I have nothing to hide. Nothing to be afraid of. Search all you want Riddle, I don't know what the fuck you want with me but I know the consequences. Whatever mess or fiasco you're trying to start—fucking watch me Riddle.
Watch me.
TW: BODY HORROR AND HOLOCAUST. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
After that encounter, a series of similar events happened after that. Andrea knew she said that 'fight me' shit in her head, but now facing the consequences of…whatever the fuck kind of situation fate or destiny set her in—she can safely say she regrets it.
Riddle—she knows it's Riddle, always pull some shit on her. Not badly enough that it's obvious and never severe enough to make a case out of it. But enough to always inconvenience her.
Monday, after class hours, almost every book in the library concerning the assigned topic is reserved…under Tom Riddle. Who coincidentally subs in another Prefect's monitoring duties while Andrea was looking for him.
Tuesday. Her telescope in astronomy tower mysteriously had a few loose screws and breaks during their practical test. Coincidentally, it's been hexed to have immunity to the Reparo spell as they were learning telescope maintenance. Also coincidentally, no extra telescopes were found. She saw Tom smirk at her frustration.
Wednesday. Care of Magical Creatures, an apparently random snake appeared and scared the shit out of her. Her classmates laughed, being a Slytherin and all, and was just told by the Professor "it's just a normal garden snake." Garden snakes do not wander in the goddamn Forbidden Forest, especially near the clearing. With all the acromantula being their predator and whatnot. Andrea theories that it was summoned, her year was learning advanced summoning. Wouldn't you know it, Tom scored first in the summoning practical test.
Thursday. Arithmacy. Despite finally having a complete set of 5-hour sleep, she still somehow managed to feel sleepy and drowsy. Coincidentally, Tom sat beside her reeking with chamomile, a drowsiness potion scent. Her head fell and banged on the table—everyone laughing and leaving Andrea with the simultaneous feeling of embarrassment and ache on her forehead. Her favorite Professor gave her quite a lecture.
Friday morning, her first thought wondering what's Tom going to pull this time. She drags herself out of bed and continues her morning routine. She liked waking up earlier than her roommates, but despising the constant tiredness and lack of sleep looming on her back. Coupled with all the projects, homework, constant maintenance for her social life, and fucking Tom—
Breathe.
Fortunately, majority of the people present in the Great Hall seem to share her sour mood. Though it does manage to lift a bit as she sees the incoming owl—Andrea eagerly opens the letter from her mother. It was noticeably thick—probably a copy of the Daily Prophet, she set it aside as she read her mother's letter.
It was the usual rantings about the ongoings in the Ministry. The only thing new was that her mother informed her about how Uncle Ivan and Auntie Ana had just arrived, well and safe, and tells her to read the article. And despite the letter being written, Andrea felt the wariness seeping through her mother's words.
Now curious, she folds the article open and the first thing she sees is a bold black headline that screams:
"GRINDELWALD ATTACKS VILLAGE IN SIBERIA, TEN DEAD, SIX WOUNDED"
Andrea was reminded of the life outside these walls. A moment ago she was complaining about homework, a moment ago she felt safe, a moment ago she built a wall of normalcy and simplicity. Where she was just a sixteen-year-old girl in school.
Of course, nothing was ever that simple.
People are dying. It is war after all.
She wonders.
How many people out there are struggling? How many people died? How many mothers are waiting for her sons? A wife her husband? Children their fathers?
She never understood violence and the people justifying it. So many times she's been called naïve and childish for holding onto her idealistic pacifist views, it was something you'd pity seeing in a child, how their world hasn't been tainted yet—but not what you'd see in a teenager now.
That part of life where they act like they've experienced it but most of them haven't. They talk of war and tragedies to elevate their social status of being mature and wise, to imitate adults and mimic their society.
Andrea saw it firsthand. And never in her life will she understand it. Call it hypocrisy, after dueling Riddle last week and sending each other to the infirmary—despite Riddle's psychopathic habits and behavior, she could never kill him for it. She wonders why. Why have these thoughts now? Why forget them?
