"Drina Prewitt & the Time of Sacrifice"
Chapter One: Drina's Interests
October 31, 1943
To judge by the Great Hall at Hogwarts, one would never know about either of the parallel wars raging across Europe and Britain. In a time of black outs and rationing for Muggles, Wizards and Witches continued to feast on traditional favorites, a fact that inspired new Muggle-born first years to cast suspicious glances around the well-lit hall before attacking dishes they had not seen in years with gusto.
However, as each successive generation warns the next, appearances are quite often deceptive.
On the morning before All Hallow's Eve, Drina Prewitt rubbed sleep from her eyes as she walked up the steps to the Great Hall. She paused at the top of the steps to adjust her wire-rimmed spectacles before crossing the flagstone floor to take her accustomed place at the Slytherin table. To her right sat Meg McKinnon buried as usual in the middle of the morning Prophet.
Drina poured herself a goblet of pumpkin juice and smiled down at the shiny silver badge pinned to her black school robes. It was still difficult to wrap her mind around the fact that this was her seventh year and she, Alexandrina Prewitt, was Head Girl. She was determined not to allow the butcher bill printed in the Daily Prophet or the somber manner of some of her schoolmates to deflate her current mood. Good cheer was a rare commodity in her life and she intended to savor it while she could.
It was only after she began munching on a bit of sausage that she realized something was amiss. While Meg was usually the earliest riser of their Slytherin seventh years, Tom Riddle did not often trail more than a few minutes after her. Meg always threw her paper to Tom when she was through with the crossword, before that he and Drina would often enjoy a lively discussion. They were the only Slytherins in their year taking Alchemy and Ancient Runes and often forced to work together as few of their Gryffindor classmates would deign to collaborate on so much as a simple assignment with a Slytherin.
"The Prophet says the Russians will recapture Kiev within a month," Meg informed her without looking away from her paper.
Drina shook her head. "You know I don't follow Muggle affairs with the same passion you do. Why don't you tell me about the crusade against Grindelwald?"
"If you don't enjoy the way I present the news, owl the Daily Prophet about getting your own subscription. The Muggle war is relevant to me. I have cousins caught up in it - unless you have forgotten," Meg reminded her roughly, the paper shaking a moment as she turned the page.
"You don't seem to mind Tom's questions," Drina pointed out playfully, regretting her earlier words and hoping to steer the conversation away from mention of Meg's Muggle relations. One of her favorite cousins was dead and another listed as missing in action. The handsome HeadBoy was a far safer subject. Drina was never quite sure whether Meg fancied him or simply found him interesting as a companion - it was difficult to tell with Meg. She believed talking about potential boyfriends before the relationship was a fait accompli jinxed things. Drina suspected another unspoken reason for Meg's reticence. Every time Meg dated a pureblood, she was subject to snide comments and over loud sighs on the declining numbers and influence of purebloods.
Shielded as Meg's face was by the paper, it was impossible to see if any unusual redness was creeping into her freckled cheeks, but it was doubtful Meg was blushing. As befitted a Slytherin, she was seldom prone to such overt displays of embarrassment. "Riddle's an orphan."
"So am I." The shorter witches reminded her friend. Drina's father died of Dragon Pox the year before she turned eight. She remembered him as the epitome of composure and strove to emulate him in that respect.
Meg snorted, "You, Prewitt, are hardly a pauper like Tom. You can afford your own subscription."
"Too true," she said glancing down at her perfectly tailored robes and the expensive silver watch gracing her left wrist. The watch was a gift from her cousin Castor Prewitt for being made Head Girl. It was a surprise, especially from her Gryffindor cousin, and one of a kind. Inspired by the serpentine bracelets worn by the ancient Romans the eyes of the snake were made of two cabochon topazes. To see the time one looked into the snake's eyes.
"And since we have just established that money is not a problem for you... care for a flutter on the success of the latest campaign against Grindelwald?"
"You know I don't gamble," Drina grumbled into her pumpkin juice.
The paper lowered until the upper half of Meg's face was visible over the top. Drina had the impression that the other girl's lips were twitching.
"You do not gamble with your money," Meg corrected as she rolled up the paper and set it on the table beside her plate. "Where is Riddle anyway? He's usually up by now. Think Tom's decided to have a bit of a lie in?"
