Many years into adulthood, if someone asked Anastasia Donbyre or Tom Riddle about the moment of their lives which defined their future, they would be able to pinpoint it to their third year in attendance of Hogwarts.
Some could have called the years of 1940 and 1941 the breaking point. But why such name was deserved, we will come to see.
To Charlus Jaime Potter, 1940 was also a year of great significance. It was the beginning of his adulthood, of his position as Head of the Ancient House of Potter. Usually, a Potter would be buried in the green fields of the Potter Manor, and the ceremony the sound of waves hitting the shore down the hill would be heard. However, the manor had been occupied by the Paladines. Henry Edgar Potter and Anemone Livia Potter would find their resting place among their most ancient ancestors.
Godric's Hollow was the home to the Potter Ancestral Home (although, there was also the ruin of a messuage in Stinchcombe, on which the name Potter had been first originated). Charlus and Fleamont stared unmoving at the face of their parents. They seemed so peaceful now, their bodies mended to perfection, dressed in the proud colours of their house. His father wore a eggplant-coloured tunic, and a chestnut cloak held together by a brooch depicting their coat of arms. His mother wore a houppelande in the same colours, and both wore a simple gold circlet in their heads. They looked regal as anemones covered the feminine form, and holly buried the masculine body.
Charlus also knew that was an illusion. He had seen the mangled bodies, he had seen the pain they had suffered. But it was good to his brother, his young brother that knew few things about life, and many about potions. Fleamont didn't need to see the things their parents had gone through. They were only one year apart in their ages, but Charlus was now the head of the family – for all that matter, he had reached majority. Their tutelage would go to his grandmother Arwain Derwent, but everything that happened to House Potter was his responsability.
At the moment, the Potter Manor was held hostage by a Dark Lord. That was a good beginning. He had no idea what to do. For all his life, he had counted with his parents for guidance, for solace, for support. Now they were gone, and he had to support himself and give support to his sibling – to their family name.
The funeral was attended by many. The Potter couple was a well-known among the Light side of society (although not necessarily well-liked, not after the controversy with the ex-minister Evermonde in the First Muggle War), and his father's former position in Wizengamot was an invitation to every member of it.
Some would find funny, the amount of events the families present have been attending in the last days. All the events were funerals, of course. As wands were lightened in reverence to the coffins being downed by magic, Charlus wondered how many of those wand-users truly felt something about the deaths.
Out of those present, Charlus knew his father had only been truly friends with Wizengamot member Norvel Twonk, the war-hero and head auror Theseus Scamander, the head hit wizard Neleus Moody, the Wizengamot member Glaucus Scrimgeour and the head of DMLE Callender Urquarth.
It was the last one that approached him. Callender Urquarth was a peremptory man, his skin swarthy, his dark hair gelled back and his facial hair was only allowed to grow slightly in the upper lip and chin regions. He wore black leather robes, and he seemed enraged with the deaths. He was also, Charlus remember, the youngest in his father's group of friends – in which Henry had been the second youngest. The tears in Charlus's eyes were reflected in the man's eyes.
Such an imperious man. Crying for his father – another dignified man.
"You are the son of my best friend, Charlie." The man was saying. "You are his heir, and now, you are the Head of my friend's family. I swear upon my magic to return the Potter Manor the deserving hands of Lord Potter and to avenge the deaths of Henry and Anemone Potter, former Lord and Lady Potter. So mote it be."
Charlus felt the man's magic being bond to the promise, and looked up to the man – horror evident in his expression. That was the Head of DMLE, risking the loss of his magic if he (and his troops) were unable to complete the vow.
"I know that would be what Henry would have done to my Elphinstone, if we were in different situations."
That day, the Ministry began an inner country battle against the Paladines occupying Yorkshire and Durham. Many would be killed in the conflict that would not bear results anytime soon.
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"Ms. Donbyre. If my tea tells me right you were supposed to be at your History of Magic class." Violet Myradd said, as said third year witch invaded her bedchambers in the Divination Tower at twenty minutes to nine in the morning. She was wearing a long nightgown, perched over the window sill.
"May I see your cup?" The woman shrugged and threw the cup in her direction. Anya examined it. There were many circle segments, a symbol of sleep – she snickered. "It's funny how accurate your tea is – I obviously interrupted your sleep, and most students use their History classes as nappy time. I prefer using those periods in a more productive way and, by saying that, I mean avoiding them completely. I believe the last time I heard Binns's tirade was in first year."
