A/N: I hate that this chapter came so late, but school was majorly demanding this semester and with family time and a lot of crap going on, I haven't had the chance to post let alone write. But as a Christmas gift to my readers and reviewers, I wanted to toss this chapter up and lay the cards out on the table-revealing some major jazz that has yet to be clarified. I am far from finished with revealing more secrets, but Hermione's dealings with Alphard will help her to fully understand Tom's predicament and will make sense of the direction this time fic will take. I'll be breaking a lot of rules. I am not super happy with this chapter because I wanted it to be longer or to have a Part 2 or the next chapter finished to post in pairs instead of totally leaving a huge cliffhanger, but with it being Christmas Eve and very late, I didn't have much choice, so it'll have to wait until after Christmas Day. Either way, expect an update very soon. I am itching to write the Halloween Ball scene and dive into the things I have planned for Christmas at Hogwarts and Riddle's birthday.
Anyways, Have a Happy Christmas all!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, locations, or fancy spells. I own nothing. All of the genius goes to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I only provided some crazy plot and original characters.
The days passed slowly, but surely. Riddle had shown for their scheduled project dates, but always slightly late. They conversed casually, more civilly, but Hermione could feel a slight tension in the air, almost as though he wished to speak with her more. On occasion, Hermione had asked him how his day went, but it always ended with a curt, "quite fine." Or she would ask if he needed anything else before their potion sessions wrapped up. Riddle would sometimes look thoughtful before smirking slightly, telling her a simple no, and going on his way.
Riddle's current disposition left her curious, and caused her skin to crawl. The second week of October was drawing to a close. The chill that had settled in the air had crept into her bones, leaving her feeling hollow and ghostly like the halls at night. She had yet to hear mention of petrification—let alone the basilisk—and something in her gut told her that it wouldn't be much longer.
"Stupefy! Everte Statum! Expulso!" Hermione shouted, wand pointed at her target: a human-sized practice dummy with a bucket for a head. The large, stuffed sack with limbs that had been charmed to move back and forth in unexpected patterns quickly ceased floating, frozen in midair. At her next command, the dummy was thrown back across the room and hit the opposing wall. Then, on her final words, the dummy's stuffing expanded, pulling the sewn seams apart and pouring off-white fluff on the ground.
Hermione stood huffing in quick breaths and smiling slightly at the numerous torn, shredded, and distilled training dummies that now lay strewn across the Room of Requirement. She couldn't help but feel proud at her mastery of how quickly she could perform the specific spell combination. She had been practicing her offensive and defensive spells, barely allowing time for a break. She knew that if this were a true scenario, she wouldn't have time to relax.
She closed her eyes and imagined a cup of cool, clear water in a glass. Upon opening them, she saw a tall, crystal glass of water sitting upon a wooden stool. She gulped the liquid down greedily, wiping her mouth on the back of her arm that was exposed from rolling up the sleeves of her school jumper prior to her target practice. Her hair stuck to her forehead and neck from the perspirations of her workout. She pulled her frizzing curls up into a ponytail, securing it with the elastic band that she had been wearing on her wrist.
She looked around the Room of Requirement. When pacing by quietly in the late hours of the night, she had imagined in her head a soundproof place to train her spells and provide her with the tools she needed to prepare for the following weeks. The Room had conjured up the same layout that Harry had imagined during the training sessions for Dumbledore's Army in their fifth year. She smiled to herself about the Room's ability to pick on the slightest details her brain held within.
Hermione made her way over to the mirror that sat in the corner of the room. It was a long, tri-folding mirror that had an elegant, gold swirling design. The gold of the mirror was tarnishing, but it still held a beautiful glow. Hermione walked over to the mirror, her shoes echoing the room as they hit the floor. She stood in front of the mirror and examined herself. She allowed her eyes to meet those of the girl in the mirror. The same, pale irises stared back, still giving her chills, but instead of looking away, Hermione maintained eye contact with her looking-glass self and sat down.
