Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter series go to J.K. Rowling. All original ideas present in this belong to me.
Chapter Seventeen | Cat and Mouse
Dumbledore drained the last of his cup, the strong liquor making his eyes water as it rushed down his throat, burning all the way. Firewhisky is a perfect name for the drink, he thought, trying to take his mind off of the disastrous happenings of the day.
A student was dead.
One of his students was dead.
He poured himself another drink, absentmindedly reading the label on the bottle. Ogden's Private Distillery: Bottled 1682. The liquor was a gift he received as thanks for defeating and imprisoning his estranged lover and genocidal maniac, Gellert Grindelwald. He chuckled harshly as he took another sip.
"Liquor given for the destruction of life, drunk in remembrance of one," he whispered, turning his head to look at his long-time friend. Fawkes was silent, his head bowed and staring listlessly at the ground. The phoenix crooned once, before tucking his head under his wing and hiding himself from the world.
Dumbledore took a sip, pondering whether he could have done anything to prevent the murder from happening.
Animagus sensing wards? They would have helped. He made a mental to note to put them up immediately the next day, taking the care to carve and power them himself.
He wondered if he could bar anyone with the Dark Mark from entering the school before quickly discarding that thought as useless. Well, not useless per se, but it would be much too complicated to create such a ward while making an exception clause for Severus, not to mention the uproar that would result if Lucius Malfoy attempted to visit the school. Dumbledore didn't expect to last five minutes as Headmaster if the man was violently cast out by the wards.
Guards were a possibility, either a group of Hit-Wizards or Aurors to be stationed at the school. Albus added that to his mental checklist as well, making a note to floo Amelia in the morning and request personnel to patrol the school during the night.
"Wha-?"
Dumbledore flinched, dropping his glass, shattering it across the floor and sending its contents spilling into the cracks and grooves of the stone.
Pure, unbridled dark magic bombarded his senses. No, not dark magic. Black Magic, he realized.
He didn't even take the time to clean up the mess at his feet, tucking his beard into his robes as he sprinted as fast as his feet could carry him over to the seventh-floor corridor, for he knew that whatever was happening would be happening there. He paused to catch his breath, leaning against the wall. His lungs were bursting from the sudden exertion and his legs aching from the punishment he was putting them through.
Dumbledore found himself incredibly frustrated with his age in that moment, thankful that was sprightly, but annoyed that he wasn't as fit as he should have been. He had gotten soft in his old age, forgoing a standard training regiment to keep himself in shape, and it was now showing.
He furrowed his brow in anger, the fury rolling off him in waves. The corridor was absolutely saturated with the feeling of death, and he could still feel the wall, frigid to the touch, so cold as to cut through the warmth of his robes.
Pacing back and forth, he wondered who could possibly be stooping to such levels. Who amongst his staff or students could fall so far? To succumb to the dark in such a way?
He nearly jumped when a flicker out of the corner of his eye grabbed his attention. There was a door there that wasn't before, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.
"Interesting."
He scanned it, sighing audibly when he realized that it wasn't warded or cursed in any way. Reaching out tentatively, he slowly opened the door and peeked inside, his eyebrows raising dramatically at the sight.
"A ritual chamber in Hogwarts? How have I not heard of this before?" He whispered, stepping into the room.
He grimaced at the feeling of Necromantic magic in the room. It was nearly palpable, an oppressive current of it hanging in the air, bearing down on him like the weight of the Earth on Atlas' back. Something terrible happened here tonight, he deduced, but what could it have been?
His knowledge of such things was rudimentary, merely academic at best. Was it arrogance that led him to ignore studying Necromancy, even if only for the knowledge of it? To be able to fight and counter such a rare, yet horrid practice if the need should ever arise?
He shook his head at that thought. He never expected to encounter Necromancy. Nobody would. The sheer rarity of it, only popping up throughout history at monumental points in time. The smattering of Necromancers throughout the ages didn't make the study a high priority. Alas, things are never as they seem, he grumbled.
Whoever he was hoping to catch there had disappeared, off to do who knows what.
Was this person an ally? An enemy? Uninvolved with the upcoming war?
