The night passed agonizingly slow, and in pure and utter silence. Every ten minutes or so, Tom got up to walk through the bathroom door and check the dormitory. He didn't retreat into the diary once, not even as his form began to deteriorate, and his voice caught a static tint to it. Any other time, she might have been concerned and asked him to take care of himself. But now, Lucy was too terrified to suggest such a thing.
"It's sunrise," Tom announced, walking back into the bathroom. He looked as tired as she was. "Lucy, I think you should tell a professor about this."
She stared at him, shocked. That had been exactly what she'd been thinking for the past night, but she didn't think Tom would have agreed with that idea. He usually preferred to avoid authority figures when it came to their business. It just went to show that this was an incredibly serious situation if even Tom Riddle thought it was too much for her and her older friends.
"I know," she muttered, and she reached for the doorknob.
Tom cleared his throat. "You may want to change before you find a professor— you look sort of…"
She looked in the mirror and understood what he meant. She definitely looked like she had been running through a forest all night. There were leaves in her hair and scrapes on her legs, not to mention the dark circles under her eyes. She looked back at him. "Can you wait outside and— and keep watch?" she felt bad asking it, since he looked so tired, but he only nodded.
"I'd have been insulted if you told me not to." And with that, he left through the door again.
She took the world's quickest shower, worried at any moment that someone might burst through the door to kill her while she was unprepared. She shrugged on her Hogwarts uniform, not even bothering with her tie, and clutched her wand tightly as she left the bathroom. She pointedly avoided looking at the carving on her headboard. She couldn't imagine ever sleeping there again. She couldn't believe she'd laid down on it last night, all the while someone might have been watching from the window.
Lucy found Maxine sitting in the common room with a few other prefects as they discussed patrols. She looked up at the younger student and frowned in confusion at her corpse-like state. "Rochester? Bloody hell, you look like shit."
"Thanks," Lucy said, without any humor. "Can you take me to McGonagall's office please?"
"I mean, it's hardly six in the morning— is there a rush?"
"Yes, there is."
Maxine exchanged another confused look with the other prefects, but she trusted the second year. She heaved herself to her feet and picked her wand off the armrest. "Alright, but you're taking the blame if she bites our heads off."
Their walk was quick, mostly by Lucy's fast pace. She glanced all around the corridors to make sure nobody was watching. Maxine seemed to catch on that something was off, and she also had her wand at the ready. Tom half walked, half floated along; his legs were beginning to lose their shape, and every so often his face broke off into wisps before reforming again.
Lucy was the one to knock on McGonagall's office door. It took a minute, but eventually McGonagall answered, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. She squinted down her spectacles at Lucy suspiciously. To be fair, seeing her this early in the day was sort of like a bad omen.
"Can I help you, Ms. Rochester?" McGonagall asked, trying not to sound mean.
"Yes, actually," Lucy said. She had no idea how to word this, or if there was even a right way to word it. "Do you remember how someone's been trying to kill me all year by throwing me off a staircase? Well last night they broke into my dorm through the window and now I have something really creepy carved on my headboard…"
McGonagall blinked once, while Maxine exclaimed, "What?!"
Maxine cracked her knuckles and curled her lips up into a sneer. "Who did this? I swear to bloody fuck I'll kill them—"
"O'Flaherty, please contain yourself," McGonagall said, but her eyes held a certain steel to them. She vanished her mug of coffee and stepped into the corridor, closing and locking her office behind her. "Show me, please, Ms. Rochester."
Lucy obliged, and by the time they got back, most of Hufflepuff was in the common room. They sent her curious looks as she led the head of Gryffindor house down to her dormitory, but she paid them no mind. She admired Professor Sprout but out of all the teachers at Hogwarts, she knew McGonagall the best. Perhaps she'd have gotten Madam Hooch if she knew where she was at six in the morning.
Maxine followed too; she let out a series of curses when she saw the cryptic state of Lucy's room. "Who the fuck—"
"O'Flaherty!" McGonagall said sternly. She stared at the carving with a disturbed look on her face, and then she looked at the broken window above them.
"Oh yeah, and I heard someone laugh," Lucy recalled.
Maxine looked even more furious than before.
"This is incredibly troubling, Ms. Rochester," McGonagall said fretfully. She waved her wand and the shards of glass repaired themselves. She then cast a series of other spells. At Lucy's curious look, she explained. "These are wards, so that the window won't break so easily. I can't imagine how someone escaped the school last night."
Lucy shifted awkwardly. She'd sort of done that exact same thing.
McGonagall cast another spell on the headboard of her bed, and it disappeared entirely, replaced with another one. "The evidence has been sent to my office for the time being. I don't suppose you still have the note from Christmas?" Ashamed, Lucy shook her head. She'd completely disregarded it as a threat at the time. "I see… Now, more than ever, I must stress that you remain in your common room when possible and never leave without an escort. Can you think of anyone who might have done this?"
That'd been all she was thinking of last night, but after considering her interactions with other Hogwarts students, she couldn't believe that any of them would want to torment her so much. "I don't know, Professor," she said, slightly frustrated. "Apart from maybe Voldemort, I don't know." And even then, Voldemort was more after Harry.
