A/N: I would just like to clarify a few things because I think I might have severely exaggerated Bella's beauty and her magical abilities. Yes, she was pretty (inherited from her parents) but not quite drop-dead gorgeous or particularly exotic. She can do Occlumency because her Father gave her extensive lessons. If I'm not wrong, Draco was able to do Occlumency in his sixth year after being taught by Bellatrix Lestrange, so I thought it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for her to have mastered it by the time she was fifteen. Also, in Chapter 1, when her father dueled with her, he was going very easy on her, because a dead spy is pretty much useless. If she had to fight him in real life, she would be stone dead in five seconds flat. Sorry for not making these things clear.
Chapter 4: The First Day
I sat listlessly in the Great Hall, poking at my porridge, which was looking incredibly unappetising. By now, I was sorely regretting that unusual burst of sentimentality that had occurred last night. If I had not spent all night reminiscing about my past and mourning the death of the real Gemma, I would not be half as tired as I was now. As Father often said, there was no point crying over spilled potion, and what was done could not be undone. Not that I regretted it, of course. All around me, there was a perfect Babel of noise and chatter generated by students thrilled to be back at Hogwarts after a long summer, but I was too fatigued to open my mouth. "Gemma? You all right? You look a little peaky," Lavender commented. "I'm fine. Just had a little trouble sleeping last night—you know, worrying about O.W.L.s." I lied smoothly. Thankfully, she nodded, turned back to Parvati and continued nattering on about the latest hairstyles. I could not resist smirking just a little, letting my red hair swing forward so no one would see my expression. Being exhausted clearly did not damage my ability to lie.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Unable to resist the soporific effect of Professor Binns' voice during History of Magic, I fell asleep and woke to find a puddle of drool on my textbook. How absolutely mortifying.
At long last, the final lesson of the day—Defense Against the Dark Arts rolled around. By that time, I was practically dead on my feet. To my surprise, we were told to put away our wands, take out our quills and copy down the course aims: 1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic. 2. Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used. 3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use. I wrinkled my brow in puzzlement as I stared fixedly at the blackboard. There was nothing, absolutely nothing about actually using magic in the course aims. What in the name of Merlin was the Ministry thinking? I could sense Umbridge looking at me, so I quickly ducked my head and hastily began to read the assigned chapter. Before I could even take in the contents of the first page, however, Hermione Granger's voice rang out from directly behind me. "Excuse me, Professor. I have a query about your course aims. There's nothing in there about actually using defensive magic," she stated bluntly.
"What, using defensive magic?" the toad-like professor gave a short, derisive laugh. "Surely you don't think that a situation would arise in my classroom in which you were attacked and had to defend yourself. Oh, no, my dear children, no need to be afraid, you are perfectly safe here, " she continued in a patronising tone that made it absolutely clear that she found us incredibly foolish. I could not help bristling a little at her tone. How dare she treat us like a bunch of five-year-olds?
Naturally, her words unleashed a barrage of questions as outraged students demanded to know how on earth we were supposed to perform the spells during our OWLs if we did not have a single chance to practice in class. To her credit, Professor Umbridge was cool as a cucumber, dealing with the queries shot at her by the class. (The following scene in italics is taken from Order of the Phoenix, with a little bit of paraphrasing) "I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—"
"And what good's theory going to be in the real world?" said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again. Professor Umbridge looked up.
"This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world," she said softly.
"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"
"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."
"Oh yeah?" said Harry. He had always had a quick temper, and I could tell that he was about to flare up.
"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" inquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Hmm, let's think," said Harry in a mock-thoughtful voice, "maybe Lord Voldemort?"
Ronald gasped; Lavender uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool. I hastily forced a petrified expression onto my face lest anyone find my lack of terror suspicious. Professor Umbridge, on the other hand, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter."
The classroom was silent and still. Everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry.
"Now, let me make a few things quite plain," Professor Umbridge stood and leaned towards us, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on the desk. "You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—"
"He wasn't dead," said Harry angrily, "but yeah, he's returned!" Glee surged through me. If anything could make more people believe that Harry was insane, it was this display of anger. He really did look quite mad, with his hands shaking and his eyes bulging in rage.
"Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-po ints-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,"said Professor Umbridge in one breath, studiously avoiding his gaze. "As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large one again. This is a lie.
"It is NOT a lie!" said Harry. "I saw him, I fought him!"