Dumbledore didn't know, but what he did know was that he needed to find out who it was, and fast. Power over death… it could change the war to come. He wasn't excited about the prospect by any means and would immediately kill the practitioner when Tom was inevitably vanquished, but they would be a useful ally until that time came. There was not a chance in the world he would allow a Necromancer to roam free, the blight upon the world that they are.
He left the room, following the trail of magic throughout the school like a bloodhound after prey. He found himself in front of the Hospital Wing, staring in horror at the unconscious form of Ronald Weasley. An unconscious Ronald Weasley who by all accounts looked to be completely healthy, if one ignored the fact that he died no more than twenty-four hours ago.
Dumbledore cursed mentally. No, he would not allow this Necromancer to live if they've already gone this far. This was a monster that had to be put down. Breaking the laws of life and death for what? To turn this murdered thirteen-year-old boy into their spy? A weapon of some sort?
"Disgusting," he stated quietly, his voice empty and devoid of any emotion. Yes, this Necromancer would undoubtably be removed from the world long before Tom fell.
The… creature, on the other hand. The receptacle for whatever demon or spirit decided to inhabit it, the disgusting mockery of a boy that the monster had brought into the world from who knows where could not be allowed to live.
Dumbledore raised his wand, staring down the end of it as he pointed it at the young boy. No, it is a construct, he told himself. This is no child.
"Avada Kedavra."
The familiar green light struck the body quickly, a slight tremor running through the animated corpse as the spell blasted through it, tearing the unholy soul away from it. Dumbledore levitated the body and brought it back into the private room of the Hospital Wing, tucking it back under the covers.
He stared at the body for a short while, studying the calm and peaceful face of the boy once known as Ron.
"Go on to the next great adventure, my child. May your soul find peace in the afterlife, and may you not be damned for another's choices," he whispered, turning away from the macabre sight and making his way back to his chambers.
-::-
I walk into the Great Hall for breakfast expecting pandemonium. Cheering from the Gryffindor table, drunk with glee as they celebrate a miracle, reporters flocking to the school to interview the second survivor of the killing curse, an ecstatic McGonagall crying in relief that her Lion is not as dead as she believed.
Instead, I'm met with the same brooding silence of yesterday. The downcast looks from the Lions, the Weasleys still missing, evidently pulled out of school to mourn.
Do they not know? Has the news not yet hit the castle?
Frowning, I dig into my meal wondering what the hell has happened. Where is Ron?
-::-
I'm ready to tear my hair out, cry, and scream all at once.
He doesn't show up, even a week after I brought him back. Ron is apparently still dead. How the hell did Pettigrew get back into the school and kill him again? No, I doubt he would do something so risky, let alone somehow know that he was brought back to life. Who the hell killed Ron, or did he go and get himself killed somehow?
All I can wonder is what the hell am I going to do? I can't even get any bloody sleep because of all my worrying.
Someone is onto me. Someone knows Ron was brought back and made him disappear, whether it's to interrogate him or what, I don't know.
Fuck.
I guess Ron is dead, for good this time. I'm furious that I'll have to mourn him in private, hidden away so as to not garner any attention. No questions of "did you know him?" and "were you two good friends?" I don't want to come across as one of those who scrabbles for others attention when someone dies, telling the world that they were just oh so close and oh so sad. That's the only way I would come across if people caught me mourning him.
To add to that, I can't answer those questions, not without giving myself away. I have to hide my past friendship, even if it was a fractured one. The Ron I remember was strong, foolhardy, clever, a bit of a flake, but he still stood up for what was right and was there when it mattered.
Okay, ignoring the Tri-Wizard Tournament and the fiasco that it was, he was a good friend when it mattered.
I don't really have time to reminisce.
I pull my blanket up to my chin, rolling over and pondering what to do.
I have to find out who knows, and fast. I can't allow anyone who's not sworn to secrecy to find out about my powers. Christ, the only person who does know is Severus, and the only reason I'm comfortable with that is because he's sworn a magical oath and is one of the strongest occlumens out there. I have no reservations about the fact that the Ministry will execute me faster than I could say, 'but there's a prophecy!' if they found out about me.
