Chapter Two: Love is Hatred

Albus Transfigured a spare chair in his classroom into a fully decorated Christmas tree, complete with flashing lights, swathes of coloured tinsel, and huge, garish baubles. The Third-Years he was currently teaching gasped and cheered in delight. Albus smiled.

He liked to see his students happy. Perhaps it was because he had always struggled with children that he had found himself trying so hard at Hogwarts just to win a laugh in class, to help a pupil asking for aid with homework, to catch an overheard comment in the corridors about how Dumbledore was their favourite teacher.

As the students scrambled past his desk into the hall, eager to be free of their last lesson before the holidays, Albus presented each of them with a sack full of sweets. There were chocolate frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, liquorice wands, pumpkin pasties, Fizzing Whizzbees, Droobles' Best Blowing Gum, and all the other little sweets that children loved so much.

Their cries of "Merry Christmas!" and "Happy New Year!" faded as the last boy left the room. Albus sighed softly to himself and started gathering up the papers that had been handed in.

As he left the room he glanced back at the Christmas tree in the corner. His fingers twitched to his wand, the incantation on his lips, but he paused. The Dumbledores had never really celebrated Christmas. The bright lights and loud singing of the neighbourhood had been bad enough for Ariana, who liked to avoid noise and light wherever possible. Kendra had tried, at first. She'd saved up and bought Albus his favourite Transfiguration books, Aberforth something to help him with the goats, Ariana pretty little trinkets she found at the market. In return, Albus would spend the day in hiding in his room and Ariana would be crotchety because of the cold and the constant celebrations of their Muggle neighbours. Only Aberforth would trail through Muggle shops, avoiding awkward questions, to find a loose scarf or pair of gloves.

Aberforth had always been the good brother, Albus knew that now. He'd thought himself so superior because he was so much cleverer than little Aberforth, who was perfectly content to run around after their tired mother and crazy sister and spend any free time he got with his dirty, smelly goats.

Albus sighed again and closed the classroom door behind him. He would have to get Aberforth something for Christmas. He wasn't sure his brother would even look at it, but he had to try. As though a Christmas present could make up for all that he done.

Tom refused Arcturus's offer of a place to stay during the holidays. It was his last year at the school and, although he'd never admit it, he was feeling rather nostalgic. Although he was planning to ask Headmaster Dippet for Professor Merrythought's old spot as Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, he was aware that, at eighteen when he started the job the following September, he might still be considered a little too young.

He had another job idea lined up anyway. The locket, his mother's locket, Slytherin's locket, was out there somewhere, in someone else's possession. This could not be allowed to stand.

Tom spent his holidays trying to discover a way around the wards keeping the castle safe. He also kept an eye on the various potions he was brewing and practised a few more spells he'd discovered in the books he'd been steadily procuring.

He did not listen to the news that Gellert Grindelwald was planning a sweeping attack on Wizarding Europe, one that would leave him in complete control of all of the countries in the continent — except Britain.

Dear Albus,

This is it, I guess. We have six months, maybe seven, to prepare. Grindelwald wants to attack in the summer. This is our final stand. One last desperate try.

The Alliance is… as strong as it's going to get. We're all here now, delegations from around the globe. We're all prepared to fight.

We have time before them. I can't put in a letter what we're planning, but I think he's already guessed that we're going to try to take him out before he's ready. I would be shocked if he hadn't. Whatever else he is, Grindelwald isn't stupid.

And it's because I have such a high opinion of his intelligence that I say I think we won't manage to stop him before the summer. We've had years, after all. Why should now be any different? In the last attempt, when it's make or break, we will either win or lose. For now… I think we'll probably maintain the equilibrium, not shift the power either way.

How's life at Hogwarts? How are my two little children? Do they know they might be getting a little sister soon? We aren't sending Olive over yet — Mia can't bear to part with her — but before the summer, we will. It's not safe for her here. I don't want her falling into Grindelwald's hands.

I hope you've had a good Christmas. Ours was… surprisingly good. We weren't at home, so it wasn't everything I could have wished it to be, but at least Monty and Mia and I were together, and we had Olive and the Weasley lot and the Moody twins and everyone else. Mia made her famous Christmas pudding — honestly, you should have been here just for that. It was glorious.