"He's probably off taking advantage of having a room to himself by making the beast with two backs with Rosier," Drina replied in her most casual voice as she reached across the table for the sausage platter. She kept her gaze locked on Meg; she always found it easier to keep a straight face if she stared hard at someone else.
It took a few seconds for the meaning to penetrate Meg's brain. When it sank in her brown eyes bugged out and she gripped the edge of the table for support. Her mouth opened and shut a few times before any words emerged. "Thank you for not telling me while I was drinking anything. I'm amazed you can say that with a straight face."
"I'm a pool of unknown depths." Drina quipped as she raised her goblet in a mock toast.
"Vanessa Rosier… and Tom Riddle?" Meg shuddered delicately, "I thought Riddle had better taste than that. And Vanessa! The hypocrite goes on and on about how pure her blood is, how she only dates other pure-bloods, and here she is involved with a half-blood!"
"She's already gone through most of the pure-bloods she isn't closely related to." As most purebloods were related in some degree it was helpful to either be very familiar with ones family tree or keep a copy of it close by to avoid accidentally snogging a first cousin once removed. Vanessa was even stricter than most on how far removed a cousin must be before she would consent to date him. Drina privately believed this was a familial preference and part of the reason the Rosier bloodline had not degraded to the extent others such as the Crabbes and Goyles had.
"So that's why she's involved with Riddle – lack of options?"
Drina shrugged, "Maybe she just wants the novelty of shagging a hero. Or just enjoys having a boyfriend who doesn't have to kick his roommates out to be alone with her."
"Might not such a liaison harm her chances of marrying into the elite?" Meg looked at her friend hopefully. Nothing would give Meg greater pleasure than seeing Vanessa's desire to marry into the top tier of magical families thwarted. Her relationship with Vanessa had improved over years of enforced contact from outright antagonism to strained toleration. Vanessa was easily the most beautiful witch of their year with her long red hair, legs that other witches would kill to possess, and hourglass figure that gained the immediate attention of every male who saw her. Her demeanor promised much and delivered more – for a time. She was a serial monogamist, seldom remaining longer than a month with any particular wizard. With her taste for other witches boyfriends, Vanessa was not very popular amongst her own sex. She was a social butterfly with brightly colored wings edged with razor blades. Vanessa held high the banner of blood purity, delighting in the torment of those she deemed her inferiors.
"That would depend on the ripples the relationship creates, the public perception of how far it progressed, and how enamored the unfortunate is that she will eventually ensnare and wed. Do not underestimate Rosier's effect on the male members of the population. She is a disease they do not want cured of."
"Very profound Prewitt. Is philosophy your latest little obsession?" Meg asked, tilting her head slightly to better look Drina in the eye. Unlike the meticulous Riddle, the Head Girl was a more haphazard student. It was her ability to recall almost every thing she read and her excellent writing skills rather than study habits that helped her earn eleven OWLs. Drina devoured books: weighty Transfiguration tomes, Defense Against the Dark Arts manuals and Quidditch strategy guides were common topics found in her hand, but she also indulged in obsessions of the month. She would find a subject and read everything she could lay her hands on until her interest burned itself out. From this she acquired a mental crazy quilt of obscure facts. Meg enjoyed teasing her friend about this peculiarity.
Drina chuckled but before she could formulate an answer, Tom Riddle and Vanessa Rosier appeared from around the corner. The two witches exchanged a look and wondered if even the strong willed Tom had been temporarily reduced to the intellect of a flobberworm after a night with Vanessa as had been the case with so many before him.
"Speaking of the devil," Meg muttered darkly. She pulled her chestnut and phoenix feather wand from her robe pocket and set it on the table opposite the paper. The half-blood girl was a far faster draw than Rosier and the other witch knew it. Any conflict between the two would take the form of a battle of words.
As Drina studied the new couple, she noticed a distinct difference from the manner in which Vanessa's conquests customarily presented themselves in the morning. Usually the boy turned up on Vanessa's heels with a glazed expression not unlike someone saved from drowning who has just discovered how miraculous it is to breathe air again.
