Hey! Happy New Year – here is a monstrous size chapter to a good start. Again, thanks to lil'hawkeye3, my beta, and to JK Rowling for creating the most amazing story in which this fanfic is based.
I am going to travel for a month, my dears, so I don't know if I will be able to answer your reviews. But I gonna try! Enjoy!
They left. They would have gone to the Leaky Cauldron, if Tom hadn't pointed out that Anya' s face was now pretty recognizable around the wizarding world and that it would be rather difficult to explain their presence there on the same night the Hogwarts Express had left them. So instead, they went to an inn in Muggle London, and the next day bought a house-trunk, and rented a flat.
The house-trunk was, as the name suggested, was a two-storey flat fitted inside of an all-zinc vertical trunk. The first floor had two rooms – a rustic light-wooded kitchen, and a large sitting room with tufted upholstered fainting couches and chaise lounges lined in pale green velveteen. The high walls of the lounge depicted a misty forest with high trees, two of them covered by bookshelves and the floor was light wooden, and a curved leg coffee table, an iron chandelier hang from the ceiling and a fireplace. A spiral staircase of white marble carried them to the second floor.
The second-floor had four rooms. For the first time in their lives outside Hogwarts, they wouldn't share a bed. She had no idea how to feel about it. Her room was all in shades of cyan – viridian and teal – a vanity, a bronze canopy bed full of cushions, a desk, and a still life painting of a bouquet with Austrian roses, yellow acacias, lilacs and rowan branches. Tom's room was darker, full of ancient furniture he had found in Knockturn Alley. He even had plans to start a wine cellar.
The other two rooms were obviously a bathroom and their walk-in-wardrobe. It was the first time they only had to share those kinds of accommodations between two. They could appreciate that change. The whole house-trunk was very convenient, and – although they had spent a lot buying it and the furniture – it had proved to be a useful investment.
They spent the two first weeks of their holidays like that, visiting Diagon Alley only during the day. Tom walked around the wizarding district, trying to gather information on Lord Magnus, on their families, on the war. Anya tried to avoid being recognised.
And then one day, everything changed.
She was sitting at one of the Diagon Alley's cafes, sipping a cup of hibiscus tea and reading an essay on the area spell, as its Peruvian theorizer called. His idea was to use an auxiliary to amply the range of targets of a spell. Its uses were unfathomable – if it didn't require a supernatural amount of power to be executed. And that was the reason his work was so rejected in the academic fields.
Anya's eyes fixated on the text in her hands. The theory behind the verbal spells indicated that words were merely a tool – so, such words in order to amplify the area shouldn't be necessary. However, nobody was able to stun more than one person simply saying "stupefy". The words and wand-movements were used to evoke a certain effect, tools to help visualise what the caster wanted his magic to do. Because of that, it was possible to create new spells – because one wasn't finding a way to make something happing, one was only training his magic and his brain to respond to words and movements. It was also because of this that most children couldn't perform a spell correctly their first time – because they lacked the knowledge of its effects and workings, or because they found something wrong with their own performance and as thus, didn't expect anything to happen. But this was also the reason that sometimes one found a spell one had no idea whose effects might be, and with only a generic explanation of its uses (like for healing, for cheering, for enemies) one managed to cast it rightly if one had had enough time to assimilate it – because one expected something to happen; to one's injury to be healed, to one's depression to be solved, to one's enemy to be injured. The addition to a word to amplify the effects was just that: a change in expectations. A powerful and ambitious change – that if one's had enough power, could be used with ease. But how much power was needed?
Someone sat in front of her and Anya looked up. It was Tom, obviously. A cup of black tea appeared over the table as he sat and she assumed he had already talked with the house-elves. Strange, she hadn't seen him. A moment later, a slice of treacle tart reified beside her cup and she smiled. "You know me so well, Arawn."
"Your parents are dead."
"Harisa and Sigmund? Or others?"
"The Donbyres."
"Oh. I liked them. They used to give me presents." She commented, cutting a forkful of tart to herself. "Why they died?"
"They aren't useful anymore." Everybody thought of her as a pureblood, he meant. "It's a good time to die." There is a war where they live, that's it. "And it cuts some loose ties." So, Meier had made Tom believe keeping her pretence parents alive wasn't useful when anyone could unmask their inexistence with a simple trip. Their death wasn't the perfect escape, but it was good enough. She wasn't surprised by the decision. She had already thought of that and reached the same conclusion.
"And your father?"
"He has shut himself in. Your mother was the only family he had left – even if they were only cousin-in-laws – and her and your father's death shocked him. I fear he won't endure until the start of the term."
"Won't somebody feel weird about two teenagers living on their own?"
"To the government, we have always lived in an orphanage. To everyone else we have been lying to, I'm an emancipated heir with an account in Gringotts. Nobody cares more than that." Tom shrugged.
"What has ascertained your decision?"
"I was thinking about Lord Magnus – no, I discovered nothing – but I came to the conclusion this wasn't helping anything anymore."
And it had been that day in the middle of July that the lives of Sigmund and Harisa Donbyre ended, and that another Tom Riddle, a magical one, was marked to death. That had also been the day they received an invitation to the Annual Ministry Ball – at which Anya would receive her Order of Merit.
The Order of Merit, although intrinsically different from the Order of Merlin, was considered by many the first step to be consecrated with such. Differently from the Order of Merlin though, the award was purely British, and dated back the fifteenth century. Everyone knew that such prestige was granted to few.
][][][][][][][][][][][]
A small, marble Grecian palace stood hidden in the middle of Copenhagen. Delphine van Tovenaar had known something had changed at home when she and her sister received orders to go back.