You wrote that you were concerned about one of your students. I've heard nothing but good reports about Riddle, but I trust your judgement. If you say he'd a bit of a dodgy character, he's a bit of a dodgy character. Still, it doesn't seem reasonable to think that we might get another Dark Lord right after this one — during this one. If Riddle tries anything while Grindelwald's around, it'll either be by his say-so or he'll get stepped on pretty fast.

Good luck with teaching Charlie OWL Transfiguration! You'll need it.

I think Gertie's planning a surprise for you, something in the way of a late Christmas present. I don't know what it is, and even if I did, I wouldn't dare tell you. Still, I hope you enjoy it, and the enclosed socks. Monty bought me some of these for Christmas and they're brilliant.

I'm sorry you're still struggling with Aberforth. I would hate for my two boys to have such a thorny relationship. Still, Christmas is a time for setting aside old quarrels and valuing the people you have, so I hope you managed to forget your differences for long enough to enjoy the holiday.

Hoping peace and happiness remain with you in Britain,

Your friend,

Edmund Potter

Minerva was second, again. She'd given up being irritated now. While Minerva believed that education and knowledge were important, they were, as evidenced by her House, not her biggest priorities. Yes, it was annoying that a Slytherin was constantly beating her, and yes, it was even more annoying when her teachers said that she ought to work just a little bit harder "and maybe you'll come first next time".

Minerva turned away from the list and took her seat. Why Slughorn insisted on keeping a tally with where everyone had come in the last test on the blackboard was beyond her. It did not seem the sort of thing that was likely to promote confidence in his students.

Poppy smiled at her. Minerva smiled back and resolutely ignored the way her heart rate picked up.

Albus was half-way through packing when a knock sounded at the door to his office. Sighing, he left his room and hurried through the small room where he did his marking and could be found if a student needed him.

It was little Lucinda Potter, her blue eyes red as though she had been crying. In one hand she held a piece of paper. A quick glance told him that it was Edmund's handwriting.

He opened the door fully. "What's wrong, Miss Potter?"

She took a deep breath and let it out. Closed her eyes to try and hold back the tears.

"M-Monty's be-een h-hurt," she said.

Albus took the letter from her. Amidst reassurances and words of love, he did indeed find the news that Monty had taken a nasty spell during a fight.

Albus ushered her inside and pointed her to a seat.

"Sherbet lemon?" He asked.

She took one gingerly.

Albus sat down opposite her. "Your brother is fighting in a war, Lucy. Sometimes he's going to get hurt. Same for your father and Mia.

"But he's strong, they're all strong. And they have each other. So Monty got hurt now, but he's going to recover. Your father and Mia are going to help him recover — and, you know, if she's involved he won't dare not do so. Next time, if Mia gets hurt, or Edmund, then Monty'll help them recover. They'll all be coming home. And maybe they'll seem a little bit older, have jokes that you don't know, scars that tell stories you weren't there to see. But they'll all be coming home, safe and sound."

He spoke in an attempt to soothe his Second-Year student, but the words had an effect on him. He could feel himself calming down as he spoke them. Edmund and Fleamont and Euphemia were all strong and talented and brave. So were the other fighting with them. They might get a few knocks, but they would all be fine. They could win this war, if they worked together.

Albus had always been very good at lying, even — especially — to himself.

When Lucy had thanked him and hurried out of the office to get to Herbology, Albus returned to his room. The half-packed suitcase lay open on his bed.

He Banished the contents.

Mia sat at Monty's side and waited desperately for him to wake up. His hand was cold in hers. Edmund sat on the other side of his son, whispering a spell, or maybe a prayer.

Olive peeked around the corner and tried not to cry.

Deep greens and blues swirled before his eyes. Tendrils of black, the black of no light, of oblivion, whispered through them. He could hear a faint strain of music, something slow and solemn. It reminded him of the tune that had been playing in the building next to the church where he had held his wedding.

His wedding. He could see, distantly, a fuzzy image, of white stone walls, a red-haired man with a book and a wand trying to keep a straight face, his wife in her white dress and veil, her curls russet and copper and scarlet in the light from the stained-glass window.