Tom, in contrast, appeared much as he always did. Only his tardiness signaled any deviation from the routine. Tom's robes - while betraying the signs of having been second hand and readjusted to fit his tall frame – were still clean and pressed as always. Vanessa, on the other hand, appeared to be in a huff and her perfectly fitted robes were nowhere in sight. Today she wore longer and more worn robes that were too long for even the leggy Vanessa, though Drina suspected they would fit Tom. She exchanged a knowing glance with Meg before making room for the pair at the table.
"New robes?" Meg sang, raising an eyebrow at Vanessa. "You might want to have that hem taken up. It's dragging."
"Jealous?" Vanessa taunted as tossed a stray lock of dark red hair behind her ear. "My robe had a tear in it, Tom was gracious enough to loan me one of his."
"Why didn't you just go back to the dormitory for one of your own robes?" Drina inquired, layers of feigned innocence heaped onto her words. She was perfectly aware that Vanessa was showing off by wearing one of Tom's robes. Rather like a hunter displaying the antlers of a kill above the fireplace.
Vanessa looked away and did not speak. No one really expected her to reply. The Rosiers were one of the oldest Magical families in Britain and Vanessa felt their lengthy pedigree gave her the right to look down her poker straight nose at others. The Prewitt's were respectable in terms of bloodlines, but far wealthier than the Rosier family who had lost their great fortune two centuries earlier. They never forgot they had once been wealthy and that memory was one of Drina's favorite buttons to push.
With a final glare, Vanessa went back to the dorm to change. She'd made her point.
Tom had observed the entire exchange through hooded eyes. As he reached for the pitcher of pumpkin juice, his robes shifted to reveal a faint rose smudge on the collar of his shirt. Having spent six years in the same dormitory as Vanessa allowed Drina to recognize her housemate's signature lip-gloss color at a glance.
"You might want to use a loosening charm on that stain before giving it to the house elves," Drina offered sweetly, gesturing to Tom's collar.
Tom glanced down at the stain. "Oh? I'll have to try that."
"Paper," Meg said throwing the rolled up Prophet at him. He caught it just before it landed in his eggs.
"Thank you."
Meg stood up and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt. "I need to get my Herbology book before class." As she passed Drina she whispered, "I just cannot let this opportunity pass so easily!"
When Meg was gone, Tom turned to Drina. "I didn't know you had so much concern for the state of my wardrobe."
Drina shrugged. Ignoring his true meaning, she did not want to point out that Tom's poverty would prevent him from replacing the shirt should the stain become permanent. He already knew that. The potions Vanessa used to insure the lip-gloss did not fade easily prevented stain-fighting powders from working properly. Every now and again Vanessa would wail about the loss of another garment because she forgot to check for stains before handing it over to the house elves for washing. "I was merely being helpful. You might want to hurry with that paper, Herbology begins in twenty minutes."
There was a flicker of something in Tom's unfathomable blue-green eyes that resembled disappointment. It passed quickly and he settled down to enjoy his paper while Drina chatted up fellow seventh years Terry Nott and Elianor Lestrange.
* * *
Monday classes were dreaded by the seventh year of the Serpent House. Slytherins took both of the most lethally dull subjects Hogwarts offered on Mondays.
Herbology might not qualify as exciting, but it at least provided an opportunity to chat while working. History of Magic, however, was not a class favored by any Hogwarts student. Even the most ardent Ravenclaw found it deadly boring. Binns plodded through modern magical affairs, oblivious to the inattention of his students. Drina idly leafed through her copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them while observing Meg mentally plot Vanessa's gory demise. The redhead had seated herself in the back of the room next to Tom and rested her head on his shoulder. To be strictly technical, it was an open question as to whether she sat next to Riddle or on him. Her gray and green striped tie peeked out of the front pocket of her robes, allowing Vanessa to unbutton her blouse as far as she dared in public.
Drina shook her head in mild disgust. Rosier was lucky Binns was half blind even with his coke bottle glasses on. She had thought Tom's taste better; but realized he was probably only interested in what lay south of Rosier's collarbone. No one who dated Vanessa marked her mind or personality highly. On second thought, Drina decided she was amazed it took Vanessa seven years to get to Tom: she'd been through every other attractive male in her path and seldom revisited an old conquest.
"She is going to be just awful tonight," Meg growled, shaking her head. With her face tilted down toward her desk, her brown hair formed a curtain around her face. "Always is just after breaking in a new conquest."