Was she simply choosing to live in a tiring ignorant bliss or was it that the constant chain of misery, anger, and death seem to paint her in a grey apathy and forgetfulness?
Dachau.
Andrea…she lost her appetite.
She knows she needs energy to last the day but she's willing to fake a headache and collapse on the infirmary bed. Andrea sighs, and heads toward back into the dungeon. Most of the professors are preparing lesson plans, prefects and a few others are the only students awake. It's safe to say that the halls would be empty.
So, out of all the people awake. Andrea Velásquez turns a corner and comes across Riddle.
She knew the chances of bumping into Tom was fairly high, him being a prefect and a fucking monster who wakes earlier than she does. Nonetheless, it felt staged.
After all, Tom is here, back straight, hair neatly combed, with smooth unwrinkled clothes—looking like an eerily smiling wax figured statue. In contrast to her bedhead tied back, wrinkled clothes, tired slouching figure and sour face.
"Velásquez. Good morning to you."
"Riddle. Good morning as well."
She didn't have the energy to put up with him and his plastered smile, so she merely walked past him. The eyes still on her. Creep.
"Velásquez, you forgot something," he said out of nowhere, she stops in her tracks.
Andrea turns, and he's holding a piece of parchment, that's mother's letter—how the fuck— "Give me that!"
Just as she stomps over to grab it, he pulls it away. She reaches further but Riddle is only slightly taller than her. They're the same fucking height!
"What are you? A child? Give me my fucking letter!" She mutters, it was loud enough for him to hear as they were inches close.
Tom ignores the first part, "I will—on one condition."
Andrea steps back, arms crossed, brow raised.
"Look into my eyes—" Tom begins, but she cuts him off, scoffing.
"Oh fuck that, keep the letter. There's nothing important in it anyway."
Big fat lie. One translation spell and a few deciphers, her mother would chop her head off.
Andrea turns and acts nonchalant, when the panic and nervousness seep into her. What the fuck does he want to know? If her mother finds out, it's 50/50 that her mother would believe her lie saying it got stolen. Streisand effect, the more you try to hide something, the more obvious it becomes.
She bites her lip, needing something to chew on. For now she needs to rest a bit.
Tom is back at the dreary orphanage. He thought he escaped this hole. It's the same as he left it. Rotting wood, mossy stone, dead grey skies, and equally worthless, immature children and matrons.
He wanders for a while, wanting to get away from the foul stench of feces reeking the rooms, but it still clings onto him. Tom then finds a girl, staring up at the sky.
She seems to have heard him, as her head turns and looks at Tom.
He'd heard of her, orphaned daughter of an American soldier, who had somehow stumbled to London. She, like him, often called a 'freak' for simply being more competent, advanced, and intelligent than the other children, and even most of the matrons.
But unlike him, she's quiet, like a guilty person with many things to hide. The sense of déjà vu seem to swirl in his head.
She stares at him, distant, silent. Almost familiar to Tom. Then she asks, "Are you okay?"
Tom was confused. He didn't have any visible bruises or scrapes. Was she being vague on purpose? "What do you mean? I'm not hurt."
"You know many things. You learned those things. And often the things we learn stay because they hurt."
What is she on about? Why does this all feel familiar? He knows her.
"Who are you?" Tom asked.
Her name…Hannah Martins? No…Angelica Martins?
The girl tilted her head, a small smile on her face. He knows this. He knows her name. What's her name?
Angela? An…na? Anna?
"You already know."
Andy.
He wakes up, the buzzing wand and flickering light tells him it's five in the morning. Tom is in his dormitory. Dim-lit and muffled snoring. Green curtains and silver silk bedsheets.
Tom sits up, hand on his head.
There are similarities, yes. But that's it. Her name was Anna Martins. The daughter of a dead American soldier. The wise and quiet child in the orphanage. The girl who was taken away.
The first ever friend of Tom. He…can manage, without her. Such luxuries don't ever last. A person to confide and understand with on an equal standing will only show weakness.
Velásquez was very much like Anna. That's what made Tom curious in the first place. Same age. Similar names. Similar faces, if Velásquez's skin was lighter. Similar voices, though different accents. Anna kept to herself, Velásquez saw to every opportunity and moment be left with unnecessary vulgar language.
