Albus Dumbledore was deeply troubled. He sat in his dimly-lit office, the only light source a guttering candle at his elbow and the embers of a dying fire. He twiddled his thumbs and hummed to himself, as he did most evenings, but tonight these activities failed to calm his racing thoughts. Something was terribly wrong. He felt the wrongness deep in his aching bones, tasted it like cold metal in his mouth.
To reassure himself of the champions' safety, he had performed a cursory once-over of the maze's creatures—shrouded in a powerful Disillusionment Charm to avoid their notice—before the evening's events began. He didn't expect to find anything out of the ordinary. Why should he, when all the creatures that came into the country specifically for the Tournament had been scrutinized beyond all mortal ken? Yet one creature ... disturbed him. He couldn't get a closer look, for fear she would sense him and make a fuss, but he remained entirely certain of what he'd seen.
The sphinx (for a bit of high-end mystery, the maze's overseers claimed) had the face of Miss Tommie Riddle.
Tommie Riddle: The most troublesome student he ever had the displeasure to teach. She hadn't been seen in decades. Truth be told, he presumed her to have died from some botched magical experiment or other (this prospect didn't cause him much grief), yet here she was. Or rather, had been.
The sphinx's handlers desperately sounded the alarm some hours ago that their charge had vanished, her binding enchantments broken so thoroughly, it was as if they were never cast. What should he do? Perhaps dissuade them from continuing their search, because of what they might find? Help them, for fear of what letting her loose might bring? For if the sphinx was indeed Tommie Riddle, then she had returned to a world ready to receive her ideas, her plans and purpose unknown.
Dumbledore popped a lemon drop into his mouth, its wonderful tartness exploding upon his tongue. Perhaps Tommie deserved a chance to prove herself, to stay and bring into being whatever her vision may be. And yet... What might she do if she were to become human again? More importantly, what damage could she cause until then?
"Should I be worried, Fawkes?" he asked, running a hand down the phoenix's soft back as the scarlet-plumed bird perched heavily on his knee. Fawkes responded with a noncommittal coo, butting Dumbledore's hand with his head to encourage more stroking. Dumbledore obliged, scratching him under his beak.
"Something on your mind, Dumbledore?" Phineas Nigellus Black's snide voice broke into Dumbledore's reverie.
"Nothing that concerns you," Dumbledore sighed, glaring up at the portrait, who sat idly twirling his thin mustache.
"Suit yourself," Black replied. "But I was preserved in paint to give you advice. Nay, to pass on the hard-won wisdom of my generation." He spoke sardonically. Really, did he have any other expression?
"You are greatly appreciated," Dumbledore replied, his tone matching Black's. "Now please hush, so I can continue brooding."
"Fine," Black grumbled. "Your brooding is boring." He pretended to go back to sleep, snoring peevishly. The other portraits continued in various states of feigned and real sleep, none so much as stirring at the exchange.
Popping a second lemon drop into his mouth, Dumbledore fell back into his anxious thoughts. One of the Champions helped Tommie Riddle, more than likely the Hogwarts one. It was worth speaking to Miss Potter at the very least, he decided. Riddle's gift for making allies would be impossible to miss if Potter lied inexpertly to his face. ... Who the hell was he kidding? Potter helped her, and no denial would convince him otherwise.
#
"Miss Potter, may I speak with you outside for a moment?"
Potter sat in the middle of the Gryffindor table, surrounded by admirers, her head bent in a vain attempt to avoid them. "I suppose," she replied, hopping to her feet—rather eager to get away from her fellow students, he thought—and following him from the hall. "What do you need, sir? Is this about the Tournament?"
"In a manner of speaking," he hummed. "By the way, congratulations on your victory snatched from the grasping jaws of defeat."
"Thank you, sir." The words were worn out, reluctant. "But I think 'the pincers of defeat' would be more accurate."
He laughed delightedly. "Indeed. So, Miss Potter, is there anything you wish to tell me?"
"Not that I can think of, sir," she replied swiftly, avoiding his gaze and picking at a patch of lint on her emerald green dress robes. Ha! Got her!
"Did anything unusual occur in the maze last evening?"
"Well, no, sir. No more unusual than I expected, and certainly no more unusual than was intended."
"Hmm, nothing to do with an escaped sphinx?" he pressed, twinkling his eyes at her, to put her at ease. (Also, his twinkle was legendary, dammit. He couldn't have her going around saying he neglected to twinkle at her.) "You've heard about that, I presume."