I keep the marauders map on me at all times, checking it regularly to see if there's anyone following me. Nothing has come up, so I'm hoping that whoever knows about Ron's very short resurrection is not aware that I'm the Necromancer and is hunting blind.
How the hell do I get myself into these situations?
How the hell do I get myself out of these situations?
"Fuck!" I shout, banging my fist against the wall, nearly waking up Hermione.
"I'm not too sure how you get yourself into these situations, but it is highly entertaining."
I whip around, wand pulled out from under my pillow at the ready and a spell that Severus felt kind enough to teach me on my lips.
"Sectumse-"
Oh.
"Hey Death."
He bows deeply, waving his hand in a slight flourish as I re-holster my wand. It looks extremely odd with him sitting cross-legged at the foot of my bed.
"Hello Miss Potter, it's been a while," he drawls. "How have things been with you?"
I sigh and flex my stinging hand. "Not too well, as you can see," I say. "Apparently someone killed my friend. Twice."
"I noticed," he comments, scratching his chin before turning his gaze towards me. "What are you going to do about it?"
I look at him as if he's lost his mind. What am I going to do about it?
"Kill the bastard who killed my best- old, best mate. What else do you think I would do? Pettigrew is a dead man walking, he just doesn't know it yet."
"Ah ah, ah," he tuts, wagging his finger at me. "Pettigrew can't die yet, not if I have anything to say about it."
I do my best to rein in my temper, clenching my stinging hand tight, my thumb digging sharply into my index. "Why exactly can he not die yet?"
"Why, so that he can bring Mr. Riddle back of course!" he exclaims, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "He can't die if he doesn't have a body, you already know that. Who do you think is going to bring him back?"
"I'd imagine Crouch Jr. would," I reason. There's no way I'm letting Pettigrew get away. "He escapes next year, finds his way back to Voldemort, doesn't he?"
"Not without Pettigrew's help I'm afraid. No, you're just going to have to make do and wait a year and a bit before you send Peter to me."
I put my face in my hand, kneading at my forehead. No, it could never be so simple.
No Helene, you can't go out and avenge your friend's death.
Oh? Why not?
Because Death said so.
Why does he have to meddle in this?
"If I didn't meddle, Voldemort would never truly die," he explains, looking at me as if I've grown two heads. "I don't take too kindly to someone… avoiding me."
"Could you please stop reading my mind?"
"I'm afraid I can't. It's not exactly something I can simply turn off," he shrugs, opening my curtains and climbing off of my bed, pacing quietly throughout the room. "You understand that I of all beings know exactly what I am talking about, correct?"
"Yeah, I know, I know," I groan. "Can't exactly argue with a God, can I?"
"You could, but it wouldn't do you any good. I've heard that I'm notoriously stubborn."
"I can imagine."
"Well," he says, lacing his fingers together as he looks about the room. "I imagine you're curious who it is that's… investigating you. I'm quite frustrated with their meddling you see. I could tell you who's sabotaged your very dark act of kindness. Consider it a… what do you call it? Ah, yes. A freebie."
"Really?" I ask. "You're going to just tell me who killed Ron?"
"I just said that, did I not?"
"Well, yeah you did. I just- I didn't expect it is all."
"Apparently not. Do you not trust me, Miss Potter?" he inquires, one eyebrow raised precariously.
"Forgive me if I'm brash, but it's a little hard to completely and utterly trust Death of all things."
"Understandable," he nods, unaffected by my tone. "Perfectly understandable."
"Well, who is it?"
He cocks his head to the side, an eerie smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his dead, blackened eyes staring right through me.
"Who do you think it is?"
"Dumbledore?" I ask, taking a shot in the dark. He did mention meddling.
"Right in one!" he cries, snapping his fingers. "It looks like you can use your little mortal brain."
"Hey!"
"I'm just stating the obvious Miss Potter. You forget how very, very old I am. I've met many geniuses throughout my life, they do not begin to even touch the sheer depth of knowledge that I have."
"Fuck," I mutter, realizing just who is after me. Albus Fucking Dumbledore. Christ on a pogo-stick I'm done for! He actually killed Ron? He killed a student? For what? I thought he was senile, not evil! "This… this changes everything. Dumbledore killed Ron? Killed him?"