"What if it was the Heir?" Maxine suggested. "You and Potter sort of milked that whole Heir thing for a while there, Rochester. No offense, by the way— I thought it was bloody hilarious— but it could have pissed the sorry fuckin' wanker off."
Professor McGonagall only sighed at the prefect's crude language; at this point she had to give up.
"I don't know," Lucy repeated, frowning.
"Well… I see you're dressed for the day, but I think you should take today easy, Rochester. You're excused from all classes," McGonagall decided. Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but the professor was having none of it. "I insist. You may take today, in fact, to study for examinations, which will take place ten days from now."
"Aw, professor!" Lucy complained. "What's the point of the entire school being attacked if we have to take exams for it?"
"...This is still a school, Rochester."
More like a freaking gladiator ring. Lucy wisely chose not to say that.
McGonagall assured her a few more times that she and the rest of the staff would be investigating this further, and then she departed. Maxine lingered a bit longer to double check the room for any traps. Once she was satisfied, she ruffled Lucy's hair and advised her to take it easy.
As soon as they left, Lucy felt like the room had gotten colder.
She really was bone-tired, but she didn't think she had it in her to fall asleep. She took one glance at her bed and decided she was not going to even try it. Instead she crawled into Susan's bed, which for the past few months had really turned into Tom's bed.
Tom sat at the end of her bed, cross-legged as she wrapped herself in about three different quilts. He was trying to distract her by helping her study for exams, but there were only so many times she could read Transfiguration theory before her mind began to wander. Someone had broken into her room. What if she had been inside? What would they have done? The thought chilled her to the bone. All the prefects were roaming the castle last night, so it would have been the perfect time to do anything without the risk of an authority figure barging in. It was by the skin of her neck that she managed to evade a dangerous fate.
This brought forward another point. Why would they have broken in last night? What had changed from the time she was alone every other night?
And then she realized it.
Anthony Rickett had been petrified.
Taking a leaf out of Maxine's book, she uttered, "Bloody fuck."
Tom looked at her with surprise. "Pardon?" he said. He was confused because he had just been explaining the differences between transfiguring mineral rocks into ice and transfiguring ice into mineral rocks, and personally he didn't find it very mind-boggling.
"They were waiting for Anthony to leave," she told him, closing her book entirely. She stared, stunned at the quilts in front of her. "Anthony's been my main line of defense— think about it, I haven't gotten another threat since Anthony sent most of the Slytherin house to the hospital wing, and then a bit after he's gone someone decided to break in."
Tom's eyebrows shot upward. "Oh," he muttered. "Oh, that's inconvenient."
"More like terrifying! What the heck," she complained.
"That's troublesome indeed," he continued to say to himself. He glanced toward her. "I think we'd better start practicing more defensive spells, my dear. Will you grab that blue book and turn to page seventy-two? No, the light blue one— yes, that one—"
The days passed more tensely than ever before; now that she realized that Anthony had been the only thing standing in the way of her attacker, she suddenly felt more exposed. Like at any given moment, someone could strike. She was forced to leave her dormitory after the first day, but every class she attended, she was counting down the seconds until she could retreat to the relative safety of her common room. It got to the point where she could only talk to Harry and Ron in class, and even then it wasn't for very long; with exams coming up shortly, they hardly had any spare time to talk.
She'd muttered to them her first day back about what happened, and of course, they'd been horrified. Harry exchanged his bit of news and told her that he reckoned Moaning Myrtle had been the one to die the last time the Chamber was opened. This was very interesting, and she intended to investigate further, but every time a prefect took her to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the ghost was nowhere to be found. She resigned herself that she likely wouldn't run into the ghost during the available time slots, and she was not about to sneak out on her own anytime soon.
She declined any offer to go on an outing. Even when Maxine and Cedric suggested they head down to the Quidditch pitch, she didn't want to take that chance. Even if nothing happened to her, the thought of her attacker possibly watching her and thinking made shivers travel up her spine.
Tom was the only reason Lucy hadn't driven herself mad from reclusing herself. For being a spectre, he was really quite threatening, and she managed to snatch a few hours of sleep each night knowing he was sitting in a chair keeping watch. The effects were taking a toll on him, too: he was outside of the diary so often that he was almost back to his original form from summer; a gray, vague humanoid shape. Lucy always felt terribly guilty every time he glitched out, but Tom informed her that he was still as powerful as ever, it was just the visual effect that was losing its shape.
It was three days before they were set to take their exams. Lucy wasn't worried at all about them. The only sore spots might be History of Magic, since she slept in that class, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, since Lockhart was an idiot. She was proud to say that she managed to evade each and every one of Lockhart's club meetings while it ran its course; most unfortunately for his fanclub, McGonagall disbanded all the sports and activities because of the most recent attacks.
Lucy finally managed to escape Maxine and Cedric's guard-dog behavior that morning and she darted over to the Gryffindor table to sit between Ron and Harry. Tom trailed behind, glowering mutinously at anyone who dared look for too long.
"Hello, my lovely lions!" she chirped, wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders. "Lovely weather, yeah?"