Mia. He had to go back for Mia.

It was hard to turn away from the beauty of oblivion. He could have hung here, he knew, not making the step into nothingness and beyond and not returning to the pain of life, — because life was pain, — forever. The music swelled.

He dragged himself around, felt like he was moving through quicksand. The faster he tried to move the quicker he sank.

There was no lifeline. His wife's hand in his — he could feel it, somewhere out of reach above him — did not drag him up through the darkness. He could hardly hear his father's voice above the hymn that played in his mind. He had to drag himself out, had to the make the choice by himself to choose the world.

He surfaced with a gasp and a return of terrible, terrible pain and Mia's lips on his.

Gertrude Potter set the letter down and put her hand to her heart. Tears flowed down her face.

Lady Prewett leant forwards, concern written over features.

"Is it bad news, my dear?"

Gertrude shook her head. "No, no, not bad news. Very good news."

She didn't know why she was fighting. She wished she was at home, safe and sound, gossiping with her mother over her brother's most recent letters.

Thick dust clogged the air. There were shouts and yells and screamed curses. Spellfire lit the air in lurid red, acrid yellow, and acidic green. She could see a young man bent over his lover, tears streaming onto the girl's lifeless face.

This wasn't her cause. Why was she fighting for a cause that wasn't hers? Had she thought it would make her a hero?

She didn't want to be a hero.

As spell hit the column beside her face and she was running, casting desperately, franticly. Why had she left? She had a two-year-old daughter. Why had she left her daughter?

In the end, she didn't die for a cause. She didn't die fighting for what she believed in. She died because she was there, because it had seemed like a good idea at the time, because it had been too late to turn back.

She died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It had been a momentary lapse in concentration, just a few seconds where he hadn't been paying as much attention as he should have been.

Tom hissed and ran his finger under the cold tap in the boys' bathroom. He should have been more careful, but the ability to fix most cuts with the wave of a wand had made him thoughtless, despite the whole point being that this knife would make wounds that could not be healed through magical means.

He glared at the thing. Light glinted off the silver blade insolently, as though the knife was laughing at him. He'd designed it so that there was no resisting it. Silver to affect werewolves. Tempered with holy water for vampires. A touch of salt for merpeople.

He went back to cleaning out the cut. Although it stung, he could see now that it wasn't all that deep. He might not be able to heal the wound, but he could still Conjure a bandage and put a Glamour over it so that no one would question him about it.

At least Tom knew that it had worked. Fixing and shaping and winding the magic from the opals and pearls inlaid in the handle had taken a lot of time and concentration, not to mention how much it had cost to procure them in the first place. Tom had a lot of money, but the orphanage, loath though he was to admit it, had left him with some habits, and one of them was to avoid unnecessary expenditure.

He was quite pleased with the handle. The First-Year whose wand it was had had no idea of the power they held in their hand and consequently hadn't deserved such an unusually powerful wand. It was being put to much better use now.

Tom finished cleaning, binding, and hiding his cut. He picked the knife up with more care than before and slipped it into his pocket, before returning to the deserted classroom he'd been working in.

Tom didn't like naming objects and wouldn't have thought of giving a name to his new knife, but it came, in years to come, to be called Heartbreak.

The dress robes were made of silk, a long swish of ivory fabric. They hugged the body, clung to hips and waist and breast before falling past the legs to the floor. Although they were clearly still robes, there was a dress-like element to the shape and style of the skirt. The wide ivory sleeves, however, were all robe, slipping down to just swish around the wrists, like the way the robe itself flowed around the ankles. There was no vulgar lace frills here. The only ornamentation was a brooch on the left shoulder, a large, smooth diamond set in a cluster of pearls.

It had been a good choice, Tom thought, and a very good bribe. Marigolda's hair was held back only so that when it did fall down her curls fell together. A few glittering chains pinned in place by little pearls held the hair in place.

Tom didn't know much about clothes. He knew what the most expensive designers were and which ones screamed 'Pureblood' and which 'Mudblood Money'. The designer he'd gone to for this robe, which he'd managed to get a discount for, was most definitely a Pureblood designer.