"I feel your pain," Drina whispered, smothering a grin.
The other girl guessed her thoughts. "You don't have to share a dormitory with her anymore."
"My favorite part about being Head Girl, I assure you. But if she tries to curse you again…"
"I know, threaten her with a Disfigurement Hex." Meg smirked. "I think I figured out a way to make it permanent…"
Meg and Drina had to cease their banter as Binn's watery blue eyes rested on them. The ancient professor's hearing was far sharper than his vision. "Ten points from Slytherin. I expect better from a Head Girl, Miss Prewitt. Any further conversation between you and Miss McKinnon during this class will result in further loss of house points and detention for you both."
In front of them, Vanessa sniggered. Drina shot her a withering look and made a mental note to add something nasty to her cosmetic potions. She tugged a fresh sheet of parchment from her book bag with much more force than was necessary. She despised the loss of points, more so when Rosier was a witness.
As if sensing her thoughts with regard to his new girlfriend, Tom Riddle turned and shot her a bemused smile before turning back to Vanessa and answering one of her whispered questions with his trademark smirk firmly set on his face.
At least I can talk about my O.W.L.s without apology. In addition, no one has ever accused my family of Dark Arts involvement. Drina thought as she made an additional note to remind Rosier that with the right prodding the Ministry could still sniff around her family's affairs. An inquiry would not further her chances of marrying into one of the wealthier pureblood families. Rosier is so obvious: her family has the blood and lineage but lacks respect and wealth. She wants both. The only way she can accomplish that without work is to marry into a good family. Rather antiquated idea, but no one has ever accused Vanessa of embracing modern ideas – unless of course they suit her ends. Tradition is just another card in her deck.
* * *
Drina felt ready to scream after sorting out Rose Davies. The little first year was the only child of an Auror reported missing in action in France the week before. She sympathized with the kid, but was only capable of providing so much reassurance. She could not even foist the girl off on Tom anymore as the previous year she and Tom had developed an understanding that problems were divided along lines of gender. As the firstie was a girl, she was Drina had to deal with her.
She finally resorted to her mother's old trick of slipping a sleeping potion into a cup of hot chocolate and setting it in front of the sniffling eleven year old. Chocolate is irresistible to children and adolescents and the girl gulped it down straight away. It was a cheap thing to do, but Drina rationalized it as a one off and a way to save her sanity.
"Finished with your first year?" Tom's rich voice asked as Drina staggered back into the common room. He was sprawled across the one of the green leather wing chairs with a small black book on his lap. She could not help but notice that he had exchanged his stained shirt for a fresh one.
"Yes, finally. Have you finished your Transfiguration essay?" Drina asked as she sank into the chair opposite him. She knew it was a rather blatant attempt to change the subject, but she was not yet comfortable with her actions and thus did not wish to discuss them.
Though her fellow Slytherin was too shrewd to miss her discomfort, it appeared he was willing to accommodate her for the time being. "I finished it yesterday. Even Dumbledore won't be able to find a single flaw in my argument. The Ministry's position on conjured objects is positively medieval."
There was a cartload of resentment in how Tom spat Dumbledore's name. Drina wondered what soured the relationship between the usually trusting professor and the HeadBoy. She supposed Dumbledore was still suspicious of Tom's capture of Rubeus Hagrid the previous term. Even she had to admit something was odd about that entire incident. Acromantulas are not known to petrify victims; and Hagrid was a Gryffindor - and a rather dim specimen at that. A more unlikely candidate for being the Heir of Slytherin couldn't be found. Still, the attacks ceased after his expulsion, so if not Hagrid, then who was responsible? Of course, with his well-known love of dangerous creatures, Hagrid would have made a convenient frame…
Drina decided she did not like where this particular thought line was pointing. Tom Riddle was a half-blood. Drina herself knew for a fact that he had been in Charms during the first attack and in the common room for two more. Even the revived victims made no mention of Tom – or anyone else for that matter. All they claimed to have seen was a reflection of glowing red eyes. That pointed to a creature and back to Hagrid. Still, the package of accepted events was not a neat one and it troubled her more than she cared to admit.
"Dumbledore doesn't like you, does he," Drina asked, uncertain. She suddenly realized that she wanted to know more about Tom Riddle both in general and last term in particular. Mysteries always intrigued her and she suspected that Tom was on the verge of becoming her latest little intellectual obsession.