"A bit more succinct than I would have put it myself, but quite an accurate statement."
I begin to actually try tearing my hair out. I curse loudly at my stinging scalp. Why did I just do that? More importantly, what the hell am I going to do?
"Do you not recall the mountain of evidence you have against your Headmaster? His incessant need to stick his nose into everyone's life? That you have a lawyer for a foster parent and an ex-convict with a grudge as a godfather?"
Oh yeah. How the hell did I forget about that? I know I was worrying about what to do about Dumbledore, but I guess that answers my question.
"Yeah, I guess I did forget," I mutter, climbing out of my bed and walking over to my desk, taking out a sheaf of parchment and scribbling down a quick letter to Sirius and Octavius. I make sure not to mention anything about my very rare talents. Don't want to make my two… dads? Yeah, dads- believe that I'm the next up and coming Morgan le Faye. Although Sirius does sort of know already… eh, it's time to start working on removing Dumbledore from Hogwarts, or at least crippling his influence in Britain. The man can get away with apparent murder for fucks sake.
Before rushing out of my room to the owlery I turn to Death.
"Thanks for the info, I'll make sure to use it."
"I can only hope," he replies, bowing again before disappearing.
-::-
Sirius and Octavius get back to me quickly, a letter explaining the steps we're going to take to start whittling away at Dumbledore's positions.
They're terrifyingly devious.
Public opinion in the wizarding world is a fickle thing. The Daily Prophet can dictate how people are seen on a whim, as evidenced by my fifth year in the last timeline. Demonized as some insane trouble-seeking deviant by Fudge and his cronies through a tabloid paper. No one questioned it, they simply ate it up happily and begged for seconds.
They're going to use just that.
Slowly feeding bit by bit of information to bring down the perception of Dumbledore, methodically chipping at the pillar he stands on. It will take patience and timing, pulling the rug out from under him when it's too late for to do anything about it. After that? I'm not too sure to be honest. He's not someone I want as an enemy, but if he's going to go around killing school children I'm going to do my best to take him down. Hard.
They do say the apple doesn't far fall. Tom just learned from his mentor as far as I can tell. Hate begets hate.
One thing that's got me confused this semester is Remus. He's here to teach at Hogwarts, following the schedule of time and space and all that good stuff, but he completely refuses to even acknowledge me inside, and outside of class. I'm pissed that he still hasn't gotten into contact with Sirius, whether that's because of shame for believing he was actually the traitor, or because of some other stupid angsty reason, I don't know. Honestly, he can be a bit of a push over. My guess about his personality is that he's pushed away his wolfish side so much he's become the epitome of an omega wolf, submissive to the nth degree.
So that's why I'm ambushing the guy.
"Professor Lupin, is it alright if I talk to you? I have some questions," I ask as the students tiredly file out of class. We did boggarts today, so most of the students are completely and utterly wiped out. Mine is still a dementor, and to be honest I'm really glad it hasn't changed. I don't know how I'd be able to explain away seeing Death or something of the like.
Remus looks slightly afraid as he accepts, conjuring a seat in front of his desk. "What is it that you wanted to talk about Miss Potter?" he rasps, fidgeting nervously with the lapel on his ratty vest.
"I was just wondering why you haven't gotten into contact with Sirius. He talks about how much he misses you all the time," I say, tilting my head as I look at him. What the hell is he so nervous about? "That, and I just sort of wanted to talk to who I hear is my unofficial uncle."
"I- I wasn't too sure that you knew who I was," he smiles weakly at me, a bit of his tension bleeding away. "I assumed Sirius was terribly angry at me."
"Well, he's a bit annoyed that you haven't written back to him. The mans probably sent you thirty letters over the last couple years, hasn't he?"
"Yes, yes he has," Remus says, looking extremely ashamed now. "I haven't read any after the first letter he sent me. It was quite… forward."
"You mean insulting?" I add.
"Yes, you could say that. I, well- I assumed the rest were along the same lines and didn't open them. Sirius has been known to hold quite a grudge."
"Well, he did apologize to Severus with a bit of prodding from my part. You'd be surprised at him I think, he's growing up from what I've heard. Octavius is really happy to see Sirius not being a man-child 24/7."