The Divination teacher snorted. "How are your grades in History?"
"Very well, thank you for asking, the autumn weather does them well. I wish to try my hand of aímamancy, but every book admonishes against practicing it without supervision – at least, in a first attempt."
"Twenty-eight essays to correct and I will ignore all of them for you." The woman scoffed. "I have fifth-years at ten past ten, but until then I am yours. Do you have a dagger?"
Anya nodded, taking out her instruments and settling herself in the woman's bed. "And she sits in my bed. Students are not even allowed in the teacher's private chambers." Mistress Myradd muttered as she served another cup of tea to herself. Anya ignored her, knowing the woman actually appreciated her presence, and that had nothing against her sitting on her bed. She had only had three periods of class with the professor until then, but they had had many unofficial meetings, all broaching her seer abilities.
She placed one of the teacher's silver bowls over the sheets, and conjured water inside of it. She drew the tip of her dagger over her life-line and enclosed her hand in a tight fist, allowing the drops to mix with the water. Usually, the desired effect would be the gathering of the blood drops above the water, forming astrological glyphs that could be interpreted.
Another process – much more useful and precise to someone like Anya – was creating the symbol to Saturn's sickle. That was the method she chose, while her teacher raised herself from her seat and went to her wardrobe, in search for robes. The woman didn't pay much attention to her, knowing Anya actually knew what she was supposed to do.
Just after the Saturn's sickle was drawn, the blood vanished within the water for a moment, and then the liquid was turned into albescent dim. She pressed her hand against her handkerchief, in an attempt to stop the blood-flow. Drops of it rolled down her chin as she ingested part of it. Despite the whitish colour, it tasted just like bloodied water.
Feeling it burning down her throat, Anya submerged her head down the bowl, opening her eyes into it. Her eyes stung, but she knew that was an expected effect. Her view was invaded by the image of Tom in a Christmas decorated Great Hall. And mutterings surrounding them. They were talking about an attack on the Hogwarts Express. Suddenly, the figure of a redhead crying came to her vision. Maeve Kearney – and the words she spoke were: "I am going to get them for you, Laws."
Eoessa Law Cadogan would be killed by Grindelwald's forces – in this Christmas, probably. Anya pulled her head up, startled by the knowledge, and gasping in panic. Violet Myradd noticed the distressed state of her student easily.
"It worked." The woman guessed. "You saw something bad."
The younger witch did not answer, too caught up thinking about her friend. Arguably the most unstudious Ravenclaw Hogwarts had ever produced, clumsy and witty – and artisan. Anya didn't thought much about her, admittedly, but she had been one of the first people to make her feel welcomed.
"You cannot prevent it, Anastasia." Her professor's voice interrupted her thoughts.
Anya shook her head, and the movement seemed to lead her teacher into the belief she would do nothing because the woman visibly relaxed. The Slytherin cut that belief short. "I can."
"I have seen two seers, many non-seers and centaurs trying to prevent their predictions. Almost half were successful in their quest. But of those successful, only one found satisfaction in the end. Some experienced equivalent ends, but most faced worst fates." The woman left her place in the dressing table, coming to sit in front of her student. Fingers dressed by gold rings reached for pale hands, and godly black eyes looked into unnatural green ones. "You can't. Promise me you won't try."
The shorter witch refused, her eyes never leaving the other's. "I can't. While the possibility of preventing something like that exists, I will not cease to pursue it. I saw death and grief, Mistress Myradd."
The woman squeezed her hands in worry. "You are not to be blamed for the fate you weren't able to prevent, Anastasia."
"What is the use of prophetic gifts if I refuse to act to prevent the future they show me? How egoistical is to retract because of fear, when you are playing with lives?"
"Muggles would say you suffer from God Complex, trying to play with fates." Her teacher sighed, releasing her hands. "I won't be able to take this idea of your mind, will I?"
"Firstly, all wizards and witches enjoy playing God – there is no denying: we are above nature. Secondly, no, you won't." The Slytherin agreed stubbornly. "Now, how can I increase the number of visions I have about a particular incident?"