Ever since her eyes had changed, she had changed, but had yet come to terms with it all. Her eyes were gray, she could talk to snakes, she was sorted into Ravenclaw—it was all things she had failed to truly acknowledge or even question. Even if she had had the chance, would she want to know the details? The prophecy hadn't specified. She was tired of running away from what she had become. She was tired of allowing what she had become to change who she was. Why should it change her, the way she felt, and what she thought? Outwardly, she had not changed much, but inside, she felt that there were pieces of her that she no longer knew, that she was no longer familiar with. She needed the answers, and she knew how to find them.
Hermione took deep breaths, slowing her heartbeat and calming her nerves.
"Legilimens!"
A sharp pain hit struck her head as the words left her lips. In a flurry she saw the shadow of something large and dark screeching and hissing as it extended a set of feathery wings, her mind spun past a flurry of animal masks laughing crudely, then she heard a voice, seeming to scratch the edges of her mind, saying, "The answers you seek are hidden in these very walls… I have seen your face… I know you… He knows you… And they are coming..."
Her mind then kicked out the intrusion, causing Hermione to fall backward from the mirror, grasping her head as sharp pains coursed throughout. These thoughts were hers, they were part of her, they were memories—yet she didn't remember any of them. A sign that didn't bode well. She tried to get her mind to process the final words. At the Slug Club initiation, Riddle had pulled part of the words from her mind and she had hadn't recognized them then. Now that she had more to go off of, she still couldn't recall hearing the phrase before. The voice, however, was familiar to Hermione. She tried to focus on the voice, but her head pounded furiously.
She sat up, groaning, and applied pressure to her temples. It alleviated the pain slightly, but not enough to keep her from wincing. She could imagine it being easier to master legilimens on another test subject besides oneself, but what choice did she have? Working with animals wasn't ideal for this subject area, yet, she couldn't just go up to another student and request to delve into their inner most thoughts with her mind. Neither could she go to a Hogwarts' staff member and ask them to teach her. Building up a resistance against mind intrusions was one thing, but having them demonstrate on her would not bode well and she knew they would not allow her to intrude upon their thoughts due to their own disclosed knowledge of Hogwarts and its students. Who would teach her on her terms without question and effectively?
Tom Riddle had taught himself.
Hermione scoffed at her own thoughts. Of course she would ask the future Dark Lord to help her read minds, and of course he would use that to his advantage somehow. She rolled her eyes, causing more pain in her head. Wincing, she couldn't help but wonder how he taught himself without causing such immense pain during the process. Had he even practiced on himself? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.
She stood up uneasily and allowed the Room of Requirement to conjure a door for her to go through. She cast a disillusionment charm and a silencing spell on herself before walking through the threshold and into the dark halls of Hogwarts. Her head, pounded as hard as ever. Dreading the thought of going to bed with the pain, she made a detour and began to make headway for the infirmary. With access to magical medicine, surely her symptoms would lessen faster and more effieciently.
Not wishing to walk the full two flights of stairs, Hermione opened the portrait with the sleeping dragon and began passing through after casting lumos to light her way.
"How curious: a little ball of floating light," Alphard Corvus spoke from his painting on the wall. "Good evening, ball of light, or shall I call you something more appropriate, like "Phillip? Phillip the floating ball of light? Or perhaps just Phil?"
Hermione's head pulsed with each foolish word he strung together with another. Dispelling the disillusionment charm and silencing spell, Hermione faced him angrily.
"Well, look who it is? Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? Literally, in fact, you look awful," Alphard cringed.
"I planned to make my way to the infirmary as we speak, but I can't take all of this." She waved her hand in the direction of his painting. "My head is killing me."
"A headache? That's all?" Alphard laughed at her seemingly simplistic malady.
"It's not just any headache. It's a headache by magic," Hermione clarified, frustrated.
"A magical headache? What, did you try to read your own mind?"
Hermione said nothing and scowled at him. Alphard burst into laughter.
"I know you. You are the type to try such a thing—at least without any precautions the first time. Always have to do it by yourself, eh?" he called after her retreating form.
"Goodnight, Alphard," She spat, as she cast the disillusion and silencing spells back on herself before extinguishing her wand and opening the painting leading out of the passageway.
She was careful not to jostle the sleeping men who had ceased their card games for the night, and continued on to the infirmary.
