Kolybel'naya

Chapter 08: The Lord on the Hill

He could feel the magic clinging to everything around him. On the floor, on the walls, on the objects... The whole house seemed to have magic flowing inside it; he could recognize it in his body as a warm feeling inside himself or a soft tingling on the tips of his fingers. So much magic in such a common place.

"My lord?"

The man didn't turn around to see whoever was talking to him and, soon enough, the person understood and quickly walked away. They all knew that his silence meant one thing: that he wanted to be alone. Yes, everything he needed at the moment was to be alone with that powerful magic in order to try to understand it. The energy he felt surely belonged to a powerful wizard or witch – wizard, according to his research – and he couldn't believe that the source of it was the one people had told him about. After all, someone with Muggle blood couldn't have such powerful magic in them; he had never seen it before and was sure that he would die without seeing a Mudblood exhibiting that kind of power.

But, still, there he was, standing in the middle of what seemed to have been some kind of atelier, feeling the energy and noticing how Muggle and ordinary the place was... The scent of paint in there could still be smelled and, even though most of the things were covered with white sheets and dust, it seemed completely alright for the one who had once owned the place to walk in and make the room alive again. Everything was so well organized that it would only take the artist to walk in there and make the atelier go back to its original state. Still, it was so Muggle. The paintings that were already finished – the ones he had uncovered – didn't move; no, they stayed still, looking at him with their petrified eyes and unmoving faces.

"My lord?" Now it was another voice calling him. To this voice, he would turn, for he knew its owner was actually worth looking at while talking.

"Yes?"

"Are you sure this is the place?"

The man turned around and found himself looking at a tall woman with short, blond hair and incredibly cold grey eyes. She was not wearing a dress or a skirt like most witches did. Instead, she wore the same dark trousers, boots and robes he had most of his men dressed in. With her wand in her hand – because he knew she would never walk into an unknown place without her weapon ready, the witch stood by the door, a serious look on her face.

"What do you think, my dear?" he asked gently, smiling at her.

"There's no one here, sir..."

"Of course not, they're dead; you heard what they told us."

"Then, why are we here?"

The wizard's smile stayed on his face as he walked over one of the tables and took a photo frame from it. He ran his long fingers over its glass, taking away the dust from it, and leaned his head to the side as he looked at the picture. A smiling family was looking at him from the black and white, unmoving photograph.

"Tell me, Brunhild, can you feel it?" the man asked, finally moving from his spot, and approached her, handing her the photograph. The witch took it, hesitating a little, and looked at it for a few seconds, before raising her eyes at him again. "The magic, I mean... Stop worrying for a while, dear, and concentrate on the place around you." His smile widened when he noticed how her face seemed to relax a little as she looked around and, then, it changed again... Now it looked like she had finally understood what he was saying. "Do you understand now?"

"Did they have a wizard in here, sir? Is he who you're looking for?"

The man motioned for her to step into the room and, as she did, he managed to close the door behind her with a quick movement of his hand.

"You know very well you're one of my most reliable friends, Brunhild." He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. "I've heard from some of my informants that there's a certain wizard here in England that is... threatening... us."

"Dumbledore?"

"Oh, no." He chuckled; shaking his head, his blond curls falling over his face. "Albus is another story, a completely different one... This one is much more dangerous to our cause than to us."

"What do you...?"

"This magic you feel, it's pretty strong, isn't it?" She nodded. "It belongs to a Mudblood, Brunhild." The man felt satisfied when he saw the disgusted look that appeared on the woman's face. "Such strong magic in the hands of someone with dirty blood. Do you see why it's so dangerous? What if people start to think that blood doesn't matter? What if they think that Mudbloods can be as powerful as us purebloods? That'll be a disaster, as you know... Dirty wizards and witches matching up with the pure ones, or, worse than that, witches and wizards matching up with Muggles."

"That's disgusting."

"Indeed. So, this is why we're here: I've heard of this wizard, and I've discovered his name and what he does... He's a student, my dear."

"One of Hogwarts' Mudbloods."

"Exactly. Well, as you see, we can't let anyone notice his strength; otherwise, people will start to wonder..." He trailed off, his voice was calm and smooth, and the smile was still on his lips. "Such a young Mudblood with such powerful magic. If he can be like that, so can other dirty-blooded people!"

"Which one of them?" The woman pointed to the portrait in her hand.

"No one," he said, running his fingers over the photograph again, stopping on the top of face that belonged to a smiling young boy. "But I believe he looks like this one here."

"Relative?"

"Father."

