For QLFC, Round 1
Team: Puddlemere United
Position: Chaser 1
Prompt: A broken mirror – Write about a relationship (platonic or romantic) breaking apart
Bonus prompts: [object] bowl, [object] feather, [action] hiding
TW/Additional Tags: mention of death/murder (of animals), blood, toxic relationships, Tom Riddle Is His Own Warning
Word count: 2,410
three times is a pattern
The enchanted looking-glass was a final project for the Ancient Runes artifice unit, which was why it had to be perfect.
Perfection, however, eluded them, as treacherous and tempting as a Snitch before a Seeker's fingertips.
The past three times they'd attempted its fabrication, it had not gone well. Either the silver had cooled unevenly, leaving a series of unsightly lumps and bumps, or the spell had gone awry, or there'd been a mistake drawing the runes. Despite the last prototype being at least fully functional, neither was pleased. It was clearly time to go back to the drawing board.
Suffice it to say, Minerva McGonagall was at her wits' end. Her partner in this endeavour was equally listless and had been silent all day. Tom Riddle had yet to speak a single word since they'd arrived at the library. The only sound he made was the insistent scrape of turning pages, occasionally shifting his legs around every so often. During the last attempt to pour the silver into the mirror's frame, he'd burned himself badly, and his right hand was immersed in a bowl of Murtlap Essence borrowed from Minerva. The bowl itself had been a gift from Poppy, carefully inscribed with healing runes. It was an earlier iteration of her final project.
Instead of competing, they finally decided to pool their efforts and come up with something truly spectacular, something that would be head and shoulders above any of the other projects this year. The mirror was meant to be an absolute triumph, but it was quickly becoming infuriating.
Minerva propped her head on her hand, staring at him awhile. He did not speak. There was an unhealthy pallor about his face, and his hair was longer than usual and, dare she say, even slightly greasy in the amber lights of the school library.
What is really going on with him?
She knew he was taking twelve OWLs (how she couldn't fathom). But that didn't explain his stranger and stranger behaviour over the course of the school year. He seemed mired in a pit of endless melancholy that bordered on lovesickness.
Or like someone who's hiding something.
After nearly six years of regularly butting heads with her fellow prefect and academic rival, Minerva knew better than to ask.
They had long ago explored all the ways in which they found each other perfectly, exquisitely irritating, being as perfect an example of a Gryffindor and Slytherin that one could find in Hogwarts. She had long given up on attempting to coax anything out of him that he did not freely divulge.
"I think we ought to try something different," she said. "Have you found anything useful?"
It was a while before he answered her.
"No. Not yet."
There was a pallor to his voice, too. Illness, perhaps. Or lack of sleep.
"Perhaps we should take a break," Minerva offered. "Fresh air might do us some good."
Something about his face had lifted. Amusement played around the corners of his mouth.
"Poppy's getting to you," said Tom, watching her evaluatively. "But it does sound like a good idea."
They both got to their feet and left the library, Minerva quickening her pace to match Tom's longer strides. Once outside, she noticed a clear, sunny day without a hint of cloud cover.
Such glorious weather was too rare to waste inside; she suggested they make their way down the path to Hogsmeade.
Tom paused before a dilapidated building.
"You know this place?" asked Minerva, pausing, too. The Sign of the Rooks was a place of ill repute. It housed a theatre known for its bawdy plays, and the basement was a popular meeting place for criminals and ne'er-do-wells. Hundreds of its ominous namesake skittered about the roof and along the ground, croaking raucously.
The rooks frightened her, and she recalled the old sayings that foretold of rookeries bringing good fortune. Minerva wasn't sure if the source of her unease was their sombre colour or their sheer numbers.
Instead of answering verbally, Tom shook his head and leaned down to recover a single black feather. When he tilted it in the light, Minerva saw blue and green hues in the inky colour. Before she could get a closer look, he had put it in his pocket, away from sight.
"Where did you want to go?" he asked. His hand rose tentatively from his pocket, offering her the feather. Wordlessly, she took it from him, turning it around in her hand.
Rook feathers, to Minerva's best knowledge, weren't useful for Potions. She didn't know quite what to make of this strange gift.