"Maybe for you," Ron said, fretfully looking over his broken wand. "How am I meant to do anything with this thing?"
"You could use mine," Lucy offered.
"Better not," Percy advised from a few seats over. "Laurel wands have a tendency to electrocute anyone else who tries to use them."
"I thank you for your infinite knowledge, Percy," she said, nodding at him. He chuckled and went back to his breakfast. He too was studying, using the notecards Lucy taught him how to make. "I mean, you could still use it, if you're not afraid of a little lightning."
Ron looked very tempted, but before he could decide, McGonagall cleared her throat from the Headmaster's podium. Personally, Lucy would like it very much if the woman ever received the job.
"I have good news," McGonagall said, barely suppressing a smile.
"Dumbledore's coming back!" A few people yelled happily.
Tom coughed, but it sounded more like a laugh.
"You've got the Heir of Slytherin!" Penelope Clearwater said from the Ravenclaw table.
"Quidditch matches are back on!" Wood said excitedly.
"Snape's decided to retire!" Lucy decided to get in on the fun, only for the man in question to glower at her from the professor's table.
Harry snickered, "That would be good news."
When everyone settled down, McGonagall made her announcement. "Professor Sprout has informed me that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last. Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who have been Petrified. I need hardly remind all of you that one of them may well be able to tell us who, or what, attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year will end with our catching the culprit."
At once, the Great Hall exploded into loud applause. Harry beamed at Lucy and wrapped an arm around her. "We won't have to get involved after all!" he said happily, and she laughed, hugging him back.
"Hermione's waking up!" Ron looked happier than he had in a week.
"Anthony's coming back!" Lucy realized, and she bounced up and down in excitement. "And Daisy, of course," she added, in case Daisy's spirit felt excluded. "But Anthony's coming back!" Take that, attacker! The Heir might have taken the mama bear out for a short while, but he was coming back, and he was going to kill!
She beamed over in Tom's direction, only to find him deep in thought. His face shifted in and out of focus, and when he caught her eye, he sent her a searching look. "I'm going to recharge in the diary, Lucy," he said at last. "Go straight to your dormitory after classes, okay?"
She nodded, still beaming at him. He shot her a quick smile before disappearing entirely.
Lucy sat through her first class, History of Magic, in agony, wishing for the time to pass by quicker. The closer the evening came, the closer Anthony would be to waking up. She couldn't wait to see him again; she missed him terribly.
"Will you keep still?" Malfoy complained. Lucy's vibrating knee was shaking the table, messing up his notes. They'd both forgiven each other from their last argument, but it didn't stop them from senseless bickering.
"No, I do not think I will," she said happily, shaking her knee even more. The tip of his quill snapped against the parchment. He threw it down onto the desk, groaning.
"Let her have this moment, Draco," Daphne scolded. "About thirty of her friends have been petrified."
"There were six of them petrified, thank you very much," Lucy sniffed. She then hesitated slightly. "Okay, Colin was kind of my friend too. And Mrs. Norris and I got along pretty well— agh, shut up!"
"We'd better watch our backs, I suppose," Blaise said, nudging Malfoy in the side.
"Oh, Malfoy will be perfectly safe," Lucy dismissed.
Malfoy looked smug for a moment before he realized what she meant by that. "Hey!"
She laughed, ignoring his sullen look. "Want to play Paper Quidditch?"
"...Do I want to play what?"
"Me and Ha— someone made it up. So you start by drawing the hoops…"
Although Malfoy wanted to study during that class, she ended up roping him, and then the other Slytherins, into a Paper Quidditch tournament. She was fairly certain that Professor Binns noticed, but he was too dead inside… and outside, she supposed, to do anything about it. He kept droning on as if they weren't even there. Things got a bit heated when Nott worked in a Golden Snidget, which Blaise swore up and down was cheating, but then Daphne pointed out that it was still technically a valid playing object in Quidditch matches. Lucy had no idea what they were talking about, so she committed a foul by scribbling out Malfoy's broomstick.
By the end of the lesson, the piece of parchment was somehow set on fire.
"Aguamenti! Aguamenti!" Malfoy said hastily, pouring water over the piece of parchment.
"Serpensortia! Serpensortia!" Lucy added, and two snakes shot out of her wand.
Malfoy shrieked and jumped out of his chair, backing away. "What the hell Rochester! Why did you do that?!"
"I don't know, you were casting spells and I just did it!"
"That doesn't make an inkling of sense!" Blaise shouted, as one of the snakes rounded on him.
"You're right, you're right," Lucy muttered, and she pointed her wand at the snake. "Evanesco!" The snake promptly disappeared. Horrified, the other snake looked at Lucy and then at Malfoy. It quickly slithered away before she could cast a spell on it, too. After she was done, she stared at her wand. "Did I just traumatize a snake?"
"Forget the snake, you traumatized me!" Malfoy complained.
"Well you did the same thing to Harry in dueling club," she countered.
"That was months ago, you bloody freak—"
"Revenge is best served months in the making, you blonde haired knob!"
