Chapter Twenty-six:
Then and Now

When at last September loomed closer than it had ever seemed to before, I felt anticipation and excitement, for the coming year would mark my last at Hogwarts. The prospect of this was almost a frightening one, for never had I truly considered that my schooling would one day be complete. And yet, in the months ahead, this realization, I knew, would become a reality.

Momentarily, I felt stunned. What was to become of me after my life at the castle? I would be married, and that was the extent of my knowledge. A part of me would never wish to leave the place I had home to call my home for the majority of the past six years of my life. I once toyed with the idea of remaining behind as a teacher, but I quickly banished the thought. I felt that I was too young to hold such a position, and almost that Tom would not approve of it. How wrong I was in this latter thought.

-

As Tom and I were the eldest of the orphanage's residents next to the Madam herself, it was often that we were sent to the grocer's to purchase the food required for the coming week. At times, I resented this–in turn causing the Madam to resent my presence further–though at others, I was grateful to escape the confinements of our summer home.

It was one such day that we would receive our Hogwarts letters–earlier in the summer than they had been sent to us in previous years.

That morning, the air was particularly and unusually cool, widely reminiscent of early spring. Perhaps each day dawned as such–we had never before gone out at that hour–though it seemed marked amongst a sea of others as something different. The moon had long-since disappeared, though the sun peaked hesitantly through the rolling clouds and occasional thicket of tree branches overhead. The path we always traveled was hidden somewhat from the world around us, and if I paused for a moment, I could imagine myself walking through the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest–though the plant growth was far less dense. Perhaps it was in a park of sorts that we walked, though never was I quite sure. It seemed to differ from a park, for whenever we crossed it, it was as though we were alone.

The branches cast a mottled netting of shadows upon the dust path all around us, and had there been any wind at all, it surely could not have penetrated the thick grove. Later, I would recall distinctly clutching a woven basket in my hands, my fingers fumbling and toying with the handle as the skirt of my sun dress swayed as I walked. The fabric had once been of a soft periwinkle, though it had faded into a violet-tinted grey throughout the years. At one time, it had been a possession of my mother, but I wore it that morning in memory of her and the things that had died as she had.

I had never thought myself to have been close to my mother, and this I regretted. At times, it had seemed as if we had barely spoken, and in rare moments, we had been as close as sisters. It was strange to think of my parents after they had departed what seemed like so long ago. Admittedly, I had nigh forgotten of them, save for when, as it was then, that I was suddenly encompassed by the desire to have them return to me. Always, this was fleeting, for as though my mind was being read as if an opened book, Tom would pull me closer to him and smile in the way he had that both reassured and discomforted me.

Just as these thoughts surfaced into my mind, I felt the familiar gentle touch of his arm encircling my waist. The corners of my lips turned upward in a distant smile, and I leaned into him slightly. The brim of the white sunhat I wore brushed against his shoulder, setting it askew upon my head. But the week before, as we had made that same journey, he had purchased it for me from a vendor at the far entrance of the park. Often he would surprise me with little gifts–sometimes larger–much to my delight. I had but once attempted to give him something in return, for he had refused it politely, and had told me that a parcel or so on holidays and birthdays fully sufficed.

"You are for me to spoil," he had once assured me. I often wondered if he had truly meant this, though beneath his awkward joking manner, there seemed to linger sincerity.

I felt him readjust my hat so that it sat as straightly upon me as it had before, though this movement caused a line of hairs to pass in front of my eyes. A thin strand of blonde clung between my lashes, and I brushed it aside. The weight of the basket that I carried sank slightly, as I then had but one hand grasping it. Above us, the trees were unmoving, as though all but the pair of us was frozen in time–perhaps in a muggle photograph.

I parted my lips to speak, but the words died before they were even uttered, for I had heard the soft sound of air rustling through feathers. Tom too, had noticed this, and our eyes sought to locate from whence it had come.