"You can't. At least, there is no guaranteed way. I suppose burning oils for the entities which will shine upon the day such incident will happen it's always a valid attempt – that was the method Inigo Imago, the last known visionary, recommended. Lynos Laocoonis sacrificed a steer whose birthday coincided with the date he wished to know about, and bathed himself in the blood of it. I don't think you will be able to pull this off. Mimis Ur used the blood of a goat. I believe this are the only two known visionaries to whom such sacrificial processes worked, though."
"Which oils you recommend? And do you believe the owner of Hog's Head would sell me one of his goats?" The woman gave a disbelieving look. "Just in case." The Slytherin amended.
"We didn't have this conversation – and none of all others, by the way. Poplar, aspen and black rose are the most recommended."
"I don't have them."
"Of course, you don't!" Mistress Myradd said in exasperation. "Take mine. And if these deals between us lack out, I will be fired and you suspended. You are aware of that, I hope."
"Thankfully you have sworn a Magical Vow, then. You would be the only way of such deal be discovered."
"Riddle knows as well; don't deny, I saw you giving him your journal this weekend. Your journal, in which I have seen you scribbling every vision of yours. Your journal, which anyone could have access to. Interesting enough, you are not scribbling your vision of today in it."
"Tom is my partner, obviously he knows. But you are wrong, I don't scribble every vision of mine, just those which concern him. And the journal is locked – only Tom and I are able to open it." Anya assured her, pushing herself out of the bed and selecting the oils the woman had suggested from the professor's collection. "I will take these."
"Ever since I heard of you, I was unable to see how you could have been sorted in Slytherin. You were daring, courageous, harsh, dependant and well-liked by all your peers. But now I see the true you, Ms. Donbyre. And it's resourceful, ambitious, and more determinate than an unmoving mule."
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Tom knew he had made the right choice in accepting Cantankerus Nott's notes on his study about magical gifts; Caelum Nott, his son and the one who had copied the material to Tom, had told him the man planned to publish a book about it, and name it The Gifts Within Blood. Much like the Pure-Blood Directory the man had published anonymously, his beliefs were widely asserted on the whole book. And by saying that, Tom meant there was not a page lacking blood supremacy.
The letters were deep dark starches over the parchment, none of the refinement the words suggested present there. It had a chapter on necromancers, and the man's support of Grindelwald was evident, praising his family – it seemed that only known necromancers in history were all dark lords, a small family that had lived in isolation over the China of Xia Dynasty, a royal family that had ruled over the Pwene, and the Peverells, probably the first British family to become extinct in male line over the twelfth century. It also had a chapter on animancers, and the several families that carried some gift of it in their blood – surprisingly, the Lovegoods and the Bones were the families who presented the last recorded manifestations of it.
Tom thought about the rust-haired second-year in his house. Dirty-mouthed, opportunistic and self-seeking – no example of animancy there. Abraxas had once mentioned that the girl had potential – he had also called the girl a cold bitch, though.
Then, there were the truth-seekers. The small passage Nott had written about it showed the man had only found registers of truth-seekers in House of Fawley and the House of Prewett. Well, that wasn't amusing as well. While the Prewetts were very good in discerning honesty from duplicity, ex-minister Fawley had not been particularly famous for his sagacity.
In the chapter of natural born legilimens and occlumens, the man highlighted the Goldstein and Spavin family as the families with the largest number of mind-magus in Britain, followed closely by the Princes and the Selwyns. He also reasoned that Blacks had been producers of methamorphmagi for centuries, as had been the Maxs before they went extinct. Animagi were common in the Potters, the Rosses and the Gamps.
Notwithstanding his reading over the aforementioned chapters, his interest wasn't really expressed in those. His main reason for requesting Cantakerus Nott's work was his extensive survey on oratomagi – a research he had been made aware after his parseltongue abilities were revealed to his house.
There weren't many capable of communicating with animals in Britain – but it was a more common hereditary gift than most others. The most commons were the ability of communicating with felines, and with birds. Serpent-speakers were for rarer.
The first known parselmouth is Herpo the Foul. Born in the Greek Dark Ages, it's said that Lord Herpo was gifted with the ability by Apophis, the embodiment of chaos, in his travels to the northeast Africa. In, exchange, he swore to bring chaos to every land he walked through. Herpo the Foul is one of the most feared Dark Lords in Ancient Times, and perhaps because of this reason, parselmouths are usually classified as dark wizards.