"Will you all leave my classroom already?" Professor Binns floated over to them, glaring at the sight in front of him. From the singed desk, to the puddle of water dripping to the floor, to the circle of Slytherins surrounding Lucy, the entire scene promised complete and utter chaos. This was perhaps the most emotion Lucy had ever seen the ghost have.
"I thought you'd never ask," Lucy breathed. Picking her bag up, she darted toward the door.
Binns led them to their next class, Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Lucy was surprised to see that Lockhart hadn't arrived yet. Usually he was punctual in order to make them recreate one of his book scenes. Then again, being a professor had worn on the man throughout the year; she heard him complaining more about the hours he had to put into patrolling the castle. She found it hypocritical, since in his books he bragged about the amount of hard work he took onto himself.
Lucy dropped her bag at her desk and then strode up to Lockhart's desk, sitting in his chair. She regarded the class of Slytherins and Hufflepuffs with an arrogant smile on her face. "Now, children, don't get too overwhelmed here! It's only me, the great Gilderoy Lockhart here."
Some of the portraits of Lockhart lining his wall glared down at her. She happily flipped them the bird.
"Careful, if he sees you doing that he might start up a drama club," Nott said wryly.
"Now, that is an excellent idea!"
Lucy stared at Nott like he had just murdered her parents in front of her as Professor Lockhart sauntered into the room. To his credit, Nott looked immediately regretful, and he busied himself with pulling out his textbooks.
She jumped out of Lockhart's chair like it had burned her. "Listen, professor, you can't listen to Nott. He's an absolute madman, that one."
"Oh, I'm sure," Lockhart said, winking. "Now, if you'd please open Voyages with Vampires up to page twenty— there's a bit more I want to tell you about that one…"
Lucy fortunately hadn't bought Lockhart's books, so she only had to sit and listen to him ramble on. Even then, the ten minutes of class that passed felt like an eternity. She almost fell asleep at the table when a figure suddenly burst into the classroom. Her head shot toward the entryway, and she saw Cedric standing there, his eyes wide with terror.
"Lucy! Lucy, come quickly— I need you—"
He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of her seat. Lockhart looked surprised, but he didn't protest. She almost tripped from how quickly he was pulling her out of the room, and she barely managed to grab her wand off her desk before she was out of the classroom entirely. Whatever it was, she hoped Cedric would make it quick; if Tom saw she left the diary with Lockhart, he might murder her.
"Cedric, where's the fire?" she said, grimacing at his tight grip on her arm.
"It's Potter— he's been attacked—"
"What?!"
Lucy's heart caught in her throat. "Attacked? D'you mean petrified, or—?"
"Come see!" he urged. "It's really bad, Rochester, I'm so sorry—"
A million possibilities raced through Lucy's mind as Cedric led her through the halls. The entire way, his grip didn't let up once. If he wasn't petrified, then what happened? Were they going to the hospital wing, or was it something else? She didn't think she'd ever been so worried in her entire life.
She reckoned she had to be on the seventh floor, when Cedric pulled her into a side room. She blinked at the pitch black darkness of the room. She summoned some sparks to illuminate the room, only to see that it was completely empty.
Just then, a low voice rang out.
"Expelliarmus!"
Lucy's wand went flying out of her hand to somewhere in front of her, sparks and all. Someone caught it, and the sparks turned red. She saw a face, lit red by the light.
Graham Montague took a step forward.
"Excellent work, Adrian," he said calmly. Stunned, Lucy looked to her left. Instead of Cedric, she now saw fourth year Adrian Pucey standing beside her, his pimply face contorted into worry.
Something was terribly wrong. Lucy looked back to Montague and then instinctively dove toward the door; another arm blocked her path and pushed her to the ground harshly. She watched as Marcus Flint stepped into the light, grinning nastily down at her.
"I always told you Mudbloods like you should know your place," he spat.
A feeling like no other shook Lucy to her core. It was pure, powerful fear. It was them. This entire time, it'd been them— she should have known, Flint hated her and she hated him, and she'd pissed Pucey off loads of times, and Montague… She couldn't think of a thing she'd done to that boy.
"So is this your little pissing match or something? Don't do something you're going to regret," she warned them, trying to sound threatening, to sound like Tom. Her voice sounded small even to her own ears.
Flint's smile faded, and he kicked her in the leg. She gasped at the sharp pain and scooted away further, and he reared back for another kick, when Montague cut him off.
"Marcus, don't get carried away," he said chidingly. "There's no honor in Muggle fighting. Besides, we owe the brat an explanation, don't you think?"
"I think you're making a big mistake," Lucy spat at him. She could see it now; she could imagine Montague waiting outside her window, she could see him kneeling on her bed, smiling that creepy smile as he carved into her bed frame. She thought of all the times he found her somewhere in the castle to talk to her. How all of her friends knew him and liked him. What the hell was he doing?
"Silencio," Montague said, almost lazily. He cast another spell, and when Lucy tried to move her limbs, she couldn't. She stayed frozen, forced to glare at him. "Interrupting is rude. I think we can all manage to mind our manners here. You've certainly made a mess of things, Rochester— you couldn't begin to imagine how many of us Slytherins loathe you.