"Detention, Mr. Potter!" said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. "Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Pave five, 'Basics for Beginners.'"
And with that, she sat down behind her desk. Harry, however, got to his feet. Everyone was staring at him.
"Harry, no!" Always the prudent one, Hermione Granger tugged at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach.
"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?" Harry asked, his voice shaking.
There was a collective intake of breath from the class. None of us, perhaps except for Ron and Hermione, had ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on the night my father had risen again. Everyone stared avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face.
"Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," she said coldly.
"It was murder," said Harry, trembling violently as all thirty of us listened eagerly. "Voldemort killed him and you know it."
Instead of throwing a hissy fit as I had expected, the Professor said in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, "Come here, Mr. Potter dear."
Harry kicked his chair aside, strode around Ronald and Hermione and up to the desk. The rest of the class looked on, holding its breath. She pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag (ew, what an absolutely revolting colour), stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink and started scribbling, hunched over to hide the words. Silence reigned in the room. After a minute or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand, causing it to seal itself seamlessly.
"Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear," said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him.
Harry took it from her without saying a word, turned on his heel and left the room. "Well, what are you waiting for?" inquired Professor Umbridge brightly, still smiling that horrible toad-like smile. "Kindly carry on with your reading." Although her tone and expression appeared sweet, there was a coldness beneath it that made me shiver. She looked kind, yes, but I could tell that she was evil personified and her menacing aura rattled me more than I cared to admit. My classmates had probably sensed this too—they all returned to their books obediently and studied assiduously (or at least pretended to be doing so). No one, not even Hermione Granger, who was famous for hardheadedness, dared to argue with her. Looking extremely satisfied, the squat Professor sat back down.
At nine o'clock that night, I retired to my dormitory, which was empty save for me. All the other girls were still struggling to get through their mountain of homework. I had finished with the bulk of it since I had skipped my midday meal and gone to the library instead. Priorities. You'll never get anywhere without was a beautiful night, clear and starry, but I was in no mood to enjoy it. For some reason, my telepathic connection was not working! After ten minutes of trying and failing to reach Father, my palms were clammy with sweat and I was swearing like a sailor under my breath. Father was expecting a report by nine o'five sharp tonight! Sweet Salazar, I was in hot potion now. His telepathic connection with me had rarely failed in past years. It was rather powerful, having been established through ancient magic after I murdered Gemma. Not love. Dark magic. A blood bond, forged through the shared thrill of killing the girl created in those exhilarated moments just after the kill.
"Relax, Bella," I muttered. "Stay calm." I lay down on my bed and tried to envision my father sitting in the picturesque cottage, called out to him in my mind. "Father, where are you? Father?" Out of the blue, a high, clear voice devoid of human kindness rang out in my head. "Belladonna Emerald Riddle. You. Are. Late." Even a fool would be able to sense how irate he was. To him, time was Galleons.
Thinking on my feet, I went for Lucius Malfoy-style groveling since I was too drained to employ Occlumency to cover up my lies. "I'm so sorry, Father. I couldn't muster the mental focus to establish to connection. But I have good news for you! The Ministry still refuses to believe that you are back, and they maintain that 'Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident'. Best of all, our new Defense teacher is a foul toad who will not teach any practical Defense. So none of the students will be properly trained in combat! " There was a long, nasty pause that seemed to stretch on forever. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease don't let him get angry.
After what felt like a million years, he spoke. "Good, good. Lucius Malfoy mentioned some time ago that Fudge feared Dumbledore was organising an army consisting of Hogwarts students to overthrow the Ministry. Naturally, I was reluctant to believe him at that time, given his propensity to exaggerate. Since your account corroborates his, I suppose it is true. However, I am very displeased with you behavior. One more time and there will be consequences. " I was far too relieved about getting off scot-free to worry about said consequences. There wouldn't be a next time, anyway. Voldemort's daughter did not make the same mistake twice. Generally, I'd like to say that Voldemort's daughter does not make mistakes at all (if you can dream it, you can do it! Go Bella!) but that does not always happen. A pity, as Father enjoys frequently reminding me.
"Right, then," he continued, shattering my reverie. "I have things to do." And just like that, the connection was cut off. Still marveling at my good fortune of not being punished for my tardiness, I rolled over and began siphoning the sweat out of my clothes. They had become absolutely drenched over the last five minutes. I then made myself comfortable and soon fell asleep, dreaming of a certain Irish boy…