Remus chuckles at that, finally relaxing fully. "It has been a while… I'll write him tonight," he says. "How have you been Helene? Is it alright if I call you that?"
"That's fine, as long as I can call you Uncle outside of class?" I quip, a smile spreading across his face as he nods his acceptance. "And I've been well thanks. Some classes are a bit dull, but what can you do right?"
"Ah! I have heard that you're quite the little magical prodigy," he grins wolfishly, the topic of academia catching his interest. "You would have made your parents extremely proud to see how much you excel in your coursework."
"Thank you. That means a lot… do- do you have any stories of my parents? I've heard a bit from Sirius but it's still quite a sore spot for him. It's almost like he has a decade long gap between when they were attacked to when he was released, it still feels a lot more… recent for him."
Remus claps his hands together, smiling widely as he begins to regale me with watered down tales of pranks and debauchery executed by the Marauders and Co. Apparently, they put on that little addendum after my mum's official entry to the group in their seventh year.
We sit there for an hour or so just chatting back and forth about nothing and everything, recounting my last few years at Hogwarts sans insanity, dark magics, and all other unmentionable things. You know, looking back I really should have at least tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone. That little trinket would terribly bloody useful.
-::-
A week goes by before Sirius and Octavius send me a letter telling me to get ready for the next issue of the Prophet. I grin madly as I read it over, on the edge of my seat I'm so excited to see what kind of written travesty they've cooked up.
Hey kid!
Octavius and I have gotten everything ready to go and have just sent off the required 'forms' to the Daily Prophet.
Look forward to the fireworks, and if you can, please please please get a picture of Dumbledore's face when he reads the paper for me? You'd be my absolute favourite goddaughter if you did that for old Padfoot.
Much love – Sirius
P.S. I'm sure Octavius would appreciate the picture as well.
What a bunch of jerks, holding out on me. I wanted details! Plans of their journalistic escapade! Instead I get this lousy tease of a letter.
I furiously scribble out a reply, reaming Sirius out for leaving me in the dark of what may be his most ambitious prank. Sure, the suspense is probably going to make it all worthwhile, but I really want to know what he's told the Prophet. Even just a nibble, a sneak peak would be enough.
The plights of having Loki for a godfather I guess.
-::-
I'm practically bounching in my seat as I pay for the Daily Prophet that's delivered to me with dinner, a special second issue being printed today by my least favourite, yet terribly useful reporter.
Finally, finally I get to see the result of Sirius' work. The last day has been horribly boring just waiting and waiting. I'm of the mind that one is bored not when they're uninterested in what they're doing, but when they're incapable of doing what they want to in that exact moment. So, looking forward to something is my personal definition of boredom.
"Oh my god," Hermione gasps, snatching the paper from me and holding it out in front of her like it's the holy grail. It might as well be, considering this article may end up being the Watergate of the wizarding world. "You guys have to read this," she exclaims, ignoring the fact that she just took my paper and shuffling closer to me and laying it out on the table, her eyes held so wide I expect them to start drying out in front of me.
I begin to read the article, a grin rapidly forming on my face, spreading from ear to ear like a maddened Cheshire Cat.
Happenings at Hogwarts!
By Rita Skeeter
Just the other day I received a letter detailing some events that have occurred at Hogwarts over the last few years that cast
the much-reputed bastion of education in quite the harsh light. My dear readers, I found myself to be deeply shocked at the story it told.
A cantankerous cerberus, a possessed professor, and a silenced student are but
a few of the dangerous goings on that have occurred within the walls of the castle.
Yes, you're not misreading that. A cerberus! One of the guard dogs of Hades itself roaming the halls of Hogwarts,
a XXXX classified magical creature placed into a school of all places! The animal was reportedly brought in as a guard
of some sort. For what? What in the 'safest place on earth,' as Albus Dumbledore so often describes the school,
requires such a beast? I do not know, but I tell you this; I will not rest until I bring why to light.
This, I can promise to you dear readers…
The article continues in the same emphatic, overly dramatic tone that the mud racking bitch is well known for. There's a reason Octavius and Sirius went out of their way to have her write the article. She absolutely tears people apart. No mercy involved whatsoever. I guess it helps when she's a got the moral compass of a functioning psychopath.
