[START]
Picaro Redux
Chapter 1:
The date: May 29th, 1993.
The location: The Chamber of Secrets, the fabled location of Salazar Slytherin's great horror.
The situation: Tom Riddle Jr, a shade borne from the dark diary he had kept in his teen years (the boy that had grown to become the Dark Lord Voldemort) was SCREWED.
The split second between the Basilisk fang punching through the leathery cover and pierced the pages of the cursed diary (the one that both leeched life and power from the unconscious Ginevra Weasley and subsequently gave form to the shade) and the subsequent, all-encompassing agony that ripped through him came with heavy dread. Both lasting an eternity but gone far sooner than he'd have ever liked.
The diary, unbeknownst to all who was aware of its existence, was charmed to near invulnerability; his subsequent Horcruxes made in its image. Only the darkest, most dangerous of substances capable of destroying the object and successfully unbinding this shard of his soul from the world of the living. One of those substances, which he was reminded of with a sense of rising dread (as Harry Potter's pale, shaking fingers tightly gripped a discarded fang) was Basilisk venom.
Riddle was brutally aware of the actual dismantlement of his being as soon as the venom entered the equation, systematically annihilating every and all of the magics he'd left within the books all those years ago.
He had no time to intervene.
All of it was happening too fast (his addled mind focussed on the pain and subsequent fear of death) for the shard of the prodigious Dark Lord-to-be. Completely helpless to save himself.
No curses came to mind, only cursing; expletives and screaming rolling past his lips as he was quickly torn asunder. Yet, even if he had been in a state of mind conducive to logical thought, there was no dark spell or esoteric ritual he could have possibly performed that would have saved him in time.
So, he raged, doing nothing to save himself as he disappeared.
Except… he WAS doing something…
Magic is marvellous. A force of its own with a mind both separate yet intwined with that of its wielder. Less a tool, more an entity gleefully aiding its host.
So, whilst Tom Riddle fell to pieces, active thoughts focussed on his hatred of his enemy. Subconsciously, he had a different focus:
'I don't want to die.'
He wasn't original here. And, on paper, his magic responding to that subconscious wish and hunting for a method to prolong his life… that wasn't original either.
Sourcing magic from all surrounding sources, dragging it into him in those moment? Rare, but both Harry and Ginny were doing so as well. Even as Tom was slipping the land of the living and his control Ginny loosened, she still teetered on the edge. Thus, her magic drank in everything available to keep her heart pumping and brain active.
Harry was poisoned, he knew this both consciously and subconsciously. And though, in a way, his magic knew there was nothing it could do, it still empowered his immune system to fight the bodies invader. A valiant final stand that, in the face of the venom that was eating Tom's diary, gave Harry minutes rather than seconds…
However, Tom's magic diverged from their norm. All due to circumstance…
First.
Though his control was loosening, and Ginny's magic was now actively fighting him off (as it both saw his magic as a threat to her safety and a foe that could NOW be defeated) there was still an active string of power that linked the Dark Lord to his victim. Before that stream ran dry, Tom's magic sunk its 'claws' in deep and dragged off as much as it could.
Second.
Despite his exposure to the diary being miniscule in comparison to Ginny, Harry had used the diary. Though far from the open sluice gate that was the road between Tom and Ginny, a connection had been cultivated between Harry's magic and Tom's. In that final moment, Tom's lashed out and began taking some for the first time. Battering at the already distracted force that was already failing to save its host, siphoning off as much as it could in those last moments.
Third.
Tom wasn't alive.
Granted he wasn't dead either. An entity on the border of both realms, looking to step quite firmly onto the side of the living. Here, Tom's goal of returning to his body was what the magic was siphoned towards. Harry Potter's, Ginevra Weasley's and the rapidly diminishing dregs of whatever Tom Riddle had left; Tom's magic was trying to quickly, inefficiently and desperately reform his body before the death of the Horcrux would mean the death of him.
...
It didn't work.
To spoil the ending, it monumentally failed.
Tom faded with a final shriek.
Fawkes saved Harry and Ginny, the diary and the children escorted from the depths of the castle back into the safe custody of its teachers and the Chamber sealed shut behind them.
Later, Albus Dumbledore would (correctly) mark the diary as inert and surreptitiously begin his investigations into what it was and if there was more of them…
But that was only AN end. Because Tom's magic wasn't finished.
Unbeknownst to everyone, despite ALL odds. Barring any kind of hope, or justice or even reason itself… Tom Riddle's magic received outside help.
The inadvertent ritual had enough components for things to work, but not a catalyst to kickstart a reaction. A cauldron lacking a fire beneath it.
Had events occurred in a slightly different order, the magic Tom's magic had greedily stole would have simply dissipated into the air around it at the 'resurrections' failure. The reaction requiring quite a specific kind of magic just to tip it over the edge; magic that could create, could heal and could pour life into a human form; in this moment it needed something miraculous.