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Tovenaar was one of the oldest magical families in Denmark, and they prided themselves for their neutrality. Yet, as the house-elf who had been her nanny for years, Nina, carried her trunk into the house, gushing over the masters' master and his knights, Delphine began to suspect that those changes were even more life-altering than she had thought.
The Danish witch had been right, of course, and hours later she was kneeling in her home's ballroom – kissing the hem of silky magenta robes. The bronze-skinned owner of such rich garments was a man of luxuriant golden locks and deep blue eyes. He held himself with much pomp, his expression stoic and imperious defined by refined jaws. His figure resembled the body that the Greeks had idealised.
Gellert Grindelwald. The Dark Lord. Her Lordship after her parents had sworn alliance to him.
"Your daughters, Ijsbrand?" Her father acquiesced. "Fehltreffer Coralline and Fehltreffer Delphine. A pleasure to finally met you – I trust your stay at Hogwarts was pleasant?"
"Very much, my Lord." Her sister agreed, never raising her eyes to face the man. Nevertheless, both of them could see that the man had nodded and dismissed them. They were rather eager to obey – retreating back to the large doors and away.
Both witches sighed in relief as soon as they walked through the doors, releasing the tension from their shoulders. Thankfully, their Lord hadn't taken further interest in them and because of that they would only have to worry about avoiding him and his followers during the summer. Most of them were stationed on their manor. Their mother had separated a tower to them isolate themselves if that proved to be the case. The summer enclosed in a tower – much like a princess of a fairy-tale, how exciting.
][][][][][][][][][][][]
The prospect of the Ministry ball had made them return to their thieving habits with full-force. Regardless of the desolation of London, the city seemed to be a gathering place to jewels, money and artworks. Most Europeans sought to send their riches to the insular section of the continent as the war continued to take place in their countries – and little of this wealth had left the United Kingdom already.
It was mostly heavily guarded – but few were the muggle guards able to prevent an apparition. They couldn't use their wands, but they had never needed them to steal. The black market was in turmoil that day, Tom noticed as he made his way to the small junk shop in the East End, whose owner, Ralph Anderson, usually bought his items.
He was a bit more wary that evening. Anderson had told him some men had been keeping their eyes on him. Some of them worked for the Nazis, but others were only taking their chances with the young teen who walked around their territory. Tom wasn't too worried – he had magic, even though he couldn't use his wand, but it would help to be more careful.
The All & Penny junk shop was a miserable building boxed up between semi-detached houses and nothing would attract people there if it wasn't for the fact that the whole store was façade to the illegal business that went around. Anderson was tall and thin balding man full of greed but too chatty to be harmful. A bell rang above the door he opened and he appeared quickly. Tom didn't spoke a word to him as he leaned his merchandise of the day against the wall and unwrapped it.
It wasn't a huge painting – around 70 x 60 cm – but it was very colourful, a painting of a bald man with a huge blonde beard, naked except by a scarlet shawl while reading a book in bucolic scenery. A skull near his shoulder and a lion holding the huge book. A half-clad anchorite with a skull, a bible and a lion, St. Jerome if his art-knowledge could be trusted. The work should date back the early 1600s, or perhaps the late 1500s. It was something similar to Tintoretto but signed as Jacob Palma. Anya had stolen it from a basement in Mayfair.
"What do you have here? Jesus Christ reading the bible – pretty old isn't it?"
"It's from the 17th century. Saint Jerome. Palma. An oil on canvas, obviously. Three thousand pounds. "
"Never heard the name Palma and nobody comes here to buy paintings, you know. If you had brought me jewellery it would be easy to sell – every goldsmith and jeweller can make a use of them if nobody wants the original. But paintings? No artist wants to pay overpriced artworks just to use the canvas. Five hundred it's too much, Tom."
"The idea is to sell it for appreciation, Ralph. This work has survived three centuries. Most art-collectors don't care for the right side of law – it's a world of filthy back-stabbing and theft. I can steal whatever you want from a museum next time, but you are going to pay me nine hundred for this one."
"I don't think so, Tom. You see – I've been speaking with some guys and we reached the conclusion a thirteen years boy can't be too difficult to overwhelm. So, why don't you accept my offer and be done with it?"
Tom knew something had gone terribly wrong when he heard the sound of the bell ringing once again as the door was opened and he swore. Keeping a false smile on his face. "Of course, Ralph, you can pay me your price."
"I knew you would agree." He took a look on the men who were stationed behind Tom. "Follow me, Tom."
Tom had never walked into the place Anderson kept his money – too locked – but apparently there was no good trust between the merchant and the men he had allied himself with, enough to think leaving the painting behind as he went to pick his payment was a worse idea. Tom smiled as he saw the keys on the man's hips – and the door full of locks. There was a time he wouldn't risk such betrayal but now, well, he had a hand of glory, didn't he?
As the man unlocked the door, Tom lightened up a candle and settled it within the hand. It would blind everyone in a room – except its handler. He pushed the man aside with a strong wind. The room was full of money bags, the kind a thing you would never expect to find in such poor establishment. He pushed all those in his extended bag and casually walked down the stairs.
Four men waited for him – two heavily-built and tall, a stocky one and another coltish. But they were unable to see him, so he easily got past them and grabbed the painting before skulking to street. The open-air area annulated the effects of the Hand of Glory, so he was obliged to run as soon as he became visible. The men were very quick to follow him, a shout from Anderson warning them he had gotten away.
He stumbled through the streets, the men heavy on his heels as he avoided the boxes and the booths of merchants, and furious passers-by. He would send whiffs against his pursuers but they weren't very effective in keeping them away. The wizard was two blocks away from his flat when he fell over and the much larger legs of his chasers outshined his.
His wand rolled out of his hand to lie just before the coltish man's feet. He didn't see it, and even if he had, he would have dismissed it as a branch – all Tom could do was pray for magic to keep it safe from steps. The two huge men held him up, while to stocky one grinned and grabbed the painting from his arms.