"I did hear, but I don't know anything that might possibly be of use. That sphinx wanted to kill me," Potter protested. "No way in hell I'd help it!"
Goodness, she was better at this than he expected. "Fair enough. Incidentally, as far as I am aware, the sphinx was once a student here named Tommie Riddle. Strange that someone could bring about such a Transfiguration, no?"
Potter's eyebrows rose. "That name is familiar. Wasn't she Head Girl?"
"Naturally," he confirmed. "She had quite an illustrious career while in attendance. She's fascinating, really." He left her at the base of the spiral staircase, where she appeared somewhat anxious and conflicted. Her expression mirrored his own misgivings. There would be no admission to having aided Riddle, and he had little to gain by accusing her. (Merlin's beard! He wouldn't ruin the awards festivities over this!) Perhaps Riddle's plotting wouldn't hurt anyone if he left her alone... Oh, but he would watch for her. British Wizarding society didn't have a chance of surviving a scheme from Riddle's brilliant mind.
#
Harriet's morning had gotten off to a terrible start. She awoke before the sun rose, with a pounding headache and a foul taste in her mouth. After that, she couldn't get back to sleep, and spent the intervening hours tossing and turning in her oppressively warm blankets, worrying over the upcoming ceremony. Eventually becoming fed up with her unquiet mind, Harriet got up and dressed in a silk green dress robe she had worn to the Yule Ball, then sat in the empty Common Room to await the breakfast rush. Curling with her chin resting on her knees in an armchair in an isolated corner and swaying slightly back and forth, she dwelt longingly on skipping the ceremony to embark on getting to know the enigmatic sphinx.
Going to breakfast had been a mistake, for to make matters worse, her fellow Gryffindors refused to let her sit and eat in peace, insisting upon loudly discussing her victory in order to incite the envy of the other Houses. Hermione had not been particularly capable when attempting to draw their attention away, instead getting into a heated argument with Lavender Brown about the impression Harriet's defiantly wild hair would make on the European Wizarding public. ("She looks like she doesn't give a damn!" "Why should she have to change her appearance for a stupid ceremony like this? Besides, everyone has been watching her for months!")
And now Dumbledore and his insinuations. Harriet rocked from foot to foot as he left her standing alone, uncertain how to proceed. Dumbledore seemed hesitant to explicitly confirm his suspicions as to her involvement in the sphinx's—Riddle's—escape. And if Riddle was indeed "the most troublesome student," then it would behoove her to know precisely who she had so impulsively aided. Two hours remained before the awards ceremony. So, what to do? Should she go to the library to research Tommie Riddle, or to the Room of Requirement to question Tommie Riddle about her past? Sighing resignedly, Harriet headed to the library, wondering what awaited her there.
"Madam Pince, where would I find information on past students?"
Pince glared at her with hawkish eyes, pointing imperiously at a section of old records with a huffy sigh.
"Thank you," Harriet said graciously, not waiting for a response. The library was utterly deserted, with the rest of the school running about in anticipation of Hogwarts's crowning glory. Harriet blissfully basked in the silence. She wandered through the stacks, searching for... what year had Riddle finished her seventh year? "Madam Pince, have you heard of a student named Tommie Riddle?" Harriet asked, returning to Pince's desk.
"Who hasn't heard of Tommie Riddle? Most brilliant student this school has seen since Dumbledore himself. She would have been great if she hadn't disappeared." There was a bitter cast to Pince's face as she spoke. "She was Head Girl in 1944-45," she grunted after studying her hands. "Is that enough?"
"I'm sure it is. Thank you." Harriet walked back to the section and pulled out a bundle of parchments labeled 1945, rifling through them to find a summary of that year's prefects and Head Boy and Girl.
The record—clinical, unfeeling—revealed nothing more remarkable about Riddle than twelve Outstanding OWLs and an Award for Services to the School when in her fifth year—though what the award was for, it didn't say. Harriet pushed all the papers back onto their shelf, feeling as if she'd wasted her time coming here. What professors had Riddle liked? What were her career goals? None of the things that made a living, breathing person resided here. Dumbledore's claim that Riddle was "fascinating" rang hollow, nothing more than a ploy to force her to show her hand. Undoubtedly, he would ask Pince if she had come here... Damn.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Pince grumbled as Harriet passed by on her way to the door.
"I don't know," Harriet replied. "But thank you for not congratulating me on winning the Tournament. It's been... rather repetitive."
Pince smiled at this. "I've always liked you, Potter. You're the best sort of library patron. You respect the books and ask good questions." She coughed awkwardly. "Good luck." She clearly meant this for more than just the approaching ceremony.