Hermione gently creaked open the door to the infirmary as to not startle any students who might be patients. She saw a small lumped form on a cot near the back part of the great room. The student's skin tone was a sickly green color, prominent even in the pale moonlight streaming through the windows. Hermione wrinkled her nose at the poor soul and knocked on the mediwitch's door leading to her own personal quarters and storage facility.
Almost immediately, Madam Meriwether bustled forward in a night cap and white gown. Hermione was grateful the woman was a light sleeper.
"What's wrong, my dear," the mediwitch asked, eyebrows furrowing in worry.
"I am sorry to bother you, but I have an absolutely dreadful headache and haven't been able to rest because of it," Hermione lied.
"No apologies necessary, deary, it's what I do," Meriwether said as she whipped out a stout wand and illuminated the tip, waving it in front of Hermione's face, insisting that she follow it with her eyes. Hermione cringed as her head throbbed from the brightness. Dissatisfied with whatever results she found, Meriwether placed the back of her hand on Hermione's forehead.
"Are you sure that it's just a headache? No cold chills, fever, or upset stomach?" Madam Meriwether had taken in her appearance, observing her sweat dried hair and dark circles under her eyes, and felt worried.
"None at all, just a terrible headache," Hermione assured her, but the mediwitch still looked skeptical.
"Alright, wait just a moment." Meriwether scurried off and returned moments later with a small vial. "Here you are, dear, this is a basic pain draught. It ought to help with any type of standard headache—slight pain to intense migraine. If it feels like it hasn't worked in the next two hours, make sure to return immediately, it could be something far more taxing."
Hermione took the vial and tilted it upward, gulping down the chalky potion and scrunching her face in disgust. Meriwether handed her a tall glass of water and Hermione drank and swished the liquid around in her mouth to rid herself of the unpleasant taste.
"I will, Madam Meriwether," Hermione said in regards to the medic's last statement, before saying thank you and leaving the infirmary.
Hermione casted the disillusionment and silencing charms over herself once more and paced herself in the hope that the headache would cease before reaching her dormitory; it would be impossible for her to go to sleep with it. She saw the portrait of the sleeping card players and was questioning whether or not she could bear taking a shortcut at the expense of Alphard Corvus jabbering about frivolous things. She thought about the nonsense he had spewed previously, but something stuck out in his words. Something Hermione had heard before.
I know you.
The words Alphard had said.
"The answers you seek are hidden in these very walls… I have seen your face… I know you… He knows you… And they are coming..."
The voice from the night when she had ran into Hadrian after exiting the library. The same words spoken in the same manner. It was Alphard Corvus. He had spoken to her. Hermione's thoughts immediately stopped dwelling on her head pains as she dashed forward and entered the passageway in search of answers.
"You!" Hermione shouted. Alphard's head tilted slightly in the portrait, his brow furrowed as he listened. Remembering the charms she had cast, she quickly removed both of them and illuminated her wand.
"You," Hermione said breathlessly, her wand hanging limply by her side in exhaustion.
Alphard smiled knowingly.
"Me."
"Why didn't you speak up sooner?" Hermione asked him in frustration.
"Because I knew that when the time was right, you would find me and seek out the answers you need," Alphard said as-a-matter-of-factly. "Am I wrong?"
"No. However, why did you speak to me that night? And couldn't you have done it in a more polite way? I nearly passed out during the process." Hermione crossed her arms uncomfortably in remembering that night and how hard the sensations of illness had hit her when he spoke. Unsure of where this was heading, Hermione grew nervous.
"There are many things I learned in my time, Hermione, not all of them niceties. Some ways of doing things require a little consequence to be done—especially after being dead for quite some time. I had to reach you somehow, and I finally had the opportunity, but make no mistake, it wasn't easy," Alphard spoke evenly, gauging her reactions. When she didn't speak, he continued.
"We are connected, you and I, Hermione. I sensed you in a weakened mental state within the castle, and perhaps it was poor timing, but I saw no other window of chance in the near future. I had to deliver my message to prepare you, but I never fully had the chance to finish, if you recall," Alphard chastised her sarcastically.
Hermione remembered the feeling of being taken over and shouting an anti-possession spell in her mind.