In Ancient Times, however, most parselmouths were associated with medicine. Herpo's great-great-grandson, Asclepius, a necromancer and parselmouth, in attempt to redeem his lineage, used his good relationship with the elaphe snakes to make himself one of the greatest healers of the history. His children were all gifted in healing and parseltongue: the potioneer Panacea, the healers Hygeia and Telesphorus, the mediwitches Aceso and Iaso, the necromancer Aglia, the curse-breaker Podalirius and the herbologist Machon.
Asclepius's children are responsible for perpetuating the association between healing and parselmagic for many centuries. The Gaulish witch Sirona, used zameni's venom to invent several antidotes; the Italic witch Angitia, the ancestor of snake-charmers developed several healing rituals. This association ceases to exist as parselmouths become less and less frequent, and parselmouth abilities begin to be frowned upon, together with many others rich magic fields.
In Modern Europe, we find examples of only two parseltongue lineages. Paracelsus and Salazar Slytherin are the two known practitioners of parselmagic. Philipus von Hohenheim, also known as Paracelsus, used his ability to communicate with serpents in his alchemy creations, and used his herbology knowledge to cure many. He was regarded as a difficult man and he did not marry or had any heirs. The von Hohenheim was continued by his second cousin, carrying the gift of parseltongue, until becoming extinct at the nineteenth century. Theodor von Hohenheim, the last scion of the family, died unmarried and without known offspring – much like his great-great-great-great-great-uncle.
Many believe that the parseltongue ability Salazar Slytherin was famous for can be traced back to Panacea's lineage, as her great-grandchild Salus is believed to have been one of the founders of Rome and Salazar Slytherin's mother, Lady Sabina, came from a line of Roman priestess. Much like the other founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the great Salazar Slytherin is claimed as an ancestor by many families. Among these families are the Gaunts, the Muldoons, the Osberts, the Selwyns and the Slughorns. Out of those, however, only the Gaunts are able to speak parseltongue, although the Slughorns keep a Potioneering Tradition, and the Muldoons, a Healing Tradition.
Tom stopped reading, as his mind assembled the last phrase.
The Gaunts are able to speak parseltongue.
The Noble House of Gaunt was a house of parselmouths. Most likely the only family in Britain.
Alone in the common room, long after the students of the snake house had coiled in their beds, and long before they rouse to face the daylight, Tom Riddle's breath sounded sharp and raspy in his excitement. What did he know about the Gaunts? They had been included in the Sacred Twenty-Eight British families that were still truly pure of blood by the 1930s – all written according the same man who had written the parchments he held.
They were a Noble House. That didn't mean many things – while in the past nobility would equal to wealth and prominence, the Ollivanders were hardly rich, and the Flints and the Slughorns couldn't rely on their family name to make themselves important. Tom couldn't remind of one person named Gaunt in the Ministry – or wherever else, as matter of fact – but they should exist, as the family was still extant ten years ago. They had the tendency of marrying their cousins to keep their blood pure – some pointed out that inbreeding could increase the mental instability of the offspring, but Tom could hardly cringe at that, as according the lie he and Anya had created, they were cousins and engaged. Tom knew nothing else about them, and wasn't that surprising? He had never heard about a Gaunt, in the almost three years he had lived in the Wizarding World.
Nobody talked about the Gaunts at all. He wanted to cringe at that. He did not wish to be part of a weak family. Well, he should have thought that a family of eminence would have made its parseltongue gifts a common knowledge. At least, he was pure-blooded. But what about his parents? His mother was dead, he knew. But was she a Gaunt? Or was his father? Tom Gaunt seemed a bit far-fetched, although Thomas Gaunt sounded better. Well, his grandfather was named Marvolo – and Marvolo Gaunt was rather pure-blooded. Perhaps his mother and father were cousins? And what about Anastasia's parents – were they Gaunts as well?
No, Anastasia couldn't be his sister. She was a new-born in the beginning of May, and he had been born at end of December. A four months gap wouldn't be possible between siblings.
And why his father had never sought for him? Or his other relatives? Did they not care their scion had been raised among muggles? Did they not care about him? Maybe they were dead. That would explain why he had never heard of any Gaunt, and why none had sought for him. He wished for their death, as the other possibility was too horrible.
They better be dead. He thought, and then: They better have left an inheritance.