley – do you not realise who Tom Riddle is?"

How did he know that name?

Dumbledore stood – and then he was in front of her. Halley leaned back into the sofa immediately at the sudden towering presence over her.

His large, white, bony hand reached down and was on her shoulder. The contact sent sparks of fear that she'd not felt all summer, shooting back through her.

"Don't touch me!" she spat, yanking her shoulder away from him, springing off the sofa.

He looked startled. "I apologise – but my girl – are you telling me that you didn't know that Tom Riddle is Voldemort."

She stared at him, breathing hard and trying not to let herself slip back into that horrible state she used to get into. But as she breathed, the words circled her mind, and what Dumbledore was saying was getting clearer and clearer.

He knew Riddle's name. He knew that she'd met with him close enough to school grounds that it was a problem.

And he was telling her that Riddle was actually Voldemort.

"That – but that doesn't make sense," she said. "He – Voldemort attacked me in my first year. He was on the back of Quirrell's head – he didn't even look human. And Riddle -"

Burning static coiled around her wrist, across her arm, and into her chest, where it prickled a little too close to wear her heart was beating erratically to be comfortable. The warning reminded her that she was close to breaking the Vow, and Halley shut her mouth.

Dumbledore had been slowly backing away as she spoke, but once he was level with the recliner again, he talked. "What truly happened in the Chamber of Secrets?"

"I don't remember," she said immediately.

He hummed. "There was quite a picture painted. A scorched Basilisk, and a diary with a fang through it."

She didn't say anything. She couldn't even if she wanted to – and Halley did want to. Because she didn't understand how Riddle could be Voldemort. Riddle was her age.

But…hadn't she guessed in the Chamber? That Riddle had used Weasley's…soul…her energy…to make himself a body? He'd told her too, that he was a memory – that the diary had preserved him, but he'd never said who had preserved him. Halley had just assumed something had gone wrong.

"I thought little of it – but when I saw his face…" Dumbledore trailed off, and it seemed like they had come to a very similar conclusion.

What if Voldemort had preserved himself?

But Halley couldn't let him know she understood. She didn't want to fight this war – and Riddle had made sure she couldn't go against him.

She bit her tongue as all their interactions flew through her mind. He must have known – Riddle must have been aware. It was why he had been so interested in her when he was in the diary. And even if he didn't, he'd had months in the world to research.

Riddle had purposefully made her Vow not to go against his plans. Voldemort's plans.

She couldn't fight in this war.

"I didn't know," she whispered. She brought her knuckles to her mouth and bit down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to give her something to focus on so that she didn't start panicking.

She felt rather than saw Dumbledore come towards her. He didn't touch her this time, but when Halley looked up, he was in front of her with his arms at his side. Maybe he was trying to be a comforting presence, or wanted to be there if she needed a hug. But Halley wasn't that type of person.

He felt stifling and overwhelming at the same time, even as he crouched so he was at her height.

"Halley?" he called her name gently. "Why were you meeting him?"

"I had to."

"Why?" he asked again.

Halley shook her head. "I can't say."

Dumbledore stood up again. "Did he make you swear something?"

She nodded.

"What?"

"I can't tell you."

"Oh –" he breathed out again. "Oh Halley."

He pitied her. She could feel it. She wanted to tell him that she'd trapped him in something too – that she wasn't just a victim of his whims and threats. But somehow, she knew that Dumbledore wouldn't see that as a victory.

"The night your parents died – the night that Voldemort targeted you – is a great mystery that many overlook because they think that Voldemort is no longer a problem. But I believe that he had taken steps to ensure that his death wasn't so easily accomplished."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Dumbledore paused for a moment, and looked at her again. The intense stare pinned her to the sticky leather sofa. She wouldn't have known how long he kept staring at her if not for the clock. The ticks helped her stay grounded.

Eventually he broke his gaze. "Because there is a prophecy regarding the both of you." Halley narrowed her eyes, but Dumbledore continued. "It is true that Divination is not always held in regard, but prophecies – true prophecies – happen. And one was made about the two of you."

"What did it say?" she asked.

"The one with the power to vanquish approaches. Born…to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark them as his equal, but they will have power the Dark Lord knows not."

"Prophecies don't always come true," she said. "If they did then what would be the point of free will?"

He smiled a small smile. "A topic that has been debated many a time. It's true – Voldemort marked you as his equal the moment he gave you your scar."

Halley blinked, confused. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Neither magical nor Muggle means could heal it that night, which suggests that it is no ordinary scar," he said.