"So you were possessing me! What did you expect? An open invitation?" Hermione spat back. Ever since Ginny Weasley's incident with Voldemort in her second year, the thought of not being in control of her own actions and judgment never sat well with her.
"As soon as I relayed my message, I planned to cease doing so, but I barely had the opportunity."
"Alright, fine. I am sorry for not feeling open to the idea of becoming a potential vessel, good intentions or not," Hermione said sarcastically, her head still pounding.
"You are quite the stubborn one," Alphard sighed. "Regardless, I will indulge you if you will stop your senseless aggravations." When Hermione nodded begrudgingly in agreement to his terms and conditions, he gestured for her to sit down with his ring-clad hand. Hermione sat down upon the cold, stone floor of the narrow passageway and waited.
"Where would you like to begin?" Alphard smiled as though he had been waiting centuries for this moment. Perhaps he had been. Hermione thought.
"You said "they are coming." Who are "they" and who is it that knows of me?" Hermione started her questioning, but stopped herself from letting them all tumble out at once.
"It depends on who you see as a threat, Hermione. There are many people who are in the process of approaching you within this timeline and your own—some more threatening than others, and some not a threat at all, depending on your choices. There is a particular group fast approaching that I am sure you are quite aware of already."
"The Knights," Hermione answered easily. She had felt it for some time now, that sense of foreboding that she couldn't shake. The Knights of Walpurgis had already formed in Tom's era and it was clear that they were still searching for new, potential recruits. The Knights were nothing more than the future bidders of the Dark Lord and current puppets of Riddle. Hermione knew that the Knights would know nothing of Tom Riddle's ties to the basilisk attacks that were soon to mark history, but that didn't change the fact that they would spawn generations of coldhearted Death Eaters.
"Yes, and although they seem to be a threat most imminent, they are far from the darkest of evils, in or outside the walls of Hogwarts during this time."
"But who—"
"I cannot say. Time is fragile and you already know way more than I had intended, but take my word, Hermione, there are greater evils that can't be helped, greater and beyond that of Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Hermione nodded and felt uneasy. How was it that this mysterious man was made present in both her time and Riddle's—though in different scenarios—yet he knew more than she had even yet discovered on her own? The man was quiet in his portrait, waiting for her to speak, knowing she had questions. Hermione swallowed, trying to process all the information she had just received. What Alphard told her wasn't exactly solid answers, but she knew that she would find them with time, making her worry and wonder if she would be prepared to face her "answers" head on when they came to reveal themselves. Hermione pulled herself from the depths of her mind and focused on asking more questions; it would do her no good to fear what has yet to happen or even remotely come to pass.
"Who are you and how do you know so much about me?" Hermione asked, but hardly was expecting an answer.
"Of all people I was quite sure you would have come across some sort of reading material in your time that mentioned me, but I guess when others wish to forgo the past for the sake of a solid, proud history then they can truly weed out what they see unfit."
You see, I am very much a part of this school as any other student or teacher that has graced its halls—more so in fact. I was born here, raised here, and lived here for most of my life. I know more secrets than any book or map could reveal, yet was told to keep them to myself. My life was one of forfeit and unfairness, yet I found ways to even the playing field and make new discoveries despite what my superiors suggested I do. I felt very much like you do, Hermione. I was placed into a situation beyond my control, given specific instructions on what to do and what not to do, and told to influence history as little as possible—but we both know that's not very probable when you feel a great change is about to happen," Alphard chuckled.
Hermione's brow furrowed.
"Then who are you?" She asked slowly.
"A child who was never meant to be. I am Alphard Corvus, son of Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw."
Hermione's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. In every instances of reading and seeking out any and all material pertaining to the history of Hogwarts and its founders, she had never found anything about Slytherin and Ravenclaw having a child together.
"I believe I am the only bastard child in all of history to have both parents present in my life. Mother did more to accept me than Father, but even she shied away from admitting my lineage to herself and others. I was treated more like a burden or a mistake than I was a son. As a result, I was simply told to follow in-line with all the other students and act like a stranger gracing the halls for the first time. I learned from them as they were my teachers, but I never found their words of encouragement to be valuable when directed toward me. They would advise the students with great honor and pride, yet when it came to me, they offered the same words, but they were empty of promise."