They weren't looking for the money. Perhaps Ralph hadn't informed them on the subject or maybe, the thought he had left the bags somewhere. His latter supposition proved to be right when the stocky's fist made contact with his abdomen, forcing the air out of his lungs. The man shouted: "Where did you put it?"
Tom groaned but didn't answer. His bag was safe, keyed to his magic and not even looking like a money bag. Those were filthy oblivious muggles, they wouldn't suspect nothing. A stream of fists hit his body, and he felt something giving in under the pressure. He groaned, unable to breath and to think as he felt over the pavement.
He wished for his magic to lash out. He ordered it to blow those creatures away, to clean him from that dirt.
Bash.
Feet connected with his upper-body – kicks at his thorax, abdomen and back. And his magic did nothing to prevent it. His ribs gave in, and his nose cracked as a punch hit him. Tom hissed in pain, his cheek against the street as he closed his eyes.
Bam.
The tortured looks in the men' eyes as his powers every filament of rational thoughts never left his own mind, because his magic found itself unable to reproduce his commands. He felt the taste of iron in his lips and he knew he was bleeding – like a small cowered animal whose fangs had been taken away.
"Where is it, you little shit?!"
And maybe he was a shit, splayed on the pavement just like the dejects of some stray dog.
Thum.
They had to stop. Fuck. Why his magic wasn't reacting? Merlin, if his magic stopped…they would find the money. They would kill him – because magic had always been his only shield to survive.
"Tell me, you fucker!"
He couldn't reach, he didn't know how. His magic didn't react as he told it to. He couldn't after all, not in front of those. His wrists snapped and he couldn't reach for them. His half-opened lids observed as some feet passed across the street, but those who stopped only shouted encouragements. He felt a swearing pain ran through his spine and shrieked.
He absorbed every insult the muggles threw at him. Could he call them muggles? Muggles were a word to wizards, and his magic had left, hadn't it? Maybe…maybe magic had only been an illusion – a manifestation to his wish to be special – and he was only a stupid delusional orphan who nobody cared about.
He felt shame. His tongue taste the floor and his arms laid limp against his body – in odd angles. He couldn't contain a screech – which ran dry by the buildings. His conscience drifted away as warm blood ran through his face and the last thing he knew before passing out was the feel of his magic reacting at least, and of someone bending down a touching him gently.
][][][][][][][][][][][]
They had gathered seventeen pounds thanks to Tom's stunt but the consequences of it hadn't been mild. Anya had spent several Galleons on Skelo-gro, Soothing and Blood-Repleshing Potions. But while the many broken bones, bruises and cuts healed, a mind was far more difficult.
Someone proud like Tom refused to acknowledge how much he had been affected by the attack, but she knew the truth. The moment his magic had failed him, Tom had lost his confidence. And the weapon which had always been his to use and abuse had been confused by his panic. His despise for muggles grew as he watched those souls maim without compassion and he laughed at the signals of compassion from those without magic since his fight.
He refused to read their collection of books, and the quotation they had for such a long time found amusing, lost its mirth as he avoided using the words of those he came to loath.
The explanation to Tom's momentary loss of magic was quite simple – and any child who had grown up in the Wizarding World could pin-point it in seconds. Magic had only two reactions to its wielder's fright: the first one was lashing out wildly when the magical being had never been instructed on how to control it, this was called accidental magic; and the second was when the one had an extreme understanding of it, and in one's ability to exercise an enormous control over it, one bound one's magical channels and prevented any reaction from it. As both of them had always been able to control their powers, obviously their magics would follow the second path.
Regardless of the failure by an excessive prowess, Tom didn't trust his magic anymore. And with that, the fencing training had started. He had contacted a young goblin warrior to teach them the arts of the sword, the hammer and the spear. His name was Adamok, the Audacious and he would always indulge Anya with talk in Gobbledegook, which she had recently started to learn.
Anya gazed at the looking glass she held, trying to see something. Catoptromancy wasn't an easy field, or maybe it was just ineffective. Nevertheless, she had had visions so this whole divination business couldn't be that much of bullshit – which obliged her to try. She laid the damned mirror in a bowl and conjured a jet of water above her eyes. The liquid hitting her eyeballs hurt like hell but that had to be effective.
The water leaked into the bowl and she dived her head into it, the dim light of her room being reflected and refracted by the looking glass. She stared at her reflection, and the waves her movements had caused suddenly settled down.
A man in the most outrageous pink-coloured robes was kneeled at the floor, his auburn hair with stains of crimson dry blood, sweat sticking it to his forehead. A blonde man whose age she couldn't fathom held his wand high, its point creating an imaginary thread to his opponent head. The second man looked no better than the first, except for being up in his feet – and both had pained expression.
"I have found it! Can you feel its power – can you feel its greatness? That is what you left behind!"
"Oh my friend, but you forget the greatest thing of all, you always have!"
She could not see where they were fighting, or if there was someone else around or not – their surroundings were mist. But she saw it when the auburn haired wizard stood up again, lashing conjurations and charms against his opponent with ferocity. And suddenly they had apparated, and she couldn't see anything more.
Anya pushed her head out of the bowl with a gasp, and Tom entered on her room, buttoning his robes with an interested look on his eyes. In a few hours would be the Ministry Ball, and they had to look impeccable. "You saw something." He stated.
"Yes. An auburn wizard duelling with a blonde one. The blonde supplanted the other for some time but the other broke it off. The blonde wore charcoal robes, and the auburn pink ones. They were talking about something powerful – more than a thing, I believe."
"Do we know them?"
"I couldn't see their faces and the hair was dirty but they seem familiar."
"Lestrange's auburn?"
"More open."