Several moments passed before the owl–for that was indeed what it seemed to be–emitted a low call that was instantaneously followed by that of another. I shifted my gaze, following the line of Tom's arm as he pointed to a thick knot of branches to our left; upon this, a pair of eagle owls was perched. Their golden eyes glinted as they regarded us for a moment, then shook, their wings unfolding as they floated toward us.

As if by an automatic reflex, Tom held out his arm, and the first of the two birds touched upon it briefly before veering away and dropping a thick envelope at his feet. Tom scowled, and a dark cloud seemed to pass across his face. Yet in spite of this, I laughed. He cast me a scathing look.

"Really, Tom," I chuckled, whilst the second owl lingered before me with impatience. "It is a pity you cannot speak to birds."

"Whatever then would I say?" His tone still was stained with traces of an anger I could not at the time comprehend. The owl hooted nigh disapprovingly and streaked away into the shadows, releasing the envelope intended for me from a great height several meters away. In this flurry, my hat was knocked to the dust-laden ground.

"Worthless animals," he muttered scornfully, and stooped to retrieve his fallen parcel. After a moment's pause, I did the same, walking the short distance to reach the place at which it had come to land.

The envelope was of the same thick parchment I had recalled receiving six times before. The scarlet wax, imprinted with the crest of Hogwarts, seemed still to be freshly warmed, not yet fully set. For a reason I did not know, my hands quivered slightly whilst my fingers fumbled to break the seal and pull the folded letter from inside–contrary to Tom, who slit the top of the envelope with incredible deftness.

"Danielle," he murmured softly, as though disbelieving yet believing all at once. His tone was strange, and I glanced at him, my eyes leaving the still unopened letter in my hands. "They have… appointed me Head Boy…"

He looked up from the parchment, his expression unreadable–perhaps more than ever. Yet then, his lips curled into the most minute of smiles, pride shining briefly in his dark eyes. As I saw this, I too felt a surge of pride swell within me.

"That is wonderful, Tom " I exclaimed, and I embraced him, a kiss finding his cheek, then his lips.

"And you, then?" he inquired.

My cheeks flushed hotly, and I gestured to that which was still clutched amongst my fingers. "I do not know."

"Then make haste, Danielle, and you shall." I pursed my lips and he smirked.

Closing my eyes softly, I swallowed. I stroked the now worn edges of the envelope–for it seemed I had attempted to open it many a time more than I had realized.

"Is there something wrong?" he queried, his amusement apparent. At once, I felt foolish, and ripped at the thick parchment with a reserved savageness. Where I had torn it was stained with a thin line of crimson, for I had cut the flesh of my forefinger. Tom placed his hand upon my shoulder in concern. My eyes watered, and I quickly stemmed the flow of blood, the coppery liquid lightly coating a small portion of my lip.

"This is ridiculous" I scowled, biting down softly upon my lip. I thrust the letter at Tom, whose smirk threatened to grow and spread across the entirety of his face. Just as before, in one concise gesture the letter fell into my waiting hands.

I murmured my gratitude, and began to read; at first, it was only to myself, but soon the words written there escaped from my mouth.

"Dear Miss Parmellie,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the position of Head Girl this year, 1944. After thorough consideration, we have decided that you alone are the best qualified for this elite duty, due to the unwavering excellence of your conduct. Please note that you must report to your designated compartment upon your arrival at King's Cross Station. Your badge, which you are required to wear at all times, is enclosed..."

My heart seemed to leap and roar within my chest, and hardly was I aware that Tom had kissed my cheek and offered his congratulations.

"Fancy that," I muttered numbly, and reread the letter in awe. Though I had hoped and nigh expected it, such news still came as a shock. Yet as I considered it, I wondered if I had not been the only one eligible. But whatever the case, in truth, had been, I knew that never would I have my thoughts confirmed or disproved. And for a moment, I could not withstand such a responsibility.

