perception
real-placebo-effect
.
gray mocker
.
under the harvest moon
when the soft silver
drips shimmering
over the garden nights,
death, the gray mocker,
comes and whispers to you
under the harvest moon; carlsandburg
.
It was almost cliché, how she arrived entirely free of cliché. There were no big lights to announce her arrival, no dark night or storm. She didn't pass out or scream or arrive with friends. Her clothes were not torn up and bloody. She didn't look poor, nor did she look extravagant and rich. She didn't have an Obliviate-gone-wrong. Her makeup wasn't running and she wasn't crying.
In fact, she arrived with a small "pop", usually associated with Apparition, in the morning, at exactly 10:51, on the seventh of July, 1941, looking a bit dazed. The few students outside had gaped at her as she blinked around, and then studied her right hand critically. There was a raised eyebrow, then an exasperated glare at her clothing, which she had just seemed to notice.
The white dress she wore wasn't pristine and crisp but it was only slightly rumpled, a single clear spot of red near the neckline. A wedding dress. She looked at the giant castle looming up in front of her, just noticing the piece of architecture there and calmly walked towards it. She got as far as the big iron gates before stopping to hiss at the gates. Her lips parted in a silent 'o' before her eyes rolled to the back of her head, her eyelids drooping and hitting her head in the iron gate, in quite an ungraceful fashion.
But she arrived.
.
friday, july 13, 1941
11:01 PM
.
Tom's hands twitched against the doorframe, as a small smile graced his lips, swallowed up by the night around him. Life at Hogwarts was monotonous, the repetitive chants of mudblood and filth and what a charming boy such a shame, such a shame so predictable that his practised smiles looked almost natural in response. The supposed purebloods were a disappointment – crass, vulgar and lacking entirely in grace and subtlety. If anyone deserved to be pureblood, to wear that successive badge of honour and nobility, it should be Tom.
He slunk out of the doorway, travelling the corridors as the dark swallowed up the small sounds his feet made, his soft breathing.
Of course, if the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort had known what was going to happen that fateful night, he might've just murdered his younger self for it. If Tom had known that Friday-the-thirteenth was not some stupid Muggle superstition, he might've been more careful that night.
Because that night would be his downfall.
.
filthy little mudblood unworthy of being Slytherin things will be hard but I feel it's for the best that I'm very sorry Thomas where's your precious daddy now eh riddle slytherin-
Tom shook his head to clear those thoughts. It wouldn't help him to do anything, if he kept those words in his heart. Instead, he'd have to keep them in his mind – keep them to motivate him to prove them all wrong. Because they were wrong. All of them; he was far, far greater than any student in this school and he had earned his place.
A lifetime of doubt and fighting for survival had surely earned him his place at Hogwarts, in the magical community, regardless of his blood.
There were times when Tom doubted. The Sorting Hat had put him in Slytherin, after all, knowing exactly what the House coveted the most – and that he lacked it. Tom himself had wanted to be Sorted into Ravenclaw – had begged for it – and everyone agreed. Except the Hat, clearly.
He cast an eye at Malfoy's closed door, eyes rolling as he continued walking out of the common room. Tom could safely say he detested the purebloods, even as they claimed superiority over him, claimed to be more magical, claimed to be purer. Instead, he could only see a crumbling gerontocracy, the corrupt elite corrupting the young even farther. The Blacks were a prime example, with all kinds of insanity running through their veins. Orion and Walburga with their uncontrollable lust, Alphard with his mania disguised as genius, Cygnus with his arrogance and pride and, of course, the ever phobic Charms Professor, Regulus Black. They were all obnoxious, illogical, proud and arrogant and they could deny that as much as they want, but it was clear.
Of course, that wasn't to say that the inbred pureblood insanity had not just manifested in the Blacks; the Malfoys were just as horrific. Abraxas Malfoy claimed that he could trace his family back three centuries and claim that each and every one had been in Slytherin – but Tom suspected a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor somewhere in the line; it was the only explanation for the boy's rash actions and utter idiocy.
He had perfect grades, and the brightest future, the teachers around his pinkie and a personality. Sure, he wasn't rich nor was his family name well-known, but Tom was mostly happy with what he had gained, because it was all through his own honest effort, though Professor Dumbledore would very much object.