"And wearing pink robes? Dumbledore?"
Anya didn't deny because…it could be. She had never thought she would see her professor like that – but the voice sounded similar enough. Tom nodded to her, a pointed look instructing her to look more, but she refused to do it now – she was breathless enough. Instead she went to her bed, where her robes awaited for her. The wizarding world had finally walked from the buttoned robes and now the fashion adored trumpet skirt with long tails, queen Ann necklines and long circular flounce sleeves. Her dress was an imprint of that style, ivory messaline embroidered with silver reticella.
She dressed the robes over her gather belt and blow up bra, shoving her scrying instruments away and shutting her door. Tom wore an elegant set of grey linen robes, the neckline embroidered in needle lace of his white shirt was revealed by the high neck of his long jacket. His hair was gelled backward and with his noble features and high height, he looked at least five years older than he truly was, if not ten. Anya raised an eyebrow. She appeared to be a bit older as well, but that was mostly the effect of her robes – she was fairly sure that it wasn't Tom's situation.
"Are you going to share the age with me?"
"Unfortunately not, my dear Anya. You are supposed to look like a child who saved us all – reminding them of your young age is serviceable."
"But you can drink the Ageing Potion, obviously."
"Soitentely. They are expecting for some young impressionable child in my place; I'm not allowed to let such misconception to continue." He pointed out, while arranging a headband of jade over her hair.
"I'm fairly sure they are expecting some kind of adult in your place, actually." She argued, checking her image on a hand mirror. "Thank you, is beautiful."
"Glad you like it, I bought from the goblins." With stolen money, of course, but at least it had been bought. "Regarding the adults, they are in for a bad surprise then."
"We are the ones to be sad, you know, my parents are dead." She pointed out, opening the door of the parlour and stepping out of the vertical trunk, together with Tom.
They took the tube on Manor House Station, and followed Piccadilly line to Aldwych. It was strange to see how different the East End was from its West counterpart. Hackney was a zone of poverty, in which people sealed their doors shut, but Westminster was all business and tourists – even in the middle of the war. Probably the only area of London in which you would find people walking around, even if it wasn't as much as it used to be. The Ministry of Magic Headquarters was accessible through Australia House, in its basement.
The building of the beginning of the century had been built over the eight-hundred years holy well Paracelsus had used to save thousands wizards and witches from the Black Death; when the Wych Street had been destroyed at 1901, the second wizarding district in London had been lost, and only the ministry remained as a memory.
"Good evening, may I help you?" A man in a pinstripe suit asked them from behind his desk. The wizarding name, Flint, on his nameplate, together with the obvious lack of a wand in his clothing identified him as a squib – and their passageway to the Ministry.
"Good evening, sir. My cousin and I were discussing the term Billywig aristocracy. Perhaps you could help us?" Tom questioned and Anya had to contain the urge to groan. Couldn't he have just said the password? Billywig aristocracy – nobody was hearing their conversation anyway.
"This is an embassy and I am not a linguist, even though I am sure you will find more results under the name Bunyip aristocracy." The squib answered, motioning with his head to the door behind his post. "Have a good day, mister and miss…"
"Anastasia Donbyre and Tom Riddle, he is my plus one this night." Anya explained, walking across the door Tom held open to her. The room which it leads to was actually the interior of an elevator that moved just as the door was closed.
Some twists and harsh turns latter, the door opened again, showing a wide hall. The Ministry Headquarters was dated back its foundation, in 1707. It was exaggerated. The ceiling was adorned by a moving painting of a wizarding couple, surrounded by couples of goblins, centaurs, and many more – all of them gazing at the wizard and the witch with adoring eyes. Windows at the lateral walls of the showed sceneries which were obviously charmed to be there, as they were underground. Chandeliers were hung in the ceiling, and under the widows, several chaise longue settees. Rococo and cream-coloured – that was the Ministry of Magic.
Tom swept the chamber with attentive eyes; the Ministry was very crowded that evening. He could recognise many faces in the crowd, however, so it would be difficult to mingle in. Children weren't invited, so they haven't expected to meet their classmates that day, and they had been right in doing so. But they could see some upper years. Lawrence Diggory had been brought by his father, the Head of the International Magical Trading Standards Body. Ignatius Prewett, Lucretia Black's fiancée and a young advocate, had brought Orion's sister with him to the ball. Georgiana Moon was obviously present, a tall man at his twenties by her side, her brother Harold probably. As the British Youth Representative at Wizengamot, Wilhelmina Scrimgeour had been invited with her boyfriend, Polaris Tuft. That would be her last action in the position, however, the title would go to Amadeus Osbert, a Slytherin seventh year, now she had finished her studies at Hogwarts. She still had some value for Tom though. A nice position as a secretary on the Wizengamot Administration Services, give it some years and she would flourish. Albertch Fawley was present as well, but Tom had no interest in that one.
Diggory waved them over, and before the Slytherin wizard could lead his companion to a more fitting company than the Gryffindor, Anya had already dragged him to the boyfriend of her friend's sister.
"Father, Mr. Ammaliato, Mr. Aggéedent, these are Anastasia Donbyre and Tom Riddle." The seventh year wizard introduced them to a coltish man in his fifties, bearer of a proud imperial brunette moustache.
"I have heard only good things of both of you, Ms. Donbyre, Mr. Riddle. I am Christopher Diggory." The man answered, motioning to the two figures by his side. "You must have heard of Misters Alonzo Ammaliato and Aloys Aggéedent."
"Ms. Donbyre, it's an honour to finally meet you. Nice to meet you, as well, Mr. Riddle. " The burly man with a close-trimmed goatee which had been introduced as Alonzo Ammaliato, the Secretary of the International Order of Merit, spoke in a sweet accent he identified as Swiss.