The wizard watched her as the information seemed to sink into her mind. The main reason he was after that boy was not really clear in his own head. There were many reasons of why he would like to have the Mudblood finished off. First of all, he had dirty blood, which was enough reason. But then, there was the reason he had just told Brunhild about: one Mudblood with power seemed to be enough to make everyone believe that all of them could have the same power... And he couldn't have people thinking like that. Also, he could use a good attack on a student from the most well known school of witchcraft and wizardry as a blow in the face of the British Ministry of Magic. Also, he couldn't risk letting another powerful wizard running free around the world, no, not while he was in power... Unless, of course, the other powerful wizard decided to surrender and join him. The thought had appeared in his mind more than once since he had heard of the boy: he had a brilliant mind and powerful magic, from what they told him, and he could have a good use of those abilities. Maybe, only maybe, he could end up using the Mudblood for another purpose.

"What do you want me to do?" the woman asked, looking at him.

The man smiled.

"Go after him. Show everyone what we can do and, then, bring him to me. Torture is allowed, but I want him alive."

"Yes, sir." The wizard took the portrait from her hand and walked over to the table where he had gotten it. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"What's the Mudblood name? It'll be easier for me to go after him knowing his name and not only what he is supposed to look like."

"It's a really boring, Muggle name, my dear." His eyes were fixated on the photograph again. Muggle pictures were really depressing, in this opinion. He hated those paralyzed people who kept staring at him with those lifeless eyes and petrified smiles. "Thomas Riddle, Brunhild. Thomas Marvolo Riddle."

Hermione was sure she woke up from the weirdest dream she had since he had gotten herself into the past. The girl didn't really know why it had been so weird... Maybe it was because it looked so real, the way she stood in the middle of Grimmauld Place, talking with Harry. Her friend was telling her about how they had escaped from the Malfoy Manor – something to do with Dobby, the house-elf – when the whole dream seemed to tremble and, slowly, it crumpled, making Harry vanish along with his story. It was odd, especially because she could still hear his voice inside her head, telling her what had happened inside the manor.

"It was just a dream, Hermione," she whispered to herself as she ran a hand through her bushy hair, feeling her fingers get stuck in its tangles.

The witch yawned and sat on her bed, pushing her hair away from her face before tucking her hand under her pillow and taking the pale wand that now belonged to her from under it. She was still getting used to it but, until now, her new wand seemed to be a good one. It obeyed her commands and didn't seem to diminish her magic... Yes, it was a good wand, as she would expect from Ollivander, and the fact it was made of the same wood as Tom Riddle's wand was already an unimportant fact to her. That minor coincidence had gotten her worried in the beginning, but now the witch had accepted that it was, as it seemed, just a coincidence.

Once she finally got up, the girl started to get herself ready for the day. As soon as she finished, Hermione looked down at her own body to see if everything was in its right place... Yes, her uniform was flawless, but, before heading down to the Great Hall to have breakfast, the witch sat down on her bed once again and listened to the silence of the place, just to make sure that, from the girls who were still in the dormitory, she was the only one awake. After a while, the witch unbuttoned the left sleeve of her white shirt, and rolled it up her arm.

Hermione was still wearing a bandage around the cuts Bellatrix had made in her arm in order to cover it. The sight of the word carved into her skin made her feel sick and she hated it, hated to be reminded of what that horrible woman had done to her and, worse, what she might have done with her friends after she travelled back in time. She unwrapped the bandage and grimaced when she saw how the cuts looked now. It was already way better in terms of healing, but, as she feared, it would leave an ugly scar on her arm. The skin above the cuts was now raised and slightly reddened.

Sighing, she wrapped the bandage around her forearm again and rolled down her sleeve, before getting up and putting on her cloak. She had more important things to do instead of wasting her time looking at scars and eating was one of those important things. So, after a few minutes, Hermione found herself sitting down at the Gryffindor's table, a few seats away from a group of boys that she recognized as Basil Hopkins, Hector Spinnet and George Johnson.

"Someone got up early today."

"Good morning, Charlus." The witch smiled when she turned around to see Potter sitting next to her. Her smile grew wider as she saw Dorea Black next to him, her arm entwined in his. "Good morning, Dorea."

"Morning, Hermione... May I call you Hermione?" the Slytherin asked.

"Of course."

"So, what made you get up so early? You and Minnie usually don't get up until seven," asked Charlus as he occupied himself with filling his plate with a few biscuits.

"Odd dream that woke me up." Hermione laughed, but noticed that Dorea seemed to look at her with an interested look on her pretty face.