Tom's footsteps paused as his eyes took in the corridor around him, dark and unfamiliar at this time of day. He had let his thoughts consume too much and with an annoyed tick in his jaw, pulled out his wand, muttering, "Lumos."
The tip didn't illuminate very far; Tom was forced to go on. He followed the corridor he was on, and considered asking the portraits for directions, only to find every single one empty.
Then, the corridor split into two paths.
Tom could go left or go right. After a seconds hesitation, he chose the right path, ignoring the sinking sensation. He brushed it off at the worry of being lost, of not making it back to his dormitory before dawn. The dimly lit corridors gave him a feeling of apprehension as the shadows flickered onto the wall, creating shapes, creating a story, creating life.
His shoulders relaxed as Tom reached a familiar area; the Hospital Wing. He was prepared to walk straight past it, get to the dungeons and maybe catch some sleep, but that was not to happen tonight.
A second right after he had walked past the Wing, he heard wind chimes.
Being the curious being that he was, he stopped, craning his neck back to find out just when Madame Luxor had put up wind chimes and why. She hated noise in her space, where people were usually trying to rest after violent Quidditch matches or as a result of House conflict.
What he discovered was that the Wing was completely empty, wind blowing in harshly through the completely open windows, the translucent white curtains reaching out to each other across the Wing, almost like lovers hands trying to grasp each other, he would later muse.
Had Tom had been a normal or average, he would've recognised what the hairs standing on the back of his neck meant, wouldn't have blamed the goose bumps on his forearms on the wind, which was a summer one and not very cold, not walk through the Wing to the bed at the back and fled like a demon.
But of course, Tom had never been normal, so he didn't even notice the hairs standing on the back of his neck, blamed the goose bumps on his forearms on the wind, and instead of fleeing, walked straight to the bed at the back of the Wing.
The wind hit his face gently as did the curtains, almost caressing him, and tousled his hair ever so slightly, but it was enough to make him push the curtains away from him roughly and glare at them, and not enough to deter him from walking to the end bed. When he reached the end bed and pulled aside the cotton curtain that had been shut tightly, fully expecting to meet Madame Luxor. But what he saw there was enough to make the breath catch in his throat.
There was a girl.
Her eyelids fluttered, the purple veins showing through the skin and underneath her eyes. Her chapped, cracked lips stretched across her teeth in silent screams, mouthing silent words and bitten hard enough to bleed. The cheap cotton blankets gathered by her hips and the tops of her thighs as she dug her heels into the bed with enough force to make it creak, her back arched almost painfully, suspended in the air as though struck by lightning.
Her hands gripped the bed sheets until her knuckles turned white and contorted as if enduring some great pain, the angles so impossible it was a wonder her hands hadn't broken – though, they might be, for all Tom knew.
Her hair was splayed across her face and the pillow, as her head tosses back and forth, her pale, clammy skin contrasting greatly with varicose veins. Sweat gathered at her forehead, upper lip, neck, chest and back, damp patches clearly visible on the blue Hospital dress she wore. The droplets dripped from the backs of her thighs and the back of her knees, soaking her clothing and the sheets as she convulsed.
If it were not for the sheer horror Tom felt, it might've been erotic.
Sickened, Tom turned and half-ran out of the Hospital Wing as fast as he could, unable to get the gruesome picture out of his head, the back of his hand to his mouth and did not look back once.
What Tom didn't know was that if he had gone left, he would've landed right in front of one of the many entrances to the Chamber of Secrets.
.
tuesday, july 24th, 1941
3:14 PM
.
Walking out of History of Magic would never lose it's charm, but today, Tom felt particularly relieved. It had been the last lesson of the day, and the last lesson of the year, and Binns had a way of making the Goblin Wars even duller. It was the most draining class for Tom, simply because it took so much effort to stay awake.
That might be more to do with last night, Tom mused. He had, after all, dropped his guard momentarily during Charms – and had paid the price. His fourth year had been particularly taxing because of Professor Black who had never once relented with his blood purity propaganda. All the Blacks made it a point to indicate his blood status to anyone at anytime and that resulted in even more taunting.