"Ms. Donbyre, Mr. Riddle – a pleasure." The blonde pudgy man that was Aloys Aggéedent, the French Ambassador in the British soil, greeted them. "Despite the tragic circumstances, I find myself comforted for meeting such brilliant young minds that are the future of our community. The youth maybe the heroes of tomorrow, Ms. Donbyre, but you are a heroine of today."
"It's an honour to meet you, although I fear becoming vain with so many praises being sung to my persona, sirs." Anya responded, and Tom parroted similar greetings. In any other situation, Tom would feel the wish to charm himself in such powerful figures, but they were obviously less than interested in his character. How could they not be? Anya had burnt a village into ashes and saved hundreds of lives…he was the love counsellor of the Minister's niece.
Tom barely avoided curling his lips in annoyance to the older Diggory's answer "Behind every great man, there is a great woman" to the revelation that he was present as Anya's partner to the night. Was he suggesting that Tom was a puppet in Anya's hands? Or was he attributing a feminine role to him?
He was pleased by the arrival of the three ladies in robes much similar to Anya's – that were the men's wives. Enough excuse for them to leave those. He took his partner's elbow and slowly lead her away – motioning for the group of scholars he was aware she had exchanged some letters with. Adalbert Waffling and Dylan Marwood mainly. "They have been glancing in your direction – I hope you are prepared for your Language's test."
"You won't come with me?"
"Georgie – I need to speak with her."
"You wish to." She huffed. "I doubt you exchange with her any secrets that couldn't be written in letters. But then, her uncle doesn't go through her mail, does he? And he is a much better conversationalist."
"But you still think Mr. Marwood is better than him." He pointed out, in a dismissing tone she certainly ignored.
"Leonard and I are business partners. I keep the hope in his realm and he gives me power. I don't need to sweet-talk the Minister." She answered. "Go Arawn, charm a girl, a Minister and all the future rulers of this country as well."
"Should I seek for a representative of Grindelwald?"
"Of course not. That was the worst joke someone could have ever made." She told him, seriously. He half contained his smirk at those words, leaving his companion and taking a goblet of quintin black out of one of the floating trays.
He swiftly strode towards the largest assemble at the chamber, in which men and women tried to have a word with the Minister. But Tom had no need to catch the eye of the current ruler, a simple glance of his niece was enough to be invited to his side. And Georgiana had seen him seconds after he had walked into the ballroom.
A high neat bun and pair of golden robes was very eye-catching though, so it hadn't been hard to see her as well. "My, my…you have grown this summer, I am wearing heels but you are still towering a few inches over me." She jabbed with a smile. "And looking quite a bit older too. If I don't find any lover this summer, wanna have a go?"
"I don't think the absurd amount of males in your family will be pleased…I am obliged to decline."
"You and all the available males in Britain. What a bother, do you wish for me to die and turn into a love-seeking ghost, uncle?" She complained, a bit louder than previously, probably a way of summoning her relative, who approached them accompanied by Lord Malfoy. While Octavius Malfoy looked as young and regal as always, Leonard Spencer-Moon seemed to have aged quite a bit since their last meeting – he had always been bald, his skin had stretched to give way to the pounds he had fattened and that in conjunction with his tall height made him
"Only for the best to you, dearest niece. Merry meet once again, Tom Riddle, it seems you are back again flirting with Georgiana."
"She is too beloved to me, Minister, forgive me." He grasped the Ravenclaw's hands, matching her smile with a smirk. Ravenclaw – the house of wit and intelligence. Oh, he liked the girl, he knew, she was an interesting character. Bright, with no doubt, although not clever. Able to understand those around her, but solitary and inapt, with the need to belong.
"Mr. Riddle, I still have to find your fiancée's figure in the ballroom. Has Anastasia escaped from my claws?" The minister asked, probably the first time he inquired about someone's location in the evening, if one where to judge the subtle surprise of Lord Malfoy, whose eyes meet with Tom's. The black-haired wizard nodded to the father of his house-mate.
"She is with Masters Waffling and Marwood, sir." He answered, keeping his irritation with the attention Anya brought to herself. It was too childish for such moments. The minister accepted his answer, and allowed himself to be taken into conversation with a bunch of sycophants.
Thankfully, he hadn't allowed his bitterness to appear, because soon after the minister left, Lord Pollux Black and his wife, a blonde chubby woman that went by Lady Irma Black, wife her arm linked to his. At the other side of the man was the black-haired beauty of sharp expression, Lady Alexia of the Malfoy family, second-removed cousin of Pollux.
"Mr. Riddle, I feel as if I knew you closely considering the many times Abraxas mentions you on his letters, despite having only meet you once." The last witch uttered in her husky voice, offering a hand for him to bend over, a gesture he performed with ease.
"We must meet more frequently, Lady Malfoy, your presence greatly improves my day." He answered.
"Irma, I have never made you an acquaintance of Mr. Riddle, have I? This young man is Tom Riddle, and this, Mr. Riddle, is my wife, Irma."
"A pleasure to meet you, my lady."
"The famous Tom Riddle! I understand your feelings; Wally and Alphie never cease to write about Mr. Riddle and Ms. Donbyre."
"How is your father, Mr. Riddle? You had mentioned he lives in the countryside with you and your cousin, while Lord and Lady Donbyre live in Austria…" Pollux trailed off, leaving some blanks for him to feel. He was questioning the absence of Anya's parents when she was to be honoured with an award.
"Sadly, the war has reached Krems. My father is quite depressed with the news. My mother Elda and Aunt Harisa were very close, and father loved my aunt as a little sister."
"I'm sorry for your loss. Sometimes it seems this war is taking everything bright in the world." Lord Black lamented. "I wish I had the pleasure to know them, Dorea tells me Ms. Donbyre and you are very talented musicians, it must be in the blood."