Though speaking of Velásquez…they haven't talked in a while, have they?
In the following week after the duel, Tom found himself observing a certain girl in Defense class. The moment Professor Merrythought announced they were re-discussing boggarts—Velásquez was tense and nervous.
Tom wondered whether or not Professor Merrythought was either very brilliant or extremely idiotic for making sixteen-year-olds face their biggest fear. He didn't have to face his, nor would he show it to anyone. Tom is sure some incident will occur and Merrythought would dismiss the class early.
Perhaps it's one of the muggleborns who had seen war. Perhaps it's one of the purebloods—he would take his bet on Edmond Lestrange—than boy had to be suffering some degree of mental illness.
Tom smiled at the thought of knowing everyone's weaknesses, but of course didn't show it. No matter how tempted he was.
"…no matter anyone's fear is—that is not something to be mocked or discriminate by. Any questions?"
Delacroix raised her hand, "What if we don't know what our fear is?"
"You'll find out."
Merrythought ordered them to fall in line, Tom observed those who were confident and others anxious muttering the counter spell over and over. He kept his face neutral with his usual confident self.
It was an interesting sight, seeing his classmates' reactions and fears. Some were simple and given, dragons, monsters, a nuclear warhead—which was by far the most interesting one. But there was a certain eagerness rising in his chest waiting for Velásquez. It was her before him.
He wondered what her fear was—Grindelwald, perhaps. Or maybe something boring like her loved ones dying. Maybe she's afraid of death—he'd certainly love to see her face like that.
It's her turn now. Nervous and unsure of what her true fear actually is. She steps forward and it morphs.
What…was that?
Stacks of wood—?
No.
No.
They were corpses with limbs thin to the bone. Skin pale, muddied, and ashen. Stacked like garbage. The foul and putrid scent of rotting corpses and shit reek the air. She staggered back, bile rising in her throat. She doesn't scream. She doesn't cry. She stares with wide eyes.
One of the corpses fall and lands right on her feet. A bare naked woman beaten, bruised, and starved, stares back at her with glassy eyes.
…Mama?
No. No. No. I'm next—I'm next in line—RUN!
She needs to get out of Dachau. Run, just run. Don't look. She'll slow down. The bile curls up in her throat, she stumbles down a corridor, and vomits in the sink.
Sweat drenches her, heart still pounding. Tight eyes closed shut but still seeing the stacks of bodies—
Andrea wants someone to hold her. Comfort her. Tell her everything's going to be alright. Mama. She wants her mama. She wants Uncle Tony and Ivan. Auntie Ana and Julia. She wants to go back home. But home is gone. They're not here. Who is here? Where is she?
The bitter cold tears her inside out. She's shivering. Shaking. She wants—she wants—Jane.
"Andy!"
Jane? No, no, that's—
"Euphy?"
She's held in a warm embrace. A tight embrace. Andrea Velásquez comes to her senses.
Right. Hogwarts. War. Riddle. Class. Boggart. Dachau—
Andrea pushed back Euphy and vomited in the bathroom sink. Bathroom. Fourth Floor. Defense. Hogwarts. Safe. She's safe.
"Andy, listen to me." Euphy held her face with her hands. "It's okay. You're safe."
"You're safe."
A/N:
chapter title comes from hozier.
so yeah that happened. dachau was the first ever concentration camp built in germany, 1933, near munich. but andrea and her mother were not jewish, so how could andrea have 'experienced it first hand?', well to quote :
"Also set for extermination were members of any group considered by Hitler to be ill-equipped to reside in the new Germany. Among them were artists, intellectuals and other independent thinkers; communists, Jehovah's Witnesses and others who were ideologically opposed to theNazi Party; homosexuals and others who were viewed as sexually deviant; Gypsies; the physically and mentally handicapped; and anyone else considered to be racially or physically impure."
no, her father was/is not jewish. i'd like to hear your thoughts on this! i'd like to also hear your guesses as to how andrea ended up in dachau!