"I could get it made into a quill," suggested Minerva, holding the feather up to the light. "To commemorate."
A tense smile played at Tom's mouth again. "What's the occasion?"
"It would be a shame to let such a fine feather go to waste."
"To Scrivenshaft's, then."
Just before dark, they returned to the school grounds, parting at the Great Hall, where the entire rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team was having a heated discussion about preparations for next year and how to win the House Cup back from Slytherin. Minerva stifled a yawn. Somehow, she could not keep her eyes from closing.
Movement in the area of the Slytherin table drew her soporous gaze.
There was a dense cluster of boys on one end: Icarus Lestrange, Balthazar Avery, Eustace Mulciber, Leopold Rosier, Thaddeus Nott, and, at the very bottom, Tom. The latter had gotten up, drifting out of the hall like a shadow. It might have been a trick of the light, but Minerva convinced herself that he had beckoned for her to follow.
I've got to return Poppy's healing bowl, she thought vaguely, but it was a faraway thought.
Muttering an excuse to her friends, she went out into the corridor. Where might he have gone? She asked Nearly-Headless Nick if he had seen a tall Slytherin with a prefect's badge, and he pointed her in the direction of the dungeons.
Having no idea where the Slytherin Common Room was situated (it was one of the school's best-kept secrets), she wandered down into the damp passageway where few ventured. Minerva had heard stories of dangerous creatures hidden in the dark and damp dungeons, but she had her wand and wasn't frightened.
As she ventured deeper, a strange, muffled chanting began to grow louder and louder. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
Is something down here?
The chanting grew louder, and she found herself in front of an open door. Her stomach turned.
"What are you doing?" asked Minerva. Her voice sounded paler than she had hoped. The hand on the doorframe trembled, and she shivered, but not from the cold of the dungeons.
The sinister sight before her made time freeze.
He was clean, meticulously so, shirt collar bleach-white, face scrubbed clean, clean, but for his crimson hands, stark against his pale arms. The scent of iron stung Minerva's nostrils; all around him lay dead serpents.
There was an ominous bloodstain swabbed across the stone floor. A scarlet red cluster of runes lay in a tight circle. Was that blood, too?
She sucked in a gasp, white-knuckling the doorframe.
"This won't hurt, Minerva," he said quietly, his wand at the ready, a mere two inches from her now. Blood permeated the air, and she shivered again, not because of the cold, but because he was close to her, close enough for his breaths to ruffle her hair. Minerva could not decide if she was frightened, shocked, or perhaps something worse. Perhaps she was more alive than she had ever been. There was magic in the air, like static clinging to the muggy breeze in a thunderstorm. The room had the atmosphere of a fairy-place in the woods, sickly sweet and dangerously enchanting.
"It won't hurt," said Tom once more, but she was not comforted. "Obliv—"
She clamped her hand around his mouth, keeping the rest of the word in. Tom stared back at her with surprised eyes. Minerva was surprised, too.
I have to know.
"How many times?" she blurted out. "How many times have you wiped my memory? How many times did I find out?"
"What?" With strength she didn't know that he had, Tom had seized her wrist and wrenched her hand away from his mouth, pinning her to the doorframe with it. The pressure was exquisitely calculated, enough to hold her fast but not enough to hurt her as if he'd done this many times before and knew the exact weight of her arm. The other hand rested gently at her waist. In fact, if someone, for some reason, was walking in the very depths of the dungeons and happened to discover them, they might have thought Tom and Minerva were about to kiss.
She could only gaze back in frozen terror.
With her free hand, perhaps she could get at her wand.
"You're practising Dark magic." Even though there was no one to hear, she whispered, her lips barely moving. Minerva searched Tom's face, but he remained utterly placid.
This explained all of it, what he'd been hiding. His listlessness, his pallor, the sickly look about him. Why hadn't she figured it out before?
His fathomless eyes stared back at her.
Or perhaps she had. He confirmed her worst fears.
"Evidently. You never take it well. This is the third time, by the way."
Minerva nearly choked on a gasp. How could he admit to such things so glibly?