"I didn't have enough time with my uncles, and surely neither Anya had with her parents. She has lived with us for a long time." He acted as if he struggled to show a smile out of his expressions.
"Oh, dear boy, why don't you and your fiancée come to stay with us at the London Manor? The children need some new blood among all those Blacks." Irma invited in the shrinking voice she shared with her daughter Walburga, a pretty disturbing event.
"Irma, perhaps it would be better if they were allowed to mourn with Lord Riddle." Alexia recognised in her icy tone of always.
"No, no. A mourning adult cannot care for children. I will speak with him if you are not allowed. We are capable of caring for such intelligent pure young man and woman. As him as soon as you arrive, will you? Send me a response after that." The blonde witch smiled and ambled in some other direction, taking her husband with her.
"I apologise for my cousin-in-law, she is a little girl in a woman's life. Nevertheless, I know my cousin agrees with her decision, otherwise he wouldn't have permitted her to drag him. He will send a letter to you tomorrow. Perhaps a meeting should be arranged?"
"I don't think my father is in conditions to meet anyone, Lady Malfoy, but he will answer as soon as possible. Now, shall I have the honour of dancing this set with you, my lady?"
The woman laughed, accepting his hand with a good-humoured air. "I will accept your invitation, only because Abraxas has not failed to mention what a superb dancer you are. My son praising someone's dancing skills! Never thought I would live to see that day."
Tom smirked as a mazurka started to rang. Alexia Black was known for her dancing skills, and his current goal was to impress her as well. He guided her swiftly through the first steps of the dance, moving with the trained elegance he had indeed trained alone.
"My husband appears to be bored without me by his side." The woman pronounced, signalling her wish to be left with her partner in marriage at the end of the set. Tom moved his head in recognition to her request, but didn't say anything else, as it wasn't proper for a man to talk to a woman he barely knew, not while dancing.
As he returned Lady Malfoy to his housemate's father, another compliment on his behalf by her grace, Tom offered his arm to the Minister's niece, who took it gladly. A minuet began, and Tom prepared himself to the sore feet he would have to heal by the end of the night.
][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
"You see, my friends, we can move through length by folding space with magic. We can destroy mass with a single weightless charm. Temperature is just a definition of feeling and heat can be vanished or created out of thin air. We will never be able to see electricity, only the results of something we could call "magic" or "soul"…or maybe, "doggy". Light isn't wave and neither particle as it can hardly be both as well. And substance has the habit of disappearing and we even created a term for it – quintessence." Adalbert Waffling exposed, his voice high-cultured as always, in a way most people wouldn't expect from a muggleborn. But the man wasn't a common muggleborn neither, having studied at Trinity College after his graduation of Hogwarts and apprenticed with the great Transfiguration Master, Gallicius Gamp. His parents were muggle professors – his father a biologist and his mother a mathematician.
"I believe that time is just a concept created to harmonize one's trail of thoughts, much like mathematics or physics – although numbers seem the reason behind our existence, they are just a human convention, ideas thought by man that coincidentally match reality, but do not rule it." Dylan Marwood stated, his voice deep-sounding as he spoke. "Merpeople have always been able to communicate with their ancestors, not as if they were ghosts or a similar apparition on the present time; but as if those from the present projected their minds in the past, in which the ancient lived. How could this possible if time is the only true unit of measure?"
Anya could accompany the course of thoughts of two of the brightest minds in the wizarding world with some effort, even though she would never say she knew much of magical creatures' abilities – and even less of physics. "One has to admire the muggles for their creativity in their researches, even though they are unaware of so much. Hermann Weyl has spoken of one-dimensional tubes, with insides in which space doesn't exist and infinite boundaries. Voila, you have apparition by a muggle. But what interests me more is how infinite those boundaries are – and if they can cross over time just like they cross over space."
Adalbert snickered. "We have truly stumbled upon the Hour-Reversal Charm, haven't we? I would feel grateful to say with certainty that your idea is right...but I cannot. Why did Eloise Mintumble ended up in the fifteenth century forty years ago? Her conditions…in the end of the last century, a group of Unspeakables researched the effects of moving through space and time together – all the experiences were, however, cancelled when Madam Mintumble died. That is something...something went wrong."
"We all know what went wrong. The world magic suffered a decrease upon her return – at the very same moment. That leads researchers to believe that circa twenty-five people were unborn, but we have no idea who those people were." Anya quoted, having read a book on it not long ago.
"Yes, yes. But why did it go wrong? Why was such a thing so fatal when time-travelling and apparating rarely have consequences when performed alone?" Dylan inquired. "Well, my friend, it seems you can write another law of magic."
"Dylan, Mr. Toddlel has linked the Platon House's construction to the Aegean sirens however I had it as the Northen Melusine…do you mind enlightening us?" A woman with the reddest colour of curls dying potions could produce interrupted them with a her high voice crossing the chamber.
Dylan seemed revolted at the idea just exposed. "Excuse me, my friends, it seems that they have just chosen to make Atlantis their new topic of conversation, I must go before someone else spurs preconceived notions of such delicacy."
Adalbert Waffling smiled and waved his long-time friend off. "It seems the world is full of it, Nastya, doesn't it?"
"Prejudgments?" She checked over, and took a brief look around the chamber – where you would find many pure-bloods and half-bloods, but very few muggle-borns and no creatures. "They seem to grow stronger every day, unfortunately."
"Indeed." The tall wizard glanced at the centre of the ballroom, where Tom was talking with Lord Black, Lady Malfoy, Lord and Lady Lestrange. "Your friend doesn't seem to be the kind to share your opinions regarding this matter."
"He isn't. But despite being with him for all my life, I appear to be unable to change his thoughts on this subject, Master Adalbert." She sighed. "Tom is far too domineering and prideful to accept divergences."