-

The remaining days ere the term began passed quickly and quietly as though a fox that wishes to remain hidden in the wooded glen surrounding it. I noticed not when one day–one week–began and ended, for to me they seemed much the same, if not exactly so. Tom's mind seemed to travel along a similar path; both he and I also felt nerves unbearable, and this sense hung heavily between us. Often did we lapse into the silence which I had come to know so well, thus it was to be accepted as a part of the relationship we had–without it, things would not have been much the same. Yet there were times as well in which we felt an unexplainable loquaciousness fall upon us, and we talked of things unconstrained. This too was how it was between us.

-

"Danielle..." There came a soft whisper in my ear. I could feel Tom's breath upon me, tickling the small loose hairs which lay strewn across my face. He brushed them gently aside, and whispered my name once more.

I opened my eyes, heavy with sleep still, and I was met with his for a moment as I began to focus. "What is the time?" I queried, rolling so that I was supported by my elbows; my chin rested in my palms.

The room was in entire darkness, save for the small flickering of the candle which he held just above my cot. His eyes escaped the light of the flame as he seemed to glance at the direction of the door.

"Five o'clock," he informed me quietly. "We must depart. Mrs. Cole has not yet awakened."

I yawned then, my expression vacant. "Mrs.–"

"The Madam."

For many a summer, it had seemed, I had resided under the lax care of Mrs. Cole, yet I found it strange that never once had I learned of her name–until then. Although, I had not pried further and asked of it, and so I assumed that this was the reason I had not been told.

Gradually, I eased myself from the sunken mattress, fumbling blindly to straighten the blankets upon it and locate the small items I had not yet placed safely away in my trunk. Tom ducked from the room as I dressed, and returned promptly when I had finished. Then he pulled his wand from its place within his trunk and grasped it firmly, his dark eyes regarding it as though in a new light.

"What is it?" I asked, sensing instantly the hunger of his expression.

"We have been of age since January," he murmured slowly, his look flickering to me for but a moment before he returned it to his hand. "Dare I utilize magic outside of Hogwarts in an orphanage brimming with muggle swine?"

In an instant, I had recognized the danger in his tone, just as I had seen the look dancing within his eyes. This pairing, upon his being brought fear to my heart, for I had seen it before at times. It was the same longing I had seen as he first regarded the wand of Salazar Slytherin and told me of his plans. A longing far different than when it was directed at me.

"Perhaps..." I stuttered hastily. "Perhaps it is best to wait until we are away from this place. The Ministry will not pardon us if we use magic here."

At length, he returned from his trance-like state and turned to me, unblinking. "Yes," he muttered, as if to himself. "We shall Apparate from the park."

--

Albus lifts his hand, his gnarled fingers curling about his palm. His lips are pursed–though not unsmilingly–and I suddenly realize what I have forgotten. It is now my turn to smile, and I allow him to query of me what I already expect him to say.

"I do believe, Miss Riddle, that I should like to hear of your Apparating examination. If memory serves me correctly, you have not yet mentioned it." The subtle upturning of his lips now matches my own, and his clear, eyes, a robin's egg blue, begin to brighten.

I avert my gaze into my lap to mask my amusement. "It seems as though such a small event now," I admit. After all, I had neglected my coming of age. "Though at the time, I must have been quite a momentous ordeal. Shall I tell of it then? Though there is not much to tell or remember."

"I would be delighted all the same," he tells me, and I cannot help but chuckle softly.

"But of course."

He regards me thoughtfully for a moment, and once more my eyes flicker to my lap as I begin to collect my memories. Yet as I attempt this, I find that I must struggle to do so, partially for the intensity of his gaze, which causes me discomfort. As if sensing this, he speaks.

"Perhaps a Pensieve?"

Gratefully, I agree to this, placing the tip of my wand to my temple. It is a strange sensation, pulling a thought from my head, a sensation I have never enjoyed. Yet I close my eyes and draw the string of silver as though from beneath my flesh; it feels chilled and smooth, and a shudder makes its way through my body.