"Odd dream you say? How was it like?"

"Come one, darling." Potter chuckled. "I bet Hermione just had a crazy dream and not a premonition..."

"I'm just curious." The girl sighed and looked at the other witch. "Charlus likes to make fun of the fact I take Divination, as you can see."

"Why do you take Divination? It's a rather useless class, isn't it?" The Gryffindor laughed as she poured pumpkin juice into her goblet. "It's a way too unstable field of magic. You can never be sure of it."

"Well, it's interesting."

"Yes, an interesting way to waste your time," whispered Hermione. She had a pretty strong idea of what Divination was like after her classes with Trelawney and it was difficult for the girl to understand why someone would actually study it. "But if you must know, I dreamt about a friend of mine. He was talking about... Some stuff that must have happened after I left home."

"It's not weird. I mean, a weird dream, for me, is when you dream about being chased down by a thousand dementors or something like that," said Charlus, laughing.

"I know, it's just that... It seemed weird, I can't really explain." The witch shook her head and sighed. "I woke up feeling as if I had actually been talking to him because everything he said actually made sense, you know? Usually things make no sense in dreams, but the story he was telling me made complete sense."

"Maybe you're talking with him through your dreams." The boy shrugged, not looking really convinced by his own theory. "Is that possible, Dorea?"

"I'm not sure." The Slytherin scratched her head. "Maybe, who knows? If we can predict the future through dreams, maybe we can actually communicate with someone else through them."

Hermione stared at the other witch for a while. It made no sense... But, at the same time, as she heard what Black was speaking, a tiny feeling of hope appeared inside her. What if she managed to get in touch with Harry and Ron through her dreams? That would be really useful! Not to mention she would be able to know what was going on and if they were all right.

"Dorea, have you ever heard anything about this? This dream thing, I mean," she asked.

"The only thing I've ever heard about dreams is how you can see a person's future with them. That's what we're learning in Divination this year... If you want, I can ask Professor Pesty about it."

"Your Divination teacher? I don't think she would know much about it, it's not really into the Divination field."

"Yes, but I don't think it'll hurt to ask her, right?" Dorea laughed. "She's a really nice woman and is always trying to help us in class, I bet she'll be happy to help you with that."

"Well, if you don't mind..."

"Of course not!" The girl got up. "Actually, I think I'll go ask her right now before I forget. I don't have any classes this morning and I believe there's no Divination class at this time."

"You're going to leave me here?" Charlus winced, faking being hurt by the girl's decision.

"It's not for long." The Slytherin smiled before walking away.

Hermione couldn't help but smile as she watched Potter watch the girl leaving the Great Hall. He really seemed to like her, by the look on his face.

"You really do like her, don't you?"

"What...?" The Gryffindor shook his head and laughed. "Well, yes, she's a nice girl and-"

"Have you ever asked her out? I mean, on a date," said Hermione, feeling as if she was back in her fifth or sixth year, when she used to try making Ginny get closer to Harry as it was obvious the redhead still had a huge crush on her friend.

"We've already been on... dates. Although Minerva was with us."

"You went on a date and dragged poor Minerva with you?" The witch laughed, imagining McGonagall's face during said date.

"Actually, Minnie insisted in going with us," the boy explained. "She said it would be better, especially in case Walburga Black showed up.. As we already said: that girl is nuts, we can never know what to expect from her."

"Oh..."

"Yeah. It was last May but I'm hoping to ask her out again on our next visit to Hogsmeade."

"I bet she won't hesitate to accept, Charlus." Hermione gave him a reassuring smile and patted his forearm.

"I hope you're right, darling."

Tom couldn't say he didn't enjoy History of Magic; he did, really, but Professor Binns had the power to turn it into an incredibly boring subject. The teacher surely gave them all the information they would need and if one managed to write down everything he said, they would know everything about the history of the wizarding world but still... It was really difficult for anyone to stay awake in his class or to not let their thoughts wander miles away from it. Riddle believed that a simple change in his tone of voice would do wonders to Binns' teaching, but he was in no position to advise the older wizard on how to give different intonations to his words.

"I hate this class."

"I think everyone hates it," whispered Tom as he wrote down the last few sentences Binns had just said.

"You don't."

"I'm not everyone, Abraxas."

"Oh, well..."

"But I do not enjoy the class, I enjoy the subject." The smaller boy raised his eyes to watch as the teacher walked in front of the class, reciting the names of some goblin rebels from the 1929's revolution. "I wonder how much more he'll be able to take..."

"What?" asked Malfoy, changing his position on his seat.