"We are fortunate, then, that you are not a witch to be lead around." He winked at her, a boyish grin on his face. Suddenly, a blonde woman in pink robes positioned herself between both of them, Fifi LaFolle – that in her fifties, was loved by the media, and despised by intellectuals. Anya would usually trace such rejection to the patriarchal society they lived in – but really, the woman was a pain in the arse.
"It was pretty rude of Master Marwood, leaving like that." She pointed out.
"He is a scholar, Madam LaFolle, and the only way of us knowing a bit of etiquette is having some theoretical interest in it. Dylan, I fear, will never be interested by the manners of the two-footed."
"I have heard he had found a lover among those mermaids he mingles with. Is that true, will we have another Mirabella Plunkett story, genders-reversed?"
"I wouldn't know, Madam LaFolle, perhaps you should ask him?" Anya knew actually, how far that was truthful – or at least, assumed. A merman named Tristen had once written to her, an exercise proposed by Dylan to which she had been subjected as she was the only mermish-speaking witch the wizard knew, aside Aisama-sama who had isolated herself to live among tengus. The merman was constantly mentioned in letters by Dylan, but Mirabella Plunkett's story wouldn't be repeated in this case, as Tristen was married and had a daughter, and obviously only regarded the wizard as a counsellor and friend. The same thing happened in the letters Adalbert sent her, but in this case, the one constantly mentioned was Dylan himself.
Madam LaFolle held no interest in her that was much evident, easily preferring the company of willowy man of pointy chin and Roman nose, even though Adalbert had no interest in her. Anya, however, was Slytherin enough to save herself and flee as fast as possible.
Maybe Waffling wouldn't send her letters for the next months, but there was an amount of time one could stand looking at shocking pink…and hers was very tiny. Payback would be a bitch, she was sure of it, the eagle owl of the theoretician wizard wasn't a sweetheart, but she could protect herself from claws, from pink in the other hand…
She avoided the prying eyes of adults watching her, no need to be invited to dance by someone who would only gape at her…praise her actually; she didn't think nobody had ever gaped at her. Where did that idea come from?
A blonde mane of hair hit her mouth in a moment of distraction and Anya grabbed the body that had shocked against her, preventing its owner of falling. The body wore crimson robes, the skirt in the fashionable shape while the bodice was covered by a golden cape. "Nastya! Sorry for the fall and thanks for stopping it!" Wilhelmina Scrimgeour greeted in a bubbly manner that wasn't exactly her character. She could smell alcohol on the girl to tell the truth, and from what she knew of her the Gryffindor could usually hold her drink. The Slytherin wondered how much of it the older girl had had to be in that state.
Her second thought was, of course, dragging the girl of the ballroom. Being drunk on the Ministry building wasn't exactly the best thing for one's career and the girl's career could have some utility on the future. Thankfully they were nearly at the back of the chamber, and she could easily see the decorated door which supposedly led to the other departments of the ministry. She sought for Polaris before passing through it, but he was nowhere to be seen. Lawrence, however, saw her and she managed to signal for him to find the girl's boyfriend. That would be enough.
"Where is Polaris, Mina?"
"Polaris is angry. He doesn't want to keep him, you know? He doesn't love him."
"Yes, yes. Why don't we sit down and you tell me all about it?"
The smaller hall that greeted her was nearly empty – their only companions were an old man napping behind his desk, which looked to be the reception, and a man in the corner twisting his hands nervously, probably because he had the wrong thing to someone important, or was to meet this person. None of the two was paying attention to the girls.
She sat the girl out of sight nevertheless, and started the process of transfiguring one of her hair-clips into a cup, and summoning water into it. "Drink it, you are in need."
"I am just tipsy, Nastya." She said, a bit more serious and then giggled. Realising her own state, the older witch followed her orders dutifully. Three full cups latter, it was turned back into a clip, and the younger girl settled it back in her head.
"How do you feel?"
"Tipsy still. But it will make effect."
"Now, what doesn't Polaris want to keep?"
"Nothing." The girl answered quickly, her phrase followed by an awkward silence. "Thanks for helping me, I cannot believe I was so foolish."
"You are a Gryffindor, a brash bunch of buffoons and baboons, that was expected." Anya remarked scathing. The target of her insult giggled madly and Anya began to search for her hair-pin once again, in the same teasing mode.
"I cannot believe you said that: brash bunch of buffoons and baboons." She imitated. "This one is an epic insult."
"Try it."
"Very well, while helping me, you must have betrayed lots of laws of Slytherin, a guileful gang…of gorgeous goofs." She said between laughs, which rose in volume when Anya bowed in thanks to the praise.
When the giggles stopped however, Anya knew something was wrong, and she took just a moment more than the lioness to notice the appearance of two young wizards. She still held the girl quickly enough to stop her from fleeing from the scene.
Immediately after checking his girlfriend's wellbeing, Polaris Tuft kneeled in front of his girlfriend, a ring on his hand. "I love you, Wilhelmina Rae Scrimgeour, will you marry me?"
"You mean you want this baby?" She said, in a surprise tone. Her surprise was nearly matched to Anya's and Lawrence's, but happiness was her dominant emotion – something obvious by the eager way she kissed her boyfriend-fiancée.
Anya smiled at the scene even with it possible being the most awkward moment of her life. Thankfully, Lawrence cleared his throat, bringing the couple's attention to the two figures waiting for them. "Congratulations, Mina, Polaris, you are a wonderful couple, and will be wonderful parents." She told them.
"Nastya, thanks for everything, really." Wilhelmina said, overjoyed with life, apparently.
"Well, you got pregnant, you got engaged…I fear for my life after Euphie's graduation." Lawrence noted, an undying smile stamped on his face, much like the couple's expressions. "Congratulations, you saps, now Nastya and I are leaving so you can return to suck each other's face."