She goes on to tear into Dumbledore, suggesting that he is overworked to the point that his stress from such a stretched workload as Headmaster, Chief Warlock, and Supreme Mugwump combined is causing him to rapidly lose his mental faculties. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if that was a contributing factor to his choices.
I look up to the staff table, smiling slightly to myself at the shell-shocked look Dumbledore has plastered over his face. Suck on that you murderous cunt.
A soft murmur spreads throughout the Great Hall as the students begin to devour the article themselves. I hear a few of the Ravenclaws curse loudly when they read that a bloody cerberus of all animals was kept in the school, as well as the fact that no one outside of Hogwarts knew that a Professor died that year.
Additionally, no one outside of Hogwarts apart from the Weasleys knows that Ron was fucking murdered. Apparently, Dumbledore saw fit not to notify the DMLE that a student was murdered, instead simply requesting a patrol of aurors without actually telling them why. What a fucking nightmare this school is.
I'm actually genuinely horrified that the DMLE wasn't told about Ron's murder, nor was anyone publicly aware of the death of Professor Quirrel, instead only being told that there was a wandering spirit in the school, and the shoddy excuse for an educator had left for 'bigger and better prospects.' That's a pretty sugar-coated way to say the man snuffed it.
Needless to say, I'm no longer grinning.
"I can't believe no one knew about Ron being killed," Padma whispers, shock lacing her voice. She shakes her head in disbelief, her eyes locked to the paper. "That's just… that's beyond ridiculous."
Lisa doesn't speak, instead nodding contritely, unable to put her thoughts into words.
I glance over to the Slytherin table, locking eyes with Daphne. She has a blank look on her face as she inclines her head imperceptibly, letting me know that she's okay. She tilts her head towards Astoria and flicks her eyes to her younger sister pointedly, letting me know that she'll be talking to her later.
I don't bother to check in with Tracey.
Hermione clenches her hands, fists shaking as she stares up at the staff table, not bothering to hide her confusion and anger at the revelations. "I can't believe it myself. Dumbledore of all people hiding that?" She asks, letting the question hang in the air for a few moments. "It's just… how could Hogwarts be so unsafe? How could they let something like this happen? How could Dumbledore let this happen?"
I hide my confusion as she leans her head on my shoulder, burrowing into me. I look down and hold back a sneeze as her bushy hair tickles my nose. I can see how worried she is, the fear written over her face as clear as day.
She's been scared ever since the troll incident, terrified of all the magical things that go bump in the night. I can't blame her, considering how she was raised in a painfully normal place like Hammersmith. Things like this - dangerous things like this… they aren't something that one would expect from nearly any background, let alone someone who grew up as an only child in a well-to-do muggle family.
Hermione is someone who, once she's given her trust, trusts implicitly. To have an authority figure, the authority figure be publicly revealed as fallible has had a noticeable effect on her. She's wearing her stereotypical look of concentration, a tight frown and pursed lips, blinking rapidly as she tries to work out whatever problem she's stumped by in her head.
I pull her in to a friendly embrace, rubbing her arm comfortingly. "Everything's going to be fine, alright?" I whisper, Hermione nodding silently in reply and wrapping one arm around my waist as she snuggles closer to me, ignoring her food.
I sit there for a little while, letting her calm herself down on her own and sort through her thoughts. Tracey looks on sympathetically, while Padma raises an eyebrow at how close the two of us are. I shrug one shoulder subtly in reply, making sure not to jostle Hermione. I don't really understand her closeness myself, but my guess is that I'm sort of like her unofficial sister. Honestly, we're all sisters at this point after having spent three happy years at Hogwarts together.
Something about our group just… clicks, is the best way to describe it. There's a dynamic to it all that lends credence to the phrase 'well-oiled machine.' Even with the current tension between Tracey and I, we're all close friends and won't allow something like that to interfere with what we have.
We sit there for a little while in silence, allowing the other students around us to voice our worried thoughts. Fears and concerns float in the air, a nearly physical presence of worry and confusion having asserted itself in the Hall. I cast my gaze over the tables, seeing the perplexed expressions of the Gryffindors, unsure of how to take the fact that the Headmaster that they idolize is just as prone to failure as anybody else is.