"Binns. He's old, really old." That was true. Cuthbert Binns reminded Tom of one of those mummies he had read about in Muggle history books. His skin looked waxy and was covered with wrinkles, his white hair was messy and his dark eyes looked whitened due to, in the boy's point of view, what seemed to be cataracts. The man's clothes didn't help in his appearance: they were old, smelled like mold and the young wizard could swear it was crawling with moths.

"Well, it would be good for the students to come, right? I mean, they wouldn't have to endure these classes."

"Indeed, but, knowing Binns, I wouldn't be surprised if he came back from the dead just to talk about angry goblins."

"For Merlin's sake, Tom, don't say that!" Malfoy laughed quietly, but quickly stopped – or at least tried to by lowering his head and trying to hide his smile when the teacher looked up at them. "If a class with him is already bad with him alive, imagine a dead Binns teaching."

Riddle let a small smile appear on his lips as he imagined the ghost of Professor Binns teaching a class full of first years. The poor kids would be traumatized and would hate History of Magic for the rest of their lives, which was kind of sad, considering the fact that it was an interesting field.

The boy looked at the Slytherin sitting next to him and saw that Malfoy had already made himself comfortable in a new position on his chair, now practically lying on the top of his desk. Tom glanced across the room only to see that most of the students were just like Abraxas: they seemed to be dying of boredom while sitting in their respective places. The only ones who were actually writing down what their teacher was saying were Hermione Elston, Minerva McGonagall and Irina Akins... And himself, but Riddle wished he could simply drop the act without feeling guilt doing so because all he actually wanted at the moment was to follow Abraxas's example and lie his head down on the table to sleep. The Slytherin didn't have the best of the nights. He kept waking up from time to time with no apparent reason, although he told himself that it was the cold... Even if it seemed weird, giving the fact that they were still in September and the weather was still pretty warm, the wizard could swear his room was incredibly cold during that night. Maybe it was an air stream that managed to get in there through a crack or something like that.

"Are you all right?" Tom almost jumped in his seat as he heard Abraxas's voice calling him. The blond was looking at him with a curious face.

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"You were drifting," said Malfoy. "Looked kinda mad."

"Damn." Riddle put down his quill and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, taking a deep breath before dropping back in his chair.

"Bad night of sleep?"

"None of your business."

"Just take a nap here, Tom. Everyone does it. Binns wouldn't even notice."

"I already told you, Malfoy..."

"You're not everyone," Abraxas completed his sentence, trying hard not to laugh at the irritated expression that took over Riddle's handsome face.

To both boys' relief, Professor Binns finally announced the end of the class but only after giving them the task of doing a good, long essay about their class's subject. As soon as possible, the two Slytherin were on the first floor's corridor, along with the rest of the students who, until a few minutes ago, were in History of Magic. Tom saw, from amongst his classmates, the greyish figure of Ravenclaw's ghost floating above them and looking down on the teenagers with her serious eyes. It had been quite some time since Riddle had started to try taking some information from the Grey Lady but, until now, the only thing he had gotten was a lot of old stories about the time she was a girl, back when her mother, the great Rowena Ravenclaw, still seemed to love her... not that it wasn't interesting to listen to stories about the founders, but Tom could enjoy it much more after he had gotten what he really wanted.

"Good afternoon, my lady," said Riddle as she floated above him and Abraxas. The woman simply looked down and stared at him with a weird expression on her semi-transparent face before a soft smile spread over her thin lips. The Grey Lady usually smiled when she saw him; after all, Tom Riddle was the only student in the whole castle that bothered to talk to her. This little privilege of having the sympathy of the ghost always made Tom feel important.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Riddle." The woman slowly nodded to him, before giving him a last glance and continue to float away from the students.

"I don't know how you managed to get on her good side," said Abraxas, watching as the ghost drifted away from them. "The one time I tried to greet her, I thought she was trying to kill me with a look."

"You just need to be patient. She doesn't trust people, so you have to gain her confidence."

Tom wondered if that was the reason the Grey Lady had given in to him. Maybe she had sensed that he was like her when it came to trusting people.

A/N: Another chapter that is more like... a filling than anything else. Or not. I don't know. But I hope you liked it (:

Thanks everyone who reviewed/favourited/followed the story, you guys are amazing! As always, feel free to say what you're thinking about the story. Btw, this chapter goes for Vicky, who wisely stated on tumblr that "Tomione" means "feels everywhere" in Russian, Portuguese, English, Sanscrit, Latin and in possibly every other language in the world.