They shook hands in farewell. Pince's skin felt dry and papery. Harriet quashed any pity for the lonely old woman. Pince had her books and wouldn't appreciate pity. If she was happy, who was Harriet to judge? Or, heaven forbid, to fear for her own future?
#
Everything was quiet. The rug had been as comfortable as it first appeared, and Tommie lay in a heap upon it in contented repose. Hogwarts magic whispered about her, sheltering her from the myriad emotions and scents of the hundreds of people about the castle. She was home—her first true home... The peace of this room almost helped her forget the pounding headache at the first onslaught of the emotions of so many—more people than she'd been near since her curse—that had manifested when the binders' enchantments upon her broke.
"Hey, Sphinx Girl," a far-too-cheerful voice for this—or any—time of day said from the doorway, rousing Tommie from her comfortable musing. The girl's emotions hummed comfortably at the edge of her awareness. Curiosity, annoyance, an undercurrent of anxiety.
"Oh, it's you," Tommie sighed, opening her eyes and stretching to her full length. "What do you want?"
"I have food for you, and a few questions while you eat it," Potter replied. She lifted a hand to reveal a bag of raw meat, fresh and bloody, wrapped neatly in butcher paper.
"Ah, thank you," Tommie said shortly, sniffing the meat—beef, it turned out—with distaste as Potter placed it before her.
"You're welcome," Harriet said. "House-elves do good work, especially when you're nice to them. So, will you answer a question or two?"
"Fine," Tommie growled, biting into the nearest piece of meat. It tasted... dead. Cold. Meat was best eaten directly after it was caught, pulled red, warm, and dripping from the bones—damn the animal brain. "Fire away." Not that Tommie intended to give straight answers. No, she'd simply do anything to sate the girl's curiosity so she'd leave quickly, or perhaps come back quickly. Tommie wasn't certain which less irksome.
"Your name is Tommie Riddle, correct?"
Well, there went the semblance of anonymity. "Indeed, girl," Tommie hissed. "How did you come by that information?"
"Dumbledore suggested I research you, but the library didn't have anything all that useful."
And why should it? Instead, she said, "The old coot saw me?" Damn him to hell. She would never reclaim her prior position with Dumbledore poking his crooked nose into places it didn't belong. "Interesting that he should care about my return. I fucked up before I could enact any of my plans." (Fucked up: crude, but useful for seeming relatable.)
"So, your curse," Potter clarified.
"Obviously, fool."
"What would you have been without the curse?" Harriet asked, sitting cross-legged on the rug beside her, pulling her robes fastidiously over her knobbly knees. Tommie edged away.
"Oh, a politician," Tommie murmured. "I would have changed the world for the better, perhaps using methods with which Dumbledore would not have agreed."
"Better how? And for whom?" Harriet asked sharply.
"People would get what they deserve," Tommie replied, kneading her paws in satisfaction at this obfuscation. "Justice would be served, society's proper order achieved, etc."
Potter looked dubious, her curiosity sharpening deliciously. But dammit, Tommie wanted her to leave! Not to stay and ask more questions... "Right," Harriet said. "That sounds... questionable. Anything else I should know?"
"Not at the moment," Tommie purred, wanting nothing more than to bottle Potter's curiosity and hold it close. "Isn't your award ceremony soon?"
"Oh shit," Harriet said, jumping to her feet and checking her watch. "I have ten minutes to get there. Thank you for the stimulating conversation, Riddle." She paused suddenly, her hand to her mouth. Tommie had a sudden, sinking suspicion as to the nature of Potter's thought, because the girl's curiosity suddenly gave way to sparkling amusement. Much to her dismay, she was proven correct. "Riddle? Your name is Riddle, and you were transformed into a sphinx?"
Tommie flicked her tail and turned her back on the now openly snickering Potter. "Do you find the sense of irony of the man who cursed me lacking?"
"No. Not... Definitely not."
"Please go, foolhardy Gryffindor. I wouldn't want you to be late to such a significant moment in your life. Also," Tommie snapped, "your anxiety gives me headaches. Tone it down a bit before you come back." Potter gave one last loud guffaw before scurrying out the door.
Tommie lay down in the middle of her rug and moodily cleaned her claws. She'd lied. Potter's emotions—even the anxiety—did not induce headaches. They were ... inexplicably pleasant, almost enjoyable to observe. But why did she imply she wished for Potter to return?
Tommie squeezed her eyes shut and prepared to go back to sleep. Stupid, unanswerable questions for a stupid, enigmatic girl.