"It's wonderful, Tom, thank you," Marigolda said, smiling.

"Don't mention it," Tom murmured. He watched her out of half-lidded eyes.

She flashed him a slightly flirtatious smile. "If there's anything I can do to return the favour…"

Their eyes met. Tom stopped the smile tugging at his lips.

If anyone else had been watching them, they would have seen an affair brewing between the future Lady Lestrange and the brilliant orphan Tom Riddle, one of her husband's closest friends. Tom and Marigolda, however, knew that this was an exchange. A beautiful set of dress robes in return for whatever it was Tom decided to ask of her.

The affair rumours were just an extra bonus.

Albus gulped back the Firewhisky. It burnt his throat.

He was going to have to face him. He couldn't keep putting it off and off. It was nearing summer, and the time Gel— Grindelwald had appointed for his takeover of Europe.

Albus wondered if he had set a time so Albus could seek him out, could find him and confront him. It sounded like something Gellert, the young Gellert he'd thought he'd known, would do.

He poured himself another glass of Firewhisky. As a rule, he tended to stay away from this particular drink, keeping himself to Madam Rosmerta's mead or fine wines. Sometimes, though… sometimes the burn was what he wanted.

Albus didn't drink much. He was a role model to all of his students and he couldn't let them think of him as a drunk old man. But it was a weekend, and he'd got more letters today, and he wanted so desperately to forget.

Instead, he remembered.

He remembered warm summer sunshine glinting off Gellert's gold curls. He remembered seeking his own cleverness, and his own knowledge of that cleverness, reflected back at him from bright eyes. He remembered Gellert's smile, his laughter. He'd been captivating, charming, and so interesting. Everything Albus had wanted at the time he'd wanted it most.

He'd wondered, sometimes, if it had ben purely coincidence that Gellert had appeared in that tiny, out of the way village precisely when Albus had been stuck there, resentful and lonely despite the presence of his siblings. Some cruel personification of fate seemed to have been laughing at him.

He'd thought that they would be forever, that he'd never lose the excitement that Gellert had provoked in him, that he'd never stop dreaming the dreams Gellert had encouraged.

Now Albus dreaded meeting him like he'd never dreaded anything else. It was as though he'd thought it would be a good idea to practise his Wronski Feint and now he just had to keep hurtling down to an inevitable meeting with the ground because he'd remembered he didn't know how to handle a broom. He just had to see it through and hope the broom knew better than he did.

Had Gellert found the wand? he wondered. He hoped not. It would make things easier.

Albus went to pour himself another drink and stopped. It would do no good. He wasn't going to forget and he might as well avoid having to use up his Hangover Potions.

He just had to hope he had enough Gryffindor in him to do what needed to be done.

Dear Albus,

I don't know what to say. We thought that things had eased off a bit. Now...

Tell my children I love them. I don't plan to die, but just in case. If this is just Grindelwald's warm-up, I don't want to see his final play.

Monty keeps telling me I shouldn't be so gloomy. He says that, since he's the only one who has actually nearly died, I don't get to be the pessimistic one. I've told him that, as the old man, it's my job to leave optimism to the younger ones.

It's coming into Spring now, and because things have been getting so bad, I've decided to send Olive over to England right away. If you pop in to see Gertrude sometime soon you'll meet her. She'd a delight.

She's known too much tragedy in her short life, but she's still such a bright light. I'm sure you'll love her.

I can't write much. I don't have anything good to say and I don't want to make you feel like you have to come over here. We'd appreciate the help, of course, but I'm sure we'll manage.

At least, I hope we will.

Sorry, trying to be optimistic is tiring and I'm having to do so all day for my children. You know how much danger we're in. I don't have to pretend to you.

I'm going to get my children back. Even if we fail, even if I die, I'm going to get Monty and Mia safely back to England. I will.

My love to Charlie and Lucy,

Your friend,

Edmund Potter

Gellert looked over the display of violence and brutality and curled his lip. Honestly, he wished such force wasn't necessary, that people would just accept that he was right and move on. But people had trouble with accepting what was right.

"Gellert, we should get moving," Carlos said.

Gellert glanced at his right-hand man. Carlos looked perfectly put together despite the carnage spread around them, wearing a smart Muggle suit with his dark hair combed back. He looked around them with a bored look.