When Tom had woken up this morning, he wasn't sure if the girl he saw yesterday was real, or just a figment of his imagination. All day he had analysed, cross-referenced and dissected his memories, trying to verify the existence of the Hell-Girl.
There were plenty of reasons why she couldn't be real; he had been tired, he had been annoyed and he couldn't remember returning to his room after seeing her, but there were also plenty of reasons why she could be real; he had seen her, Luxor wasn't in the Wing yesterday for sure (she was at a staff meeting) and she could – should really – be in there today as well, given her current condition.
A first year girl ran up to him, blushing a cherry red, passing him a note. Tom rolled his eyes, quite ready to throw it away until he recognised the scratchy writing; Dumbledore.
Meet at Dippet's Office. 3:30. Don't be late.
P. Dumbledore
Tom stiffened and looked at the large clock in the Great Hall – it was only three fifteen; he still had time.
What could the meeting possibly be about? An honour? A notification – perhaps they'd found his father? Or maybe he was getting kicked out of Hogwarts?
His blood ran cold at the thought.
Tom had grown up in Hogwarts – nobody would ever know the secret alleyways and passages like he did (at least, not until around thirty years into the future, by a group of young boys known at the Marauders). If he had a choice, he would never leave, especially during the summer holidays. Who would trade a warm bed, warm food and education for a cold, lumpy mattress, cold, lumpy soup and nothing to read but the rude inscriptions on the walls of the toilet cubicles?
Certainly not him. He had hopes – dreams – and they would be fulfilled.
And he would make sure no one could take that away from him, now or in the future. Ever. To Tom, it seemed like he'd only blinked once before he'd arrived in front of the Headmaster's office. Although his password – Minister For Magic as it was – suggested that Dippet was a man of power, there was someone else behind the scenes. Someone who played the game so well, so perfectly that even Dippet himself had no idea that he was being manipulated. It took Tom a few years but he had spotted it eventually; Dumbledore ran the show.
It all came down to the Transfiguration Professor in the end.
Dumbledore had managed to get his way with nearly everything – everything except perhaps the expulsion of Tom from the school. Although, there was a possibility now that he had succeeded. Tom was puzzled as to how, though. He had done nothing wrong – he was one of the highest achievers in the year and in the running for Prefect.
"Come in, Tom." Dippet said, completely downcast and at odds with his usual personality. Tom smiled an almost smile and walked in a bit more. He was surprised to see that Dumbledore was nowhere to be found – Dumbledore simply had to be everywhere, to make sure Dippet didn't do anything that went against his master plan. Tom almost felt sorry for Dippet. "Well, hurry in, boy."
Almost. "We have to get along to the Hospital Wing. Professor Dumbledore seems to have a bit of a...problem."
"A problem, sir?" Tom entertained the thought that perhaps Dumbledore had broken a leg. Or two.
"Yes, now come along, we've wasted enough time as it is." With that said, Dippet walked out from behind the corporate undecorated table with his robes billowing out behind him, trying to look like an intimidating figure and Tom tried his best to look rightly affected even though he actually wanted to just laugh out loud.
Dippet seemed not to notice, leaving the room in a flurry of robes, looking like an obese bat.
.
"Now that we are all satisfied, I will get to the crux of things. A very warm welcome to new students and a warm welcome home to everyone else. Mr. Filch, our caretaker, would like to remind everyone that the Forbidden Forest is forbidden for a reason, to all students." Was it just Harry or did he seem to look at him in particular this time?
"Also, anyone who is found prowling the corridors after curfew will suffer detentions as well as lose House points, so beware." At this, Harry, Ron and Hermione all shared a knowing look and cracked grins.
"Pen ultimately, I would like to inform you that Professor McGonagall, our resident Transfiguration Mistress, is relinquishing her post as Head of Gryffindor House in order to fully assume her post as Assistant Headmistress, which she finds rather stressful."
The Gryffindor table cried out in indignation, particularly Harry's own year - the sixth- at the thought of not having Minerva McGonagall as their Head. She was the epitome of Gryffindor's most wanted qualities – courteous, brave, daring – and was the backbone of the House. Dumbledore's hand held up quieted them, at least for now.