Then I dip the luminescent strand into the stone basin which still sits before me, and it swirls and spreads until the liquid's surface reflects a picture of springtime. There are small figures dancing across it, so minute that they are unrecognizable. I place my fingertips upon the smoothed edges of the Pensieve and lean forward so that my nose lightly touches the liquid, and it shatters into a multitude of ripples.

I lurch forward, diving into it as if into a lake, knowing that Albus is not far behind me. I am anxious to relive this memory, for I remember not the details of it. For a moment, I wonder if my former professor knows more of it than he allows me to believe. It is his nature to coax one into divulging secrets rather than forcing it brutally. It is different this time however, for he is coaxing something from me which has been nigh lost–yet not forgotten.

I cannot feel the soft rush of grass as it licks at the soles of my shoes, though the memory is triggered within my mind, so it is almost as if I can–though the blades do not even stir.

It is but a second until I find my former self, standing just behind Tom. He is precisely how I recall him being, though even so, I feel my weather-beaten heart perform a feeble flip within my chest. I have not lain eyes upon him as such for so long that it aches. It does not come as much as a shock to me, however, as my own appearance.

I am smaller than I have remembered, much more so than Tom. My hair is a dull blonde sheen, my face nearly obscured by a curtain of it, for my head is declining toward the ground. I know that in spite of this, my eyes are watchful, drinking in each movement around me. They are eyes that even now are with me: the only thing that has not changed–or, rather, have only changed a little.

An unorganized line of students files past us, joined now by my younger self and the man who has become Lord Voldemort. We do not speak as our peers do, for I know that our minds are concentrating upon things of more importance. I notice our fingers touch briefly, and we glance at each other. I smile, both then and now, and we meld into line together.

Albus places a hand upon my shoulder, preventing me from further progression. I turn to him, and he casts me a look that is just short of pity. Instead, I can describe it only as being of firmness and understanding. I do not respond with words, but comprehension and acceptance passes between us. I am an old woman, yet with this visit into the past it feels as though I can simply fade away into my memories, reliving them forever more. Though at times, I wonder if I already am.

When we reach Hogsmeade, Albus allows me to trail just behind Tom and myself. I catch small snatches of dialogue between others, on occasion, that speak of me. Momentarily, I look about at the village of 1944. The shops do not much differ from what little I see of them now, though there Is a quality that they have which in the present they lack. I cannot describe it, but I wonder if it is because they then had nothing to fear. It is because of Tom that even the air is laden with constant worry now.

I shake my head to clear these thoughts from my mind. The examination is about to begin, and I fall into stillness.

"Are you nervous?" Tom inquires, taking my hand. There is a wizened man at the furthermost end of our peers. My gaze travels toward him for a moment, as a girl vanishes with a splitting crack, reappearing a small distance away within a circle that is etched upon the ground.

"My hands," I murmur. "They are shaking." This is the truth, for I hold them out before me, displaying their violent quivering.

"Would you care to practice, then? Surely that would put a stopper upon your fears."

"Here?" I ask in surprise.

He nods and leads me behind the shop nearest us. It is a building forlorn and abandoned, its windows covered in boards. Yet even this wood has begun to wear away, and it is a wonder that it still stands.

My shoulder brushes against its side, and aged flecks crumble and fall away. I glance at it for but a fleeting second; Tom brushes it aside and holds my arms. He guides my wand into my grasp, then releases me.

I bite my lip in concentration, then close my eyes. And with a sound far louder than I have remembered the girl's to be, I Apparate into the abandoned shop, smiling thinly through a space between the boards of the window. After a moment, Tom whisks himself beside me, and our younger selves are hidden.

I turn from this mirthful display, for I have seen enough. I pass Albus as I retreat, and we exchange a glance which, within a short time, has graced our faces often. I remember distinctly the events that follow: how we are discovered and chastised for wandering away, and how Tom charmed trouble from befalling us. Albus, I know, will remain to see the entirety of the scene unfold, but for a reason I cannot describe, I realize I cannot bear to do the same.