Tom shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He kept his dark turquoise eyes fixed on hers. They were difficult eyes to ignore, embracing the blackness of the pupils rather than contrasting with it. "He keeps an annoying close watch on me."
"Why?" She pressed harder.
"He doesn't trust me," he offered with a dismissive shrug. It was a gesture better suited to the likes of the more flippant Terry Nott. "Can't stand to believe a Slytherin Prefect over a bumbling Gryffindor idiot. How did you manage to quiet the Davies girl?"
She recognized his unwillingness to discuss the situation further and decided to respect it. She decided to answer his question, taking care to keep her response light. "Judicious application of a light sleeping potion."
Drina had the distinct feeling that Tom's opinion of her was just elevated several notches. "I wasn't aware that drugging of first years was listed in the Head Girl position requirements."
"I thought it kinder than knocking stunning her. More dignified."
"And sleep is the best healer," Tom offered with another light shrug.
"And time eases all pain," Drina scrunched up her face in disgust as she spoke. It was a trite cliché and Drina despised the vast majority of trite clichés but found them unavoidable at times.
Tom sneered but not at Drina, "I despise that expression."
"I heard it from my mother," Drina explained, tugging at a loose thread on her robes. Thinking of her mother made her want to rend things.
Something in her tone alerted Tom. He had a talent for reading beyond mere words to the emotion and thoughts behind them. "You don't sound very…fond of your mother."
Drina pulled off her glasses and used the sleeve of her robes to clean the lenses as she spoke so she did not have to look at him. "No, I'm not."
Tom recognized a closed subject when he saw one. He had certainly closed enough of his own. Anything related to his childhood or father was taboo unless he brought the subject up, which he rarely did.
There was a long awkward silence. Drina despised such awkward silences and attempted to fill it. She reverted to one of their usual topics as she slipped her glasses back on. "I didn't ask earlier, but what's the latest news?"
"Why don't you take out a subscription or join the queue for Meg's copy of the Prophet if you are interested in the news?"
"Meg posed the same question earlier," she said tiredly. "Because that is what I have you and Meg for, it would kill her not to be the first one to announce amazing new developments."
Tom smiled at that. His smiles always fell into one of four categories: mocking, seductive, amused, or pleased. This particular smile was a mixture of the last two.
There was another pause in the conversation, this one more comfortable. "Nothing extraordinary: the Ministry is indecisive and Muggles are still killing each other."
"Wizards have wars too," Drina reminded him, thinking of the little Rose Davies and her probably dead mother. "We're fighting one right now against Grindelwald and his forces on the Continent."
Tom's reply dripped scorn, again not directed at her. "Grindelwald's forces are little more than a glorified cult. Only the long complacency of the Wizarding world has elevated him to a symbol of fear."
"The Aurors say he'll be found before the year is out."
"That is what they tell the Prophet, anyway. They may be right," Tom said with a feral grin, "but it isn't only Grindelwald they should be concerned with. They'll never locate all his followers. Lop of the Hydra's head and another will emerge to replace it."
"Unless," Drina retorted as she summoned the memory of the old legend to the forefront of her mind. Greek mythology was an interest of hers, as it was for most wizards. "They follow the example of Hercules and cauterize the wounds with flame to prevent such a reoccurrence."
"Touché," he allowed her the small verbal victory. "But do you really believe the Aurors are that clever?"
"Clever? Possibly. But the Ministry will act to bind the Aurors hands again once Grindelwald is defeated." She said with a disgusted look on her face. "It always happens that in dark times the power of the Aurors is expanded…"
"Only to be retracted once the most visible symbol of darkness…"
"In this case Grindelwald…"
"Is eliminated."
Drina shook her head sadly. "Even Muggles are aware that history repeats itself. Pity the Ministry is so blind."
Tom laughed. It was a bitter, mocking, sound, and strangely high pitched. "They claim to be aware of history's patterns, but their actions say otherwise. I fear the Muggle influence is contaminating our world."
Drina recalled Meg telling her of the recent slew of articles and editorials lamenting the rising percentage of wizards marrying Muggles and Muggle-borns. Meg claimed that she could scarce find an issue without at least one. They now outnumbered complaints on how the Ministry was handling Grindelwald.