"This leads me onto my last notice for tonight. I would like to announce to you, with pride, someone who has graciously offered to fill the Gryffindor Head of House post and Defence Against The Dark Arts post, which was released just as Professor Umbridge was." There was a loud cheer – surprisingly from all tables and Snape – at this.
"I would like to present, Professor Naomi Blake." The students clapped politely, and craned their necks, only to find a gap still next to Snape, who was looking suspiciously paler than usual.
BOOM!
The doors opened and everyone's heads turned so fast that Harry almost got whiplash. A woman, whom he assume to be Professor Blake, walked in, her Muggle trenchcoat dripping from the rain. Behind her, a tall man walked in, watching her carefully, but still just as soaked.
"And a new intern for Defence Against The Dark Arts, Nathan Comason."
Blake froze, all colour fading from her skin as she stared at the table. Harry's head flickered to the table too and saw Snape, still pale and still unlike the other Professors who were clapping and yelling madly – obviously they recognised her from some previous encounter. His eyes flickered between Snape, whose face was still pale but arranged into careful indifference, and Blake, whose face was contorted in such shock and pain, the likes of which Harry had never seen.
And that was when Harry Potter remembered.
.
"Cantata, my dear, speed is of necessity." Albus said calmly and overwhelmingly, making Madame Cantata Luxor flush nervously – she was still new to the job, after all, and so very young in comparison to himself.
"I-I can't get the drawer open!" She stammered, tugging at the drawer forcefully.
"Well, then," Albus said, still frighteningly calm, "what shall we do with her?"
Her was, of course, the girl that Albus Dumbledore was currently pinning down to the hospital bed. She thrashed and tried breaking free one more time, an almost inhuman roar spilling from her mouth.
"I'm going to rip out your twinkling, beady little eyes, dissect them and feed them to you! Let me up, now!" Albus actually looked mildly impressed with that one, but responded casually.
"Yes, yes, that's nice dear." This only seemed to enrage her more and she tried to knee him in a very sensitive place and Albus was forced to pin her thigh down with his knee.
"You patronising, manipulative, murderer!" She screamed right in his face and Albus, true to his name, went very, very white.
"I have not murdered anyone." He said calmly, and she grinned cruelly, victoriously, and Albus realised that she was baiting him.
"You're that sure? Never cast Priori Incantatem before? A couple of years back, when you were sixteen. Can't tell me you didn't know the spell back then either because I know that you did." She spat in his face, literally and figuratively speaking and he flinched.
"Cantata, use your wand." He instructed quietly and the girl under him screeched in defiance. Every time she got angry, she seemed to gain more strength and she had actually managed to push his fists back this time, completely unexpectedly, as Albus had pinned her down with his full strength.
The man was flung back, still gripping the girl's delicate-looking wrists tightly and she was pulled with him, the girl turning it into a pounce as she bit and clawed and kneed and punched – desperation and anger fuelling her actions – to gain her freedom.
It was at this point that Armando Dippet and Tom Riddle walked in, completely shocked at the sight of the Albus Dumbledore being manually beaten to a pulp by a girl both half his age and size.
She stopped then, fist in mid-air, and turned slowly, her hair parting to show her eyes which were looking at the Headmaster calculatingly, such a startling green glinting intelligently and emotionally, her lively hair undulating down her back, a curtain of catastrophe, her skin slightly flushed from exertion.
Then slowly, at least to Tom, her eyes dragged and goose bumps rose on Tom's arms as their full intensity was concentrated on him. He was trapped in her eyes, her salient emerald eyes, as though all the green in the world - applegreen, emeraldgreen, grassgreen, leafgreen, scalegreen, Slytheringreen, buggreen – had all been drawn out and collected within her eyes, and he felt her regard, her disregard and anger and loathing, so much loathing.
That small two minute pause was all Dumbledore needed and a quick Full Body-Bind Charm was cast with such force that she was flung back, stiff as a rod, onto her bed. Her face was the picture of surprise and only her fresh green eyes shone with wrath.
"I'm going to free your mouth, understand?" Dumbledore said, trying to calm her down, even though she couldn't verbally acquiesce. Nonetheless, Dumbledore released a portion of the charm and she kept silent.