"Don't I get a moment to appreciate my victory?" Gellert asked, a whine penetrating his voice.

Carlos sighed. Gellert smiled to himself. Carlos Iskalas had been a real find. An incredibly talented Wizard stuck working as a clerk to a junior official in an out-of-the-way Wizarding country? Not if Gellert had anything to say about it. Carlos was clever and skilled and not afraid of being vicious and perfectly able to deal with Gellert's moods without being afraid of him. He was no Albus Dumbledore, he was no equal, but he was a pretty good subordinate.

"Already," Gellert said dramatically. "If you absolutely insist, Iskalas."

Carlos raised an eyebrow and waited. Gellert grinned.

"I'm just going to clear up a bit here, I'll be with you in a minute."

Carlos nodded in acceptance and Apparated away.

Gellert cast one last look over the destruction. He performed a few quick spells to prevent anyone tracking them or identifying any of his unknown followers before Apparating to the meeting room where his most senior followers were waiting, headed by Carlos, with that same bored look on his face.

Tom glanced down and the headline on the newspaper and looked away, bored. Something about Grindelwald massing his armies to take over Europe, again. This particular Dark Lord was likely to have fallen by the time Tom challenged him, and anyway he wasn't interested in Britain.

Tom found it rather amusing that none of the editors at the Daily Prophet seemed to know that Britain was actually part of Europe, was on the same continent — had been on the same landmass until the English Channel had flooded centuries, maybe millennia, ago.

He flipped through the rest of the paper, just as uninterested by the rest of it. Lady Selwyn had died, apparently. Tom wondered if it would be useful for him to appear sad. He decided against it.

There had been a scandal involving Lord Zabini's wife. Tom skimmed the details briefly. Something about being taught the piano and evidently learning more than just how to play that. She should have known already, Tom thought idly. All young Pureblood ladies ought to be taught to play the piano. As for the scandal — she should have been more subtle.

There was no article about the rediscovery of Slytherin's old locket.

Rabastan wasn't in the dorm that night. The hangings were drawn around his bed and when Tom opened them, merely to confirm his suspicions, he saw that the bed was indeed, empty.

"Was Rabastan with you last night?" he asked Marigolda lightly at breakfast the next morning.

"No," Marigolda said. She glanced at Tom, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Is there something I should know?"

"Nothing that you don't already," Tom dismissed.

He made a mental note to hint about this when he saw Rabastan this evening. The Lestrange Heir was getting a bit reluctant for Tom's tastes and it wouldn't hurt remind Abraxas that Tom was just as dangerous to him now that he had left Hogwarts than when he'd been in close quarters with the other boy.

Olive gingerly took the outstretched spoon. She glanced at Mia, who nodded encouragingly.

"You'll be fine," Monty promised. "Mum's wonderful, and with Lucy at school she'd been looking for someone to spoil."

Olive nodded. She hadn't looked away from the spoon.

It seemed odd that something so normal could do something so strange. A Portkey, Edmund had called it. It would transport her instantaneously to the Potter Mansion, where Monty's mother Gertrude would be waiting.

She'd eaten her breakfast with this spoon.

"Three," Edmund said, "two, one."

A blue glow and suddenly she was spinning madly, stuck to the spoon, unable to let go. It felt like the carousel her mother had once taken her on, only much faster.

Olive laughed as the world blurred around her.

She stumbled and fell when the spinning stopped. She looked up.

She was in a grand entrance hall, made of smooth white stone. A crystal chandelier threw dancing specks of light across the walls and floor. A few little tables, all with three legs, supported vases, some filled with flowers and some empty, on elaborate white lace doilies.

A woman was standing in front of a sweeping staircase leading up. Her elaborate copper curls were fading into silver and there were lines around her grey eyes, but her smile was warm and young. She was dressed in a robe of warm red, a deep hue that felt safe and secure.

"You must be Olive," the woman said. She swept over, moving gracefully, and held out a hand to help the little girl up. "My husband's letters really didn't do you justice, my dear."