Of course — he was planning on erasing her memory again. And here she was, helpless, trapped between a Dark wizard and a stone wall like a bug stuck to paper with a sewing pin.
For a few brief seconds, Minerva found herself admiring his skill. Erasing a memory so completely and filling in the blanks so as not to arouse suspicion was a skill that eluded most adult wizards.
"You're not going to convince me to join you, are you?" Minerva asked wryly.
"No," said Tom after some hesitation. "You seemed averse to the idea last time I asked. Have you changed your mind?"
He leaned even closer so that they were a hair apart. Minerva felt her pulse quicken, the blood thundering in her veins. She could feel the magic clinging to his skin, and like a piece of metal drawn to a lodestone, she felt herself being pulled towards it.
"No," she whispered. I cannot follow you down this path. I will not.
"Until next time, then," he said coldly. "If you won't be my ally, Minerva, the least you can do is not get in my way."
"I can't promise that," she hissed back.
Minerva took her chance.
Still staring back at him, her hand slipped easily into her pocket, but as soon as she grasped her wand, Tom disarmed her.
He cupped her jaw in something akin to a lover's embrace, held her close to him, and whispered, in the tone of the sweetest of confessions, "Oblivi— OW!"
She stabbed him in the soft middle of his palm, where he'd been burnt, with the wicked point of her brand-new quill; barely taking in the sight of blood dripping from his hand and the shocked look on his face, she turned and fled into the night, the only accompaniment to her terror her frenzied footfalls against the stone floor of the dungeons. Her pace did not relent until she reached the entrance to Hufflepuff Basement, tapping the correct barrel five times. Minerva glanced behind her before she entered, but she had not been followed.
As soon as she caught sight of her and without a moment's hesitation, Minerva rushed towards Poppy, wrapping her arms around the smaller girl and choking out a strangled sob. Poppy let out a quiet gasp of surprise but returned the hug nonetheless. If the other Hufflepuffs found the sudden appearance of a distraught Gryffindor prefect in their common room strange, they at least pretended not to notice.
"Oh, you poor thing," said Poppy, stroking her hair. "You look like you've had a terrible fright."
Minerva said nothing for a while, her fingers hooked in the folds of Poppy's robes. Finally, she sniffled, overcome with lingering fright.
"Tom, he... he's a Dark wizard."
"It's simply awful, I know, but he wouldn't be the first talented wizard to dabble in the Dark Arts," said Poppy, though there was a note of distaste in the Hufflepuff's tone. Minerva knew that despite it all, Poppy had a soft spot for Tom, and a soft heart in general, always thinking the best of everyone.
But Poppy hadn't been the one trapped in that dungeon room with a terrifying side of Tom that she'd never before beheld. Poppy hadn't been the one who had trembled so strangely, almost entranced. Minerva knew she wanted nothing to do with it. Like Tom, she was powerful, powerful enough to be swayed by the seductive hold of Dark magic. And that meant she could have nothing to do with him, for he would drag her down into the bottomless darkness and swallow her whole.
The rook feather quill she'd stabbed him with was still in her hand, stained with his blood, dried to a dark brown stain already.
"It's not dabbling. It's not a phase, Posey. He really meant it. He's been Obliviating me. I've found out before, and I don't remember..." Her voice shook. "I don't remember, I just..."
A look of horror was slowly spreading across Poppy's face. With a grim look, she raised a hand to Minerva's face and gently wiped off her tears.
"You ought to tell Professor Dumbledore."
"I'll have to," said Minerva, sagging with exhaustion and dreading the thought of spoiling her Animagus practice, which she so looked forward to, with terrible news. She wanted nothing more but to sleep. A small part of her wished Tom had Obliviated her again. It was better for some things to be hidden. Why should she be saddled with this knowledge? The enchanted looking-glass still needed work, and oh, dash it all!
Suddenly, another realization dawned on her.
"Oh, Poppy, I've left the bowl with him!"
"Never mind, Min, there's always another chance." Poppy wiggled her fingers. "I've got more where that came from, don't you worry. And I think I can actually improve the spells."
She patted Minerva's cheek indulgently, and the latter managed a weak smile in return.