Halley's hand went to the scar. It was raised against her skin, a permanent reminder that something bad had happened to her. When she was younger, she'd tried to pick at the scar, thinking that it would peel off like some of the scabs she'd developed. But it would just bleed instead so she'd learnt not to do it.

"Why does a scar mean he marked me?" she asked.

"Because he chose you. The prophecy could have been related to one other person. But Voldemort chose you. In trying to kill you that night, he chose you as his equal and marked you as such."

Halley swallowed. Something clicked into place, and at last things made sense. At least…it made sense now why Dumbledore was so keen to keep her in his sights. If this prophecy tied the two of them together, and everyone already thought she'd vanquished him once, then it all made sense.

And it made sense that Riddle was keeping her close to him too; if he knew about the prophecy - or even suspected anything about his counterpart's fall - then of course he would keep her from going against him.

Between one breath and the next, her heart sunk into her stomach. This whole conversation - all of it - would be seen by Riddle the next time they met. She wasn't strong enough to keep him out even if she tried her hardest.

"I'm sorry," Dumbledore said quietly. "I wish I didn't have to place the burden of this knowledge on your shoulders. But…"

"But he's here," she said.

Dumbledore nodded. "I would like to help you, Halley. I'm unsure what the best way to proceed is yet, but when we return for Fourth Year, I will have a plan in place. But for the meantime I would ask that you stay in the house as much as you can. Can you do that?"

Halley nodded. There was nothing else that she could do.

It wouldn't matter what protections she had. Riddle already knew where she lived. She wouldn't put it past him to burn it to the ground if he thought it was necessary.

"Thank you." Dumbledore shifted a little, then looked at a watch on his wrist. "I apologise, Halley, but I must go."

Halley watched him get ready to apparate, but there was one more thing she needed to know. "How did you find out?" she asked. The thought had been rattling around in the background – not important, but not unimportant either.

Dumbledore looked at her sadly. "Sirius Black showed me his memories. It seems he's not as guilty as we all believed. I really must go now, but we can discuss this more on September 1st."

He left then, but all Halley could think as he apparated out of the house was that he knew. Dumbledore knew she'd lied about Black that night.

But now that Dumbledore had gone, she had some time to think. To clear her head. It was disconcerting, trying to picture Riddle as the thing that had been on the back of Quirrell's head. They seemed so different - not just in the obvious ways either - but Riddle seemed more...whole. Something about him was more grounded than Voldemort had been. And yet...there was still just as much of an undercurrent of danger between the two of them.

Halley looked at the spot Dumbledore had been standing in only a few moments ago. She needed to tell Riddle what had happened. Dumbledore was going to actually be keeping an eye on her from now on, which would make their meeting infinitely more challenging.

But just as she thought that, she felt surprised at how quickly her reaction was to turn to Riddle. She could justify it all she wanted - there was a Vow. She would need to tell him if she was going to become an obstacle to his plans - especially now if she was tied to him or...Voldemort in some sort of prophecy - that he wouldn't be able to teach her Occlumency if Dumbledore kept her late or on weekends. But all those justifications were just hiding the fact that she relied on him. More than she'd relied on any other person.

And Halley hated it.

She didn't even know when it had happened. She'd spent the entirety of the last year trying to make sure she kept him at enough of a distance so this didn't happen. But somehow, he had slipped through.

That was why he was more dangerous than Voldemort. Packaged up in a pretty face, Riddle didn't even pretend to be anything other than he was and yet somehow, he'd managed to make her reliant on him.

Halley swallowed. She couldn't allow that to keep happening; reliance was a pitfall for her. Reliance meant stability to Halley. It meant attachment. And when she attached herself to people they inevitably left, and she was left even more vulnerable than she'd been before that.

She needed to figure out what she was going to do. Riddle would know about what Dumbledore said soon enough, but maybe she could still keep herself out of it.

If Dumbledore thought she was warming up to him, then he would teach her more. Riddle could keep doing what he was doing, and so long as she didn't interfere then the Vow would stay thrumming in the background. And he was still being held by his end of it too.

Maybe she could get information from both of them. Maybe, somewhere along the way, she would find the information she needed to just be free of both of them.

It was unlikely, but it wasn't impossible. Knowledge was power - and both Riddle and Dumbledore were powerful men. Surely, they would have access to more knowledge than she would ever be able to find by herself.

She could stay neutral. She could keep out of it. She had to.

AN: Year 4 has begun!

Thank you everyone who has waited for this update. I think you'll all be excited to hear that I have written 12 chapters in this time, and have just finished the first task.

Get ready for the hijinks, drama, Tom, Halley and the Goblet of Fire.