And that was how she was dragged by her the boyfriend of her friend's sister to another corridor. "Why are we here?"
"Sorry, I am going home, this is the way to the Floo Network. Actually I am going to bother Euphie. I didn't realise I dragged you with me. You are free to flee." He winked at her. "Merlin, they will be at the news tomorrow, if old Pittback opens his mouth – the old man faking sleep." He explained to her oblivious expression, and bidding her farewell he vanished into the firebox in the wall.
Lovers were such a rushed species. Or maybe that was a thing of Gryffindors.
She looked over the room she found herself in. It was bare of everything except decorated fireboxes, the white corridor seemed to be endless, the darker spaces on the wall following her vision until disappearing on vision. How long was that? A curiosity – that she would usually have associated with the members of the School-House of Lions – commanded her to explore the weird chamber she had been placed at.
She halted her pacing in front of a dark door, one she hadn't seen before. For goodness's sake, what was she doing? Trespassing in a government building was against of every rule of proper conduct to balls – and to everything else. Nevertheless, her hand created a will of its own, moving to the handle as if on instinct. The door wasn't locked however, so maybe that couldn't be considered trespassing. She was just…taking a walk. It wasn't as if she had to break through obstacles to arrive there.
With that thought on mind, she stepped into a circular chamber with black-tiled walls, dark marble floor, illumination provided by light blue flamed candles, and eleven handless doors. As the twelfth door closed behind her, the walls began a wild dance of rotation, and suddenly she was looking to twelve doors, none with handles.
Now would be a good moment to get out.
The first door she opened in her search for the exit was a dark room full of planets floating in the mid-air. She snickered, remembering the conversation she had had with Masters Marwood and Waffling not long ago – her snicker, surprisingly, made no sound. Interesting. She opened her mouth in an attempt to speak, but nothing was uttered by it.
The idea of shooting a Reducto Curse on Pluto seemed to be a rather comforting thing to do – which was strange, she had always found the tiny planet a bit cute – yet she had no idea if she would be capable of performing it wordlessly.
In the centre of the room, a giant ball of fire shinned prettily, but hotter at every step she took. Incredibly hotly, she decided near the copy of Venus, and terribly cold near the copy of Mars. Earth was where she belonged, she concluded, and quickly returned to the entrance when her ability to breath began to be questioned.
The second door led to a long, rectangular room, lit by low-hanging lamps. It was flooded by a green solution, in which brain swam. She quickly closed this door, as they were hardly touch-friendly and she had no wish to flood the entrance.
A large, square room was the next she visited and definitely the most comforting. Dimly lit, a archway with tattered curtain stood at pit in the middle of the chamber. She could hear whispers coming from it. She could see a tall woman of long hair, nose crooked and a man with twinkling eyes, his aquiline nose catching attention. A man with sallow skin and large hooked nose at the side of woman with thin pale face and heavy brows. An auburn woman with bright green eyes and a man of black hair and hazel eyes, those surrounded by a man of black hair and grey eyes, a woman with pink hair her hands given to a man with light brown hair and green eyes, and a man who was blonde and blue eyed.
A woman with dark hair, her eyes hazel and downturned; a man with brunette messy hair and green eyes. A gangly man with dark wavy hair. Figures seemed to come and go in her presence, and her head felt heavy as more whispered little things to her; they didn't seem to be there most of them, almost as if she imagined them. A woman with dull hair, her eyes with exotropia stopped however, between the tatters of curtain, she seemed as wicked as pitiful, her image fading and materialising. She opened her mouth and pain took over Anya's head, like a sharp needle being buried into her brain.
She leaned back the wall, shutting the door with a pang and sitting on the floor. Her head throbbed as she tried to exit the place, only to stumble upon a pile of sand. Down, down, down, sand suffocated her as she fell through the mountain that it had formed, images swimming through her mind and words being repeated. She could see death and destruction, bombs and funerals. She saw births and tears, weddings and laughter. And everything she didn't see, it was because she closed her eyes.
A flower groweth to the destined height. He that causeth her to grow also causeth her to fade. This happens to thee, for Magic hath therewith adorned thee, that thy coming up should be known, and also how thou has come to nought. For before thou wast, Magic hath known thee and therefore compared thee to a flower, that to-day is in bloom and to-morrow is withered. Wisdom and Fear would have preserved thee, but thou has overlooked it, thine own wisdom hath seduced thee.
The words repeated through her head vanished from it as sand fell at her side, and a giant crystal jar in front of her. Inside of it, a blue bird chipped as it carried to the top of it, but as it began to fell, its feathers became damp and its corpse fell on the bottom. Locked in a ball, the body became an egg, and the egg a little bird as it rose – and everything began again. Anya watched in fascination as death and life alternated between themselves in the space of a minute. The mountain of sand seemed so disruptive of that cycle to her, and walked through the door in daze.
This time, the door led her to the white corridor. Disturbed by the whole experience, she made her way back in large steps. The old man Lawrence called Pittback still seemed to be sleeping – although, if Diggory was right, he never had been – while the anxious man was nowhere to be seen. Neither were Wilhelmina or Polaris, but that was expected from a couple that had just gotten engaged.
She walked through the door, her figure being immediately seen by Tom, and asked to dance with him. She danced, she was awarded. She spoke many nothings to much older people she didn't care about. She accepted the invitation of Lady Black to spend the rest of the holidays in their London Manor. But her mind never left what had happened in the Department of Mysteries behind (because that had to be the mysterious department).
That night, she had many dreams.
This chapter has almost 10k words. I refuse to update this fanfic until I have 105 reviews from it; and yes, I know I am being petty.
Have a great 2017!