It's quite funny, you see, my father being the greatest of the Speakers and my mother being gifted with vast knowledge and affinities of her own… yet here I was, sorted under the name of Godric Gryffindor. Though he never spoke of it, Gryffindor knew the truth and decidedly became a mentor of sorts to me as a young child. My father took great spite against him, however. Perhaps it was for providing me with attention I was unfit to have, or maybe it was because he was jealous that he could never form that kind of relationship with his own son, or perhaps the disagreements ran deeper between Gryffindor and Slytherin than what history suggests. Regardless, Gryffindor ceased being an openly close mentor to me and settled for speaking in hushed tones and sending unmarked letters of encouragement."
Alphard's face was weary and he smiled bitterly at the memories that he held from so long ago. Hermione's heart ached for him; though he said they can empathize with one another she could never fully understand what it must feel like to have experienced the things that he has. Being unwanted was another matter entirely and Hermione found herself wondering if that is how Riddle had often felt.
"I'm sorry…" Hermione said awkwardly as she fumbled for words in response.
Alphard laughed aloud.
"No need for sincerities, I am no charity case. I haven't been completely true and good, I have made many mistakes—some of which others are still suffering for today." Alphard grew solemn.
"So… how does this pertain to me? How are we connected?" Hermione asked him, unsure of how to handle situation in accordance to the new information she had just been told.
"It has everything to do with you. Did you not read the prophecy?" Alphard asked, rubbing his hand down his face in pent up frustration.
"Albus Dumbledore visited me and read it to me, but he didn't offer a copy…" Hermione attempted to defend her ignorance. She had only taken the pieces of information that Dumbledore had analyzed as solid truths instead of asking for her own copy to pick apart. She snickered to herself slightly; she was becoming as bad as Harry in putting her complete understanding in Dumbledore's hands—she knew he harbored far too many secrets.
Alphard rolled his eyes and recited:
"The one who is deemed sound shall inherit his fortunes and his faults; the heir of a great legacy, the harbinger of many truths.
A magic beyond any other; never written down or spoken.
The power of blood will be given as once was taken; purified from any barrier.
Time will hold no boundary, for the heir shall know none.
Familiar to them, they will stop the opposition from great success.
Either of the two forces cannot be vanquished without the aid of the heir.
All shall fall as the ninth month approaches..."
"How did you know that off the top of your head?" Hermione asked him quizzically.
"If I didn't, I would be quite embarrassed, I wrote the damned thing for heaven's sake." Alphard retorted.
"You? You wrote it?" Hermione was finding all of this a little too much to take in.
"Yes, I wrote it. Not impressed? It took me three full days just to make it understandable, but it obviously hasn't done so well in relaying information effectively. You are the heir the prophecy talks about, Hermione, in case you still have your doubts."
Dumbledore had his suspicions and although Hermione had confidence in his ability of deduction, she had still tried to ignore the obvious; it wasn't something she was ready to face.
"So I am the heiress, then?"
"I never saw the need to specify with gender specific terms… too technical…" He trailed off.
"Alphard! It's true then?" Hermione snapped at him, bringing him back from his ponderings.
"Do I really have to repeat myself? Yes, it's true."
"Then who am I the heir of?" Hermione waited, she had somehow made it to her knees in anticipation, her palms sweaty.
"And here I thought I had family issues… my own daughter doesn't even recognize me," Alphard chuckled.
Then before Hermione could ask any further questions, the portrait of the handsome man froze, signaling the rising of the sun, and she was left with more questions forming than answers found. She couldn't believe what she had just heard. It just didn't make since. It was simply not possible. Or was it?
Hermione's headache came back with a vengeance, and it was something the couldn't be cured with any number of draughts or hours of sleep. Although time was the only thing she truly had that was precious, this was the one instance where she longed to waste it away-even if only to find open-ended answers and truths she wished she had kept hidden away.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed it! Feel free to review, message me with non-spoiler seeking questions, and comments! Feedback is always appreciated and reviews help me to get a feel of how you guys like the direction the story is headed.
Any-who, Have a Happy Christmas, all!
Constant Vigilance!
-VS