And in a ludicrous event that occurred at JUST the right time, Fawkes re-entered the Chamber.
Though his magic had no connection to Tom's, Tom's didn't try to leverage power from a pre-existing link. It attacked the bird and took everything it could…
Wounded (but alive) Fawkes healed Harry, gathered up the children and fled. The beautiful creature the only one aware of the invisible ball of power gestating in the spot where Tom had disappeared.
.
.
This was not a memory; this was a fact she knew intrinsically. A fact she knew from the moment she… started.
Though she didn't quite know when that was, one moment she wasn't a thing, next she was there. A being laying on the wet floor of the Chamber of Secrets with a near perfect knowledge of her birth.
Children allegedly only form explicit memories from two years old and onwards: those first couple of years lost to them. Humans never accurately remembering the first years they spent on the planet, for they are just entirely unable to form and preserve those memories at the time.
And though she was different she wouldn't consider all that a memory, it was just information.
She couldn't remember the pain Tom felt, only that he was hurting. Couldn't relate with the cold, heavy feeling that permeated Ginny's body, only that it was present. Barely comprehending the grim satisfaction Harry felt at his pyrrhic victory against Tom Riddle, as they were his feelings, not hers.
Her first MEMORY was of the cold floor of the chamber. Long flickering shadows cast over the flooded chamber floor from the spluttering torches
Cold, wet and dark: her first memories were of this horrible place. The corpse of the Basilisk not far from her nude form. Her back, buttocks and legs drenched from the water puddle she had awoken in, her stomach growling and long hair sticking to her back and hips.
Cold and wet, she could rectify that with a wave of a wand, but she didn't have one. Absently, she wondered if she could steal one, but a shiver told her that once she got up and out of this Chamber, the focus should be on stealing clothes and a towel. Easier things to pilfer than an item that every witch or wizard (worth their salt at least) always kept on them.
Her first words were in Parseltongue, opening the Chamber from the inside and next summoning a stairwell that would lead her out into the castle. Pulling from memories that weren't hers for the trick and biting down on the swirling migraine that came with accessing two of the three lives she had never lived
The moonlight cast silver beams in long corridors, the only other light than the more torch populated castle proper. She slipped quickly from shadow to shadow, moving fast so self-consciousness and shame wouldn't get her caught…
Only stopping in the Entrance Hall, slipping into an alcove to safely plan her next steps. The lights were on, but no one was home; the empty expanse of the room ominous in its lack of cover and over-abundance of light.
She didn't know how long it took for the cocktail of magic to spit her out onto the Chamber floor but she surmised it was still the same evening as when Tom and the Basilisk were defeated. This meant a lot of things, but she had to get out of the Castle first before she made any plans in that regard.
Eventually she heard the scuffling feet and the grumbling of an aging man, two sets of memories reviling the noise as tell-tale signs of Argus Filch, the castle's caretaker.
Situated behind a pillar, she was able to monitor his march from the Great Hall and up towards the moving staircase. Another shiver followed a blast of cold air to her left, first notifying her of the direction of the exit to the castle and second reminding her of her state of undress.
She breathed a sigh of relief when he could no longer be seen. A feeling of intense nausea disappearing once the risk of Filch being the first one to see her starkers had vanished.
But when she stepped out of her hiding place and made for the slightly open door, she heard a shuffle of feet and the sound of his grumbling grow closer.
Fear and mortification, the first strong set of feelings she'd ever felt. Followed by panic as she slipped out of the castle and BOLTED.
Though her speed didn't strike her as anomalous (the girl tearing across the dark grass towards her target) her stamina did strike her as odd. Softly marvelling on little strain she felt in her muscles (or shortness in breath) at her dead sprint when she arrived; the five-to-ten-minute walk from the castle to the Quidditch pitch made in a fraction of the time.
The doors were unlocked, this good fortune almost tempting her to go on an explore to steal a broom, but with the light of the moon the only illumination she had of the stadium's inky black interior, she thought better of it. Instead moving to the wall and inching through the dark to her destination.
She almost thanked God for how close the Gryffindor locker rooms were to the entrance when she made it. The outside light was dim and long shadows gave the room a very different feeling, absent was the warm feelings of camaraderie that Harry's memories associated with this room, here it was ominous.
She rushed to the first locker she saw and winced when the only thing in it was Quidditch robes. The second one having what she needed: a Hogwarts uniform. As memory served it was Katie Bell's too, the responsible upperclassmen keeping a spare set of clothes to change into after a match,
"Sorry Katie." Her first words in English as she stole her stuff…
There were undergarments, her cheeks warmed at the sight of them. Guiltily taking the striped panties and finding them tight and uncomfortable, absently wondering if stealing herself up to the Gryffindor Tower and stealing Ginny's would be a viable strategy. She sighed, knowing it wouldn't be, as hers would be even smaller than Katie's. She was courteous enough to leave the bra, satisfied with her spare skirt, blouse and offering a quiet apology. These fit better, though the top two buttons had to remain undone.