"T-thank you, Lady Potter," Olive stuttered. She'd never met anyone so glamorous as Lady Potter. Of course, she'd been told that Edmund was a Lord, and that he was powerful and rich and posh and important. But he seemed— well, he seemed like a kindly grandfather, the sort of man who sold buns and might sneak an extra little one in for a little girl with a nice smile and a polite 'please' and 'thank you'.

"Please, call me Gertie," Lady Potter said. She started to lead Olive towards the stairs. "I'll just show you your room and you can get settled in. Anything you need, ask me or the House Elves."

"Please, what are House Elves?" Olive asked.

Gertrude smiled. "House Elves are our servants. They're very little and don't look quite like us, but they're wonderfully kind and helpful. I view ours as some of my closest friends and I hope you'll grow to do the same."

"I'm staying here, then?" Olive asked. She'd hardly dared to hope when Monty had assured her of it. "Forever?"

"For as long as you want to," Gertrude assured her. "When the time comes, you'll be attending Hogwarts like the rest of my children, but even then I hope you'll come back for the holidays."

Olive nodded and smiled and hoped she would finally get a permanent home.

"Have it ready by Monday," Tom commanded.

His companion, a shadowy, hunched figure made more indistinguishable by the dark night and gloomy shadows of Knockturn Alley, coughed into his hand. "It will take some time to procure suitable ingredients…"

"Have it ready by Monday," Tom repeated, a little more forcefully. The shadowy figure coughed again.

"Of course, my lord."

Tom felt a thrill of wild pleasure at the title. He tamped it down.

"Good. I do not like delays."

"Of course not, my lord."

The pulse of the magic beat against the sides of its container. This was wild magic, the sort of magic that has not been tamed by the spells of Witches and Wizards. It did not like to be trapped.

Cracks streaked through the smooth surface of the stone, thin black lines marring the perfect whiteness. Magic peaked through the cracks, sparks in loops of gold and blue and green. A red core built in the centre of the stone. It grew and condensed, the light darkening and darkening until it was almost black, a thick, dark mass like congealed blood pulling threateningly like the heartbeat of the magic.

The wild abandon of the magic had ceased. Even the most lawless of magic could work logically with itself if it needed to. Every action, every woven strand, every flare was deliberate now.

The stone exploded.

White shards stuck themselves into the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Shrapnel imbedded itself in the only two occupants of the room, who both yelped and jumped back.

The magic swelled in the middle of the room, pulsating, seething, rejoicing in its freedom. It looked dangerous, dark and evil. As the two stunned Wizards watched, its colour changed, lightening, brightening, sharpening. A twisted, poisonous green light flooded the room.

Green should be the herald of life and vibrancy. This green brought only death.

Tom Riddle cast the killing curse on a mouse that had happened to get in his way. He smiled as the green light washed over the room, just as bright and harsh and deadly as it had been two thousand years ago.

"Ten points from each of your Houses."

The Head Boy sounded bored. Carrida cursed her luck silently. She'd just managed to get Malcolm to kiss her, and now…

Riddle regarded the two Hufflepuffs apathetically. "I advise you get back to your dorms, as it is after curfew."

"Of course," she said, stooping to gather up her blouse. Any other Prefect and she might have felt awkward, half naked as she was. But the whole school knew that Tom Riddle had no interest in girls — or boys, for that matter.

He was waiting, the same bored expression on his face, evidently planning to make sure they actually left and didn't just start up again as soon as he'd left. Fat chance of that, Carrida thought moodily. The atmosphere had been entirely ruined.

They were just starting to head off, Carrida still fuming and Malcolm's cheeks red with embarrassment, when Carrida faintly heard Riddle saying, "I expect better of you in future, Bones."

She glanced at Malcolm. His cheeks had paled rapidly, probably from the implied threat of detention. Carrida knew that Malcolm was a sensitive soul, but that didn't really excuse the complete look of terror at the idea of getting in a little more trouble.

After all, the worst Riddle could do was report them to the Headmaster, right?

Tom smirked to himself, satisfied. A nice little piece of blackmail on the Bones Heir. He should have been more careful when messing around with his girlfriend.

He took a detour to give a cocksure young Hufflepuff (Diggy, maybe? Tom didn't really care) a detention before returning to the common room.