"Take Marcus here for example. He was practically foaming at the mouth after you cursed his foot. He hatched a plan of his own, you know. The return of the Heir offered him a special inspiration. It became clear to him, and to me, that it was time for us Slytherins to retake Hogwarts. No longer could we tolerate filth like you running free throughout the castle. The Quidditch match was all him; of course, I personally found it a little unoriginal, copying Potter. It wasn't as natural; he asked my help to control the Bludgers. It was nothing but a little revenge back then, and then the stadium caught on fire. We lost control, but Marcus felt like his point had been made. But then… Well, you just couldn't stop being insufferable, could you, Rochester? You're a mudblood, and you'd dare to saunter through the corridors as if you were the Heir to Salazar Slytherin. You'd speak his language for silly pranks. It was then, I knew, that we had to do something. I could not allow my esteemed House to be dirtied by a filthy, annoying child.
"The note at Christmas was nothing more than a simple owl delivery. I thought it was a nice thought, didn't you? It gave us time to plan. I've always been a meticulous sort of guy, so I kept careful watch. And good Merlin… You are infuriating." Montague chuckled bitterly, gripping Lucy's wand tighter in his hand. "You were hardly ever alone, thanks to that blood traitor Rickett. Your laugh grated on my ears each time I heard it. It wasn't until Valentine's day that the idiotic Lockhart offered a perfect opportunity. I noticed that Adrian here felt particularly scorned by you ever since Duelling club; he practically jumped at the chance to give the dwarf a poem. I tasked myself with slipping a few seeds of moongrass into your drink a month earlier. And then Marcus here had the brilliant idea to use his family house elf to bring down the staircases. It was the perfect crime. There was no way anyone could trace it to us. Surely, after that, you would have learned your place. But then you left the hospital wing as insufferable as ever. Rickett put esteemed members of Slytherin in the hospital. You somehow managed to sink your claws into Mallory Alpin. But Rickett was more on guard than ever before. I'd have to be subtle, from there on out."
Good fucking Merlin, would this guy ever stop monologuing? With every detail he told her, Lucy grew more and more disturbed. He'd straight up stalked her for the entire year, and for what? Because she was annoying? This boy was an absolute, obsessive psychopath. He had to be deluded. All of this for a Hogwarts House! She tried desperately to break free of the freezing charm, to no avail. She was practically useless without her wand in her hand; the wand that Montague was smugly twirling between his fingertips.
"You really are curious, you know. I never would have expected to find you in the restricted section, of all places, looking through Dark Books. I was tempted to curse you then and there, but I heard you talking to someone. I'm curious— who were you talking to?"
He unsilenced her and allowed her to move her head. Her lips pulled up into a snarl, and she told him, "None of your fucking business you psycho—"
"Diffindo," he said lazily. She felt a powerful stinging flash across her cheek, and then he silenced her again. "I suppose you're not feeling very open right now. That's a bit unfair, isn't it? Here I am, pouring everything out to you. Perhaps if I try another question. Where is the Dark Lord?"
She shot him a genuinely confused look, paired with the same terror she was feeling. He unsilenced her. "How the hell would I know?"
"You worked for him last year. Where is he?"
"Just because I did something last year to keep from dying doesn't mean I'm his best friend, idiot," she snapped. Montague's eyes flashed dangerously. She was too upset to think straight. "Why do you want to know? Hate to break it to you, but he's not interested in fanboys—"
"Enough!" Flint couldn't resist anymore. He drew his leg back and kicked her sharply in the ribs. It seemed to knock the spell away, and she gasped, clutching at her throbbing side. Tears burned at the corner of her eyes. "C'mon, Graham, just get it over with already—"
"I need to know," Montague hissed. "We've gone this far already, if we can't find the Dark Lord, it's all been for nothing. Do you want to go to Azkaban, Marcus?"
"Then make her talk already! Quit fucking ranting. It's bad enough we've spent all year watching one idiotic Mudblood."
Montague looked sorely tempted to curse Flint instead, but then his gaze landed on Pucey, who was shrinking into himself. He looked ready to be sick at any given moment. "Adrian," Montague said kindly, "I hope you're not getting cold feet. You raved about this so much, I'd hate for you to back out now. You're not backing out, are you?"
Quickly, Pucey shook his head. Montague smiled nastily and gestured for him to come closer. The younger boy obeyed, and then Montague guided his wand arm up so that his wand was pointing at Lucy. He whispered something in his ear.
Pucey's face turned several shades whiter, and he shook his head fiercely. "No, Graham, I can't do that—"
"You can, and you will," Montague asserted.
"I don't even know how—"
Lucy was struggling to breathe again after Flint kicked her, and so she hardly registered Montague rolling his eyes, raising his own wand in the air. "Then I'll show you." He caught Lucy's eye and smiled. "Crucio!"
There was a red light,
and then there was hell.