The other Ravenclaws look like they've been confronted with an especially confusing question, hurriedly working through different theories as to why Dumbledore would allow such a thing to happen in his halls. Not to mention the most important question: why Dumbledore wouldn't immediately take the matter of a murdered student to the DMLE and instead treat it as an internal issue, appointing himself as the investigator to such a sensitive and, to be honest, terrifying issue.
The Hufflepuffs are fearful, casting horrified glances towards the Headmaster. Loyalty is a fickle issue for them what with how highly they hold the attribute, and from what I can remember of my fourth year, it's something that one can be hard pressed to regain once lost. Dumbledore has evidently just lost that, as well as the trust of a fourth of the school at the minimum, disregarding the fact that he never had sway over the Slytherins anyways.
Speaking of which, the Slytherins look smug. At least, the traditionalist purebloods, the children of Death Eaters look smug. They're boasting loudly amongst themselves, sardonic grins on their faces as they revel over the great Dumbledore being taken down a notch. They seem to have forgotten for a moment that they're celebrating this over the aftermath of a fellow student's death.
The other Slytherins, the neutrals, simply look just as sick as the rest of the students.
I wrap up my dinner, my feeling of victory over Dumbledore quickly leaving me as I remember the circumstances behind my current offensive. I say goodbye to the girls, patting Hermione on the back as the commotion amongst the students begins to pick up. I make my way up to the Room of Requirement and pull out Et Necromantium, leafing through the tome towards the section on shadow travel.
Shadow travel looks terribly unfair from what I read. The ability to teleport from place to place as long as it's dark. What's terribly unfair about this method of travel is, get this, it completely bypasses apparition and portkey wards. That has got to be one of the most useful skills I've ever read about. I could escape from anything as long as there's a spot of dark and I'm not shackled in suppression cuffs.
Yeah, shadow travel is completely and utterly un-fucking-fair. To be honest, I have pushed the whole 'travelling through the underworld itself' bit out of my head.
I crack my neck and back, flexing my arms as I prepare to attempt shadow travel. I have to reach out with my magic and look for that feeling of death, instead of pulling it towards me I pull myself towards it. Simple.
I close my eyes and extend my magic, quickly finding the familiar feeling of what I know now is the underworld and yank.
The cold washes over me, permeating my body and senses entirely. Every bit of my body screams wrong momentarily, before the feeling desists as quickly as it started. I smirk as I open my eyes, finding myself on the other side of the room.
Fuck yeah.
I experiment with it a bit more, working on my speed as I flash- no, flash really isn't the word to use. Uh, I'll just use move for the time being. Move around the room as quickly as I can, working on accustoming myself to the feeling that I get when using the ability.
A loud explosion breaks me away from my practice, the wall where the entrance to the Room is normally found is shuddering under some sort of attack. Panicking, I grab Et Necromantium and blink over to my room just as the wall caves in from a siege breaker, catching a glance of deep purple robes that look to be dotted with prancing golden unicorns out of the corner of my eye as I escape.
Breathing heavily, I hold my hand to my chest. "Fuck!" I mutter, gripping tightly at my robes as I calm down.
I should have known he would find out where I was! I'm a bloody idiot for thinking that Albus Dumbledore of all people couldn't find out about the Room of Requirement. Groaning quietly, I tuck the massive book into my trunk, casting a few wards over it to make sure that even if someone does get into my things, they're not going to notice the bloody bible of Necromancy sitting in it.
I lay back in my bed staring at the ceiling, pondering where I'm going to train now. Chamber of Secrets? Probably the best option. I just don't know where I'm going to find a proper ritual chamber now that the Room is under watch.
Cursing quietly under my breath, I realize that I've really kicked the hornets nest now.
Wait a second.
Blink? That sounds like the perfect word for shadow travel.
Katzzar: I try to touch on the impact that even half the shit Helene/Harry has gone through in her life should have on her mind. I'm doing my best not to turn this into an angst fic, so she's doing unusually well, all things considered. In all honesty, if this was real life I imagine Helene would probably be a gibbering terrified mess who would refuse to even so much as leave the house.
Edited, 10/06/18.