The locker door, at a soft shove, slammed shut far louder than she wanted it to. The girl bolting before anyone could show up and query the noise, only seeing that it was unnecessary a few minutes later when she saw Filch at the door of the castle and Hagrid disappearing into the Forbidden Forest.
She stood on a rock and scowled as it punctured the sole of her feet. Hopping on her other foot the young woman cursed: Merlin, Morgana, God and that selfish bitch Katie Bell for not having a pair of shoes in her locker. Only continuing onwards when she'd gotten all the dramatics out of her system.
She felt better, her first smile stretching on her face as she committed to escaping the Hogwarts grounds in… most of a stolen uniform.
She blessed Ginny's dogged persistence as she sprinted, her eyes finding the hole she needed long before she made it to the roots of Whomping Willow. Grateful at least that Ginny had stolen a peak at her brothers map of the castle, even if she didn't realise exactly what the boys had discovered lay underneath the roots of the Whomping Willow…
A memory of Ford Anglia barrelling into the easily angered tree (the boy driving nearly thrown over the dashboard and through the windscreen) a grim reminder that she:
Still didn't have a wand.
and,
Was about to do something incredibly dangerous and stupid.
It reacted far later than she expected, the girl a few feet from the hole when the branches attacked. Faster than she'd expected, she was struck across the face by leaf laden bark, slicing a thin line in alabaster skin and leaving the area raised and red when inspected later. She was knocked from her feet and off course, but muscle memory from the youngest Seeker in a century, in a body a foot bigger (and far stronger), had her up again and lunging for the gap. She tumbled in ungracefully but laughed all the way to Hogsmeade when her head stopped spinning and her heart rate died down.
She offered only an absent thought towards the Shrieking Shack as she left, more focussed on the fact that it was a Saturday night if it was still the 29th of May.
Which meant… yes! The doors of the Three Broomsticks were still open, light and drunkards stumbling out into the mild evening. She tore across the cobbles, bare feet slapping on the ground until she found a grizzled looking man swaying on his own,
"Excuse me?" She made sure her voice was meek but loud enough to be heard. He turned and his eyes very quickly fell to her chest with a delighted glint in his soft, brown eyes, "Can you help me please?"
She was ALMOST grateful that Katie's clothes didn't quite fit as she led him into the dark. His hands were adventurous and hers weren't idle either. The core was unknown, but the wood of the wand was a familiar yew. His coin purse a bit sparse, but, from one of Harry's memories, more than enough for her purposes.
"Lumos." A small bulb of silvery white light reluctantly appeared on the tip of the pilfered wand, its owner nursing a stinging cheek as he scrambled away none the wiser. She got a better response by the mighty bang of a purple triple-decker arriving; Stan Shunpike arrived with a flamboyant announcement of the service.
She was quick to offer her location and the required payment, not splurging on a hot chocolate or a bed even though both sounded like absolute heaven to her still freezing form. When she sat down and the bus lurched into action, she tried a warming charm with the wand and burnt her thighs when forcing her magic through. Resisting the urge to throw it away, she scowled, rubbing her bare leg and turning to stare at the blurs past the window.
In the dark glass she got her first view of herself.
Her skin was pale, almost ghostly white. Her hair was a gradient from dark to crimson (a far cry from even Ginny's flaming red mane), transitioning gently to red from black, or incredibly dark brown, roots. The cheeks, and the bridge of her nose, on her heart shaped face were dotted with soft brown freckles. Freckles that on closer inspections were present on her chest and shoulders. In that moment, she noticed a far from subtle leer from Stan Shunpike
He gave some pickup line when their eyes met. Something about dragons and nests and… she wasn't listening, she really wasn't listening. He may have been conveying some interesting dragon fact and she'd assumed otherwise because his eyes weren't on hers.
'Am I going to have to put up with this all the time?' Her own eyes falling to her chest, they didn't seem too impressive, 'It's only cause Katie's so… skinny? There's no polite way to think this is there…'
She just decided to blame the small clothes and the creepy weirdo (that somehow managed to get employed on this thing), backed up by Harry's… less than flattering memory of the nosy young man.
He did ask for her name though, that she DID hear. Blinking in panic she decided to ignore him. Better to be rude than admit she was some creature made up of the magic (with memories of a trio of different people and a phoenix) and didn't have a name yet…
He frowned, but got the message, only seeming a little put out when he called their arrival at the Leaky Cauldron a few minutes later. He gave it another attempt as she got off, but for the life of her she didn't know what he said, choosing to hop off and make a beeline for the door of the inn instead.
More important things on the nameless girl's mind than the nosy, pervy, bus conductor.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
This is a project I've been struggling on for years, finally dumping the first pair of chapters here and may remove Halfblood Princess to focus more on this one.
Please let me know what you think.