She was dead. She was burning. She had to be. This couldn't be living; these thousands of fiery swords stabbing every inch of her body could not be real; no, swords would have been merciful. She thought she knew pain. She thought drowning had been the height of terror, but she would have drowned a million times over this; she would have fallen from a million meters over this; she was burning, she was burning, SHE WAS BURNING—
She tried so hard to contain her scream, but it tore out of her throat, breaking through the silent air. She clawed at her chest, but the burning wasn't there, it was everywhere— she went to her face, her arms, anywhere to make it stop, but her screams only got louder, and the pain wasn't fading. She felt the very crevices of her mind begin to fall apart, when it all stopped. Her muscles shook violently as if the curse was still going on. Tears were streaming down the sides of her cheeks, and her chest rose and fell so quickly that she thought she might pass out.
"See?" Montague said calmly. "It's not that hard."
Flint now looked perturbed, while Pucey was on the verge of tears.
The skin around Montague's eyes tightened. "If you don't do it, Adrian, I'll keep on doing it, over and over." Pucey stayed silent. "No? Okay. Crucio!"
She screamed before the spell even hit her. The burning lasted longer this time, much longer, and she could no longer see the ceiling above her; her brain felt as if it was being pulled apart at the seams, shredded, and then stuffed back together, only for the process to repeat; her very veins were being torn from her body; she would rather die right now—
After what felt like an eternity, the burning stopped.
Montague looked at Pucey expectantly. The boy was crying now, shaking his head. "You're quite cruel, you know that, Adrian? I sincerely apologize for this, Rochester."
And so the cycle repeated. Two more times, each time longer than the last. She couldn't dream of counting the seconds, the minutes, that passed by; all she could feel was pain and all she could hear were her own screams. This time, when Montague let the curse up, she coughed once, and something warm came out of her mouth.
"Stop it," she pleaded, on the verge of sobbing, "Please, just stop it—"
"That's not really up to me," Montague said, sounding sympathetic. He looked at Pucey again. "If we keep going, there may not be anything left. Do you really want that on your hands? Do you think the Dark Lord will be pleased when he finds out you were too pathetic to cast one measly curse?"
"Fine!" Pucey said at last. He raised his wand, and before he could think it through, he cast the spell.
It was almost merciful; although she screamed yet again, and the pain tore through every fiber in her body, it was not as intense as Montague's cold-blooded evil. The curse fizzled out after only a few seconds, but Montague appeared satisfied.
"Was that so hard?" he mocked. Pucey was staring at his wand in horror. Montague rolled his eyes and turned to Flint instead. "Do you want to give it a go?"
Flint checked his watch and then shook his head. "We're running short on time, Graham. Next class starts in ten minutes."
Montague sighed. "The good things in life end so quickly, don't they?" He walked over to Lucy, who was staring unfocused at the ceiling. So many things flickered through her mind that she found it hard to focus on one at a time. He crouched next to her and tilted his head. "As eager as we are to find the Dark Lord, we would like to finish this year, at least. We've had our fun here. So I am going to have to kindly ask you not to tell anyone."
She turned her head to glare furiously at him, but the effect was dulled by the steady stream of tears pouring from her eyes. "Like hell—" she croaked, but she was hit with another Cruciatus before she could get another word out. She screamed again, and again, and again, until he let it up a few minutes later. She couldn't hold it in any longer; she let out a pained, choked cry.
"And if you think this is bad, you'd hate to see what I'd do to Harry Potter if I hear you've told anyone." Montague laughed at the new terrified look on her face. "I know you adore that boy. It's almost repulsive. Now, between you and I, I think we've reached an understanding. You keep that filthy little mouth of yours shut, and we won't touch a hair on Potter's head. Do we have a deal?"
He grabbed her limp hand and shook it. With that, he straightened up, cast one last glance down at her, and then left the darkened classroom. He paused at the door to throw Lucy's wand toward her. It rolled across the floor, bumping against her arm.
"Until next time," he dismissed. He closed the door behind him.
Lucy lay on the ground for a few minutes, shocked into doing nothing. All she could focus on was the lingering agony all throughout her body and the throbbing in her head; how was she alive? Surely, this feeling would only result in her dying later tonight. And then it hit her once again, that she had just been tortured. Tormented by three boys and toyed with all because what, she was a muggleborn? She didn't even know who she was, yet they hated her. She cried again at the injustice of it all.
She tried to push herself to her feet, but she collapsed again on her stomach, letting out a cry at the fresh wave of pain that overtook her. She waited a few minutes until she tried again, only to collapse again… She tried to think of something, anything, to distract her from the agony, enough to find someplace safe. She thought of Harry, of what might happen to him if a professor found her in this state. She slowly, but surely, managed to push herself to her feet, holding her wand. She fell against the wall, grabbing it to hold her up.
She walked slowly. Sobs were hard to contain; she had one hand on the wall, one clamped on her mouth. Her legs shook violently, ready to collapse at any given moment. She could hear her own screams in her ears; the mocking laughter of her torturer.
She had no idea how she made it all the way from the seventh floor to her common room. She must have blacked it out, but once she found herself in front of her common room, she almost collapsed in relief alone. She fumbled with the knocking pattern three times before she remembered it. Her breathing quickened with each step she took to her dormitory; finally, she opened the door and closed it behind her. Then, she slid down against it, burying her face in her hands.