"They think the world will end if a pureblood marries a Muggle," Meg had complained. As the product of such a union herself, Meg was particularly sensitive with regards to that subject. Drina had already noted that Tom's feelings - despite his own half-blood status - were decidedly with those of the editorial writers. Her own thoughts on the matter were uncertain.
To Drina's mind the panic was yet another example of history setting out a predictable pattern to which current events adhered. Purebloods were becoming fewer, half-blood numbers rising, at a time when more Muggle-born children than ever were attending Hogwarts. Combined with the uncertain political situation, the established families needed someone to lash out against and blame. Halfbloods, Muggle-borns and Muggles, perennially on the lower rungs of Magical society, were a convenient and ancient scapegoat.
It was the same everywhere. Even some Muggles were aware, Karl Marx told them in his Communist Manifesto that history was the story of class conflict. The wealthy and powerful oppressed and feared everyone else, using elaborate justifications to retain traditional status and privilages. It was inevitable, and would only end when the working class rose up to overthrow the established order. No such revolution occurred anywhere but Russia and that hardly brought the utopian society envisioned by Marx. Some cynics suggested that had Marx been in Russia during their revolution, he would have been among those purged.
Drina was thankful that she happened to be among the privileged.
Tom continued. "Muggles spread death and destruction like rain. Surely you have noticed the rise in conflicts in our world in the last hundred years. Muggles and their Mudblood offspring are entering our world, contaminating the most noble bloodlines, and bring their chaos here."
Drina pierced him with her sharpest look, one acquired from her late father. Alexander Prewitt wielded it like a scalpel, his daughter did not have quite the same skill but she was still young. Generations of Prewitt wizards and witches had refined that particular expression into an art. She made certain to use her most neutral voice as she pointed out "you yourself are a half-blood."
Tom appeared unruffled. "Yes."
She threw his own argument back at him to experience his reaction. Hypocrisy was not something she tolerated easily. "By your own argument, you have brought chaos into Hogwarts as you were raised by Muggles."
The HeadBoy's face was a stony mask. "I am the bucket of ice water poured on the head of the sleeping magical community."
"Your verbal imagery is very amusing."
Tom's mask slipped. He almost seemed to be pleading with her. With his dark blue-green eyes locked with hers, Drina finally understood what other witches saw in him. Beyond the perfect features and blue-black hair, there was a vulnerability twinned with hunger in him that witches detected and wanted to embrace. Of course, Vanessa was not one of them, Drina thought, she would not look beyond Tom's physical characteristics.
"Only one who has experienced the very worst of Muggles first hand could be fit to comment on them. And how many purebloods have a perspective such as mine?" Tom said, with the fire of a true believer. For a moment, the harsher accent he had worked so hard to scrub from his speech ghosted back. It summoned the memory of the pale and frightened first year he had been. Everything was new to him. It was not until his second year that Tom made a visible effort to change himself from frightened London orphan to polished and articulate wizard.
"True, few even among the half-blood population have a perspective such as yours." The only contact most purebloods have with the Muggle world was through those wizards and witches born to Muggle parents. Purebloods of established families who ventured into Muggle London risked being considered eccentric – at best.
"I like to believe that my perspective is valuable enough to justify my years among Muggles."
He seldom brought up his life in London and it was best not to dwell or inquire further. From what little she knew; it must have been most unpleasant. "We shall see."
"Indeed," Tom said, his blue-green eyes darkening with anticipation, "we shall."
She stifled a yawn. " I'd best be off to bed. Tuesdays are always very busy. I hope you have a restful night's sleep."
"Good night Drina, I enjoyed our discussion. Few purebloods are willing to even address this topic. Avoidance is preferred."
"It's important." Drina insisted.
Tom watched her as she got to her feet and padded across the thick Persian rug to the age-darkened oak door that separated the girl's dormitories from the common room. A notorious echo that no amount of spells could remedy plagued the dormitory hallways. Even the heavy door could only muffle the noise. The Head Girl room was located at the end of the hall and he could follow her footsteps until she came to her room. When he heard Drina open and close her door, he lay back against the dyed leather chair and grinned.
"Much more important than even you, oh innocent Miss Prewitt know. I will have to remedy that."