A loud sob tore through her throat, followed by another, and another, and then she couldn't breathe; everything hurt so bad, she was so scared. Never in her life had she felt so helpless. Her body shook from the force of her crying. Never had she cried so loud. Never had she felt like this.
Who could she tell? Who would believe her? McGonagall surely, but what if she didn't? If there was no proof, then Montague wouldn't be expelled. She couldn't handle the thought of Harry going through the same hell she just went through. She wouldn't wish that on anyone.
Her fingers curled at the sides of her farce, her fingernails digging into the skin. Hogwarts was supposed to be safe. She wasn't supposed to be a freak again. What happened? What happened?
"What happened?"
Tom's loud voice split through the air; someone had dropped her stuff back at her dormitory. Lucy couldn't even answer; she cried into her knees, clutching them like they were her lifeline.
She felt something cold in front of her, and through her fountain of tears, she saw Tom crouching in front of her. He examined the cut on her cheek and the crusted blood dripping from her mouth, and he asked yet again, in a darker voice. "What. Happened."
Lucy shook her head, sobbing. Her voice refused to work; she could hardly even think straight right now. Tom grew frustrated and placed one hand on either side of her temples, and in a voice like ice he hissed, "Legilimens!"
It was as if he'd driven a sword through her already throbbing brain; the entire past couple hours came rushing back to her. All of it; Montague's explanation, the bitter insults he shot her way, his demands about the Dark Lord, and then the burning, burning, burning—
Tom withdrew from her mind. Lucy was so shocked that she stopped sobbing, yet the tears were still pouring down her cheeks. That was a spell. He'd just cast a spell…?
Tom stood to his full height and stared at Lucy. His eyes were a bright, burning red.
"It's Lord Voldemort he wants, is it?" he said, and his voice grew with volume until he was laughing. "Then it's Lord Voldemort he'll get!"
Tom disappeared, and then suddenly, Lucy was standing up. Except she wasn't; her body was. Her body moved over to her bag, where she extracted her diary. Her body walked out of her dormitory, up the staircases, and out of the common room, and she couldn't do a damned thing about it. Something was wrong, something was wrong, something was wrong! What was happening? What was she doing? She tried to say something, anything, but her mouth refused to open. She was walking through the corridors like she hadn't been tortured at all.
She found the three people she last wanted to see gathered in front of the great hall. Montague looked surprised to see her standing, much less walking.
Stop it! Stop it! She screamed at her own body, willing for it to change course. It was as if she didn't even exist.
She stopped in front of Montague, and her head tilted at him. "I— I'll tell you about the Dark Lord," her voice said, unusually small. It broke off at the end. "Just leave Harry alone— please— I'll tell you everything."
Montague positively beamed. He nudged Pucey, whose face was slightly green. "I told you it'd all work out," he said, chuckling.
Her torturer grabbed Lucy's wrist and tugged her along, all the while she begged at her body to stop this. Had they driven her so insane that her consciousness was gone? She could do nothing but think as Montague led them to the fourth floor, to yet another abandoned classroom.
As soon as the last of the three boys stepped in, the classroom door slammed shut behind them. The lights flickered on.
Lucy could move again, but she collapsed to the floor instantly. A huge feeling of lightheadedness came over her. Her diary flipped itself open on the floor in front of her, and slowly but surely, Tom's figure emerged from it.
Solid.
He smiled murderously at the three shocked boys in front of him.
"What the— what kind of trick is this?" Montague rounded on Lucy, striding toward her. Tom simply raised his hand and flicked it lazily to the left. With his movement, Montague went flying in that direction.
"Now, now," Tom said, keeping that same smile on his face. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. A little birdy told me— or perhaps in this case, a little badger— told me that you were looking for Lord Voldemort. Is that true?"
Montague threw a look of pure venom in Lucy's direction. She could see it now in her head; he would go straight for Harry after this. "Tom, please don't—" she began pleadingly. He didn't understand. Her best friend was at stake— Tom's secret was now at stake.
He reached down with one hand to pat her on the head. She gasped; she could feel it. She could feel his hand, like it was human. "I'm talking now, dear," he said, without taking his gaze away from Montague. "I repeat— is that true?" His voice cut through the air so sharply that it made the three boys wince. Even Montague physically flinched, without knowing why.
"Yes—" Pucey said quickly, "But they made me, I never wanted to—"
"Quiet!" Tom snapped, and Pucey flew backward as well. He sighed to himself. "I find wandless magic so immature," he muttered, and he reached into Lucy's pocket to grab her wand. He smiled at it. "A perfect fit. Excellent… Now, what was that you were saying— Adrian, was it? You didn't want to? You didn't want to what?"
"I didn't want to curse her! He made me!"
"He made you!" Tom let out a humorless laugh. "You are a worthless fool if you think I'll believe that. The core power behind Unforgivables, Adrian, is the intent. I admit, I would be a hypocrite if I condemned them. I think they are rather fun little curses myself. But you three are particularly unlucky; tormenting Mudbloods is great fun and all, but you have made a critical error. You, Adrian, and you, Marcus, and especially you, Graham Montague, have decided to harm my dear little Lucy here. And do you know who I am, Graham Montague?"
"You're Tom Riddle," Montague said at once. He tried his best to look in control of the situation, but he was failing miserably. "My father knew you— he has photos with you in them— so you're a ghost, then?"
"I am Tom Riddle," he agreed, and he twirled the wand between his fingertips. "Tom Marvolo Riddle." As he spoke, the words appeared in red letters in the air. "But do you want to know what else, Graham Montague? Because today may be your lucky day, for I have exactly what you are looking for."
And then, the letters rearranged themselves.
I.
AM.
LORD.
VOLDEMORT.
Lucy clamped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. No. No, no, no, no, NO— it was impossible— he had to be joking.
Tom let the other three read it, and then he stepped through the letters, smiling at the growing looks of horror on their face. "It's a pleasure to meet you boys," he said coldly. "Avada Kedavra!"
A jet of green light hit Pucey square in the chest, and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes to the ground. A soft scream of horror left Lucy's lips. She felt like her mind had completely and utterly shattered; she couldn't be alive right now, she had to have died of shock from the Cruciatus. She watched the events in front of her without comprehending them. Her brain simply refused to acknowledge it.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The boy who had helped her with her homework. Told her funny stories on stormy nights. Stayed at her side when she was in the hospital wing. Comforted her when she was crying. The boy who laughed with her and at her, complimented her with that little smile on her face, showed her some of his most personal memories—
It was not interchangeable with Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord whom the entire wizarding world feared, the man who had destroyed himself so much that he clung to the back of a wizard's head for a year straight; the monster who killed hundreds of people without remorse. It couldn't be. It couldn't be.
I Am Lord Voldemort.
But then Tom raised his wand again and cast the same curse on Flint. He had time to let a shout scream out before the spell hit him and he fell to the floor, lifeless.
Montague's mouth fell open, and he scooted away from Tom, who advanced on him slowly. "No— No, you're not— how is this possible? Why her? We're Purebloods, you can't!"
"I'm fairly certain I just did," Tom said wryly, gesturing to the two dead bodies in front of him. "And why her? Because I've put a lot of effort into her, and I won't lose that to an idiotic fanatic like yourself. I am Lord Voldemort, Graham Montague, and you've just made me very angry. Now… What was that spell? The one you were so fond of?" he pretended to think about it, and then he laughed cruelly. "Oh, right— Crucio!"
Montague's screams were even louder than Lucy's had been, and the force of Tom's curse sent the boy's back arching so highly into the air that he was nearly levitating. Though a sick sense of justice flowed through her, the scent of dark magic in the air, the promise of murder, it was all too much for her. She wanted justice, but not like this, on her own terms. For once in her life she was afraid of Tom Riddle. Lucy snapped out of her stupor and tried pleading with him, "Tom," Voldemort, "Tom, please stop!" Voldemort.
Tom ignored her completely. He kept the curse going, staring intently at Montague. He wouldn't be satisfied until he had completely shattered the boy's mind. Adrenaline pumped through Lucy's veins, and she stood to her feet. She hated Montague, hated him more than anyone in the world, but this was murder, this was terrible. She didn't care about him anymore; she wanted to leave this classroom and never look at Montague again.
She reached for Tom's arm, and quick as a flash, he turned to grab her wrists and capture them in one hand. His eyes were burning red, two slits in the pupil. He was smiling widely, laughing in her face, his hair falling in his eyes.
"This is between me and Montague," he said, and with one leg he swept her feet from under her. She didn't crash to the ground, but he quickly lowered her there and then turned to face Montague again, who was crawling to the door. "Now, where were we? Right— Cruci—"
Just then, the door to the classroom swung open. Standing there was a very confused, very disturbed Ginny Weasley. "What the bloody hell is going on—" Montague sprinted from the classroom, knocking the redhead to the side in the process. Ginny barely managed to right herself again, and then she looked into the classroom fully. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of Flint and Pucey laying, from her perspective unconscious; and then there was Tom, a stranger in her eyes, standing before a beaten up Lucy.
"You idiot!" Tom hissed at her. He jabbed his wand in her direction, and Ginny collapsed to the ground; Lucy recognized it as a stunning spell, thank Merlin.
Tom looked back toward Lucy, then to Ginny, and huffed. "There's not enough time," he muttered. "No use finding that imbecile— at least not now…" He paced back and forth, thinking, weighing his options. He looked back to Ginny and sighed. "I suppose it's not ideal, but I think a few years will cover the damage."
He suddenly strode over to Lucy and crouched in front of her. Grabbing a huge chunk of her hair, he used her wand to cut it off. She jerked away from him, but the damage had been done; Tom went over to Ginny and did the same.
At last, he walked to Lucy and crouched in front of her once again. Her brain had reached a halt; a tear trickled down her cheek. Tom wiped it away with a cold thumb.
"Don't cry," he said, stifling a laugh. "Everything is going to change."
She couldn't drag her gaze away from the bright red eyes boring into her. She tested the word, but it felt foreign on her tongue. "Vol… Voldemort?"
Tom smiled, tilting his head at her.
"Yes, dear?"
And then it all went black.