Something curled up in Tom, dark and anticipatory, at how easily she had dismissed her own emotions, the way her bright green eyes were now nothing more than a dull bottle-green.
"Understood, sir." She drawled.
"What is your name?" He said commandingly. And yet she just stared blankly, as unimpressed as Tom was.
"What's the magic word?" Tom hid his smirk.
"...Magic word?" Dumbledore prompted and the girl sighed.
"Purebloods." She said in mock-disappointment.
"Pureblood or not, you should answer the question. What is your name?" Dumbledore said forcefully.
"I'm so upset that you don't seem to recognise me, Uncle Al. Dad wouldn't be happy, and you know what his temper is like." She was ever so mocking, pouting at the older man. Dumbledore looked flabbergasted.
"Uncle Al?" Dippet repeated, disbelievingly. The girl, who had to be a Dumbledore herself, smiled eerily.
"Perhaps, you'd like a word with me now, sir? If you had listened to me just then, instead of trying to subdue me with petty first year spells, Professor—Dippet wouldn't have had to come all the way here." Dumbledore pressed a hand to his forehead and waved the other, releasing the Body Bind on the girl. She sat up right, crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap.
"Yes—that would be best. Armando, if you please—and you as well, Tom..." Dumbledore muttered to himself, ushering them out.
Crazy old coot.
.
4:15 PM
It was ridiculous that Tom had wasted an hour of his life outside the Hospital Wing, waiting for Dumbledore. The Transfiguration Professor had gestured Dippet in soon enough but as Tom had made a move to follow in, Dippet had merely said,
You aren't required at this moment in time, Tom.
The nerve, Tom fumed. On the outside, he looked calm and collect, no way to tell the indignation bubbling under his skin except for the small, impatient twitching of his right leg. He heard the enormous clock within the school chime softly, as if it didn't want to intrude on the student's excited chattering, which signalled that another fifteen minutes had passed by.
Enough is enough.
Tom knocked on the doors sharply and waited, trying not to let his temper show. After a few minutes, the door creaked open slightly and Tom took the opportunity to walk in.
"Ah, I'm very sorry Tom – we'd almost forgotten you were still outside." Dumbledore said, still smiling brilliantly, and Tom's face darkened momentarily. You are not needed, foolish boy, Tom read between the lines and saw what the Professor meant.
Tom flashed a brilliantly fake smile and said cheerily, "It's alright, sir, I understand that Professor Dippet is a very busy man, what with being Headmaster and all."
You have no real power.
"Checkmate." The girl remarked, a brow raised in a half-question. Tom titled the corner of his lip in recognition.
"Ah yes, we'd almost forgotten about you as well, m'dear." Dumbledore said, twinkling at her too. He received a blank look in reply.
"Why is the boy here?" She asked abruptly, leaning back on her bed, feigning lack of interest.
"Well, this is Tom Riddle," Dumbledore said to the girl, who stiffened slightly then tipped her chin up to acknowledge him, "And Tom, this is my niece, Naomi."
Niece? Oh really? "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Tom stuck out his hand, his introduction swift and his fluctuations all in the correct places, sounding sensual and charming. She looked unaffected and shook his hand lightly. "Likewise."
Now, why didn't that seem honest? Tom thought, amused. "Naomi will be attending Hogwarts next year."
"Thank you once again for pointing out the obvious." Her cutting remark roused a sigh from Dippet's corner.
"Naomi, I und-" Dumbledore began, but was cut off as the girl held up her hand.
"No, you could never understand."
"Why don't you enlighten us, then?" Dippet broke in and the girl sighed, obviously irritated.
"How many times do you need me to repeat the same story?"
"I want details Miss Dumbledore."
"Those details are, pardon my frankness, none of your business. In fact, it's no one's business here at Hogwarts at all. Uncle will not interfere in the war – then he will not interfere in my life, either." Dumbledore's jaw clenched and the girl stared blankly at him. "I do hope the Ministry aren't going to be called into this."
In the end, there was no choice for Dippet. After hearing it phrased like that, he couldn't possibly keep going. Tom nearly smirked at the girl outright, her cool facade and high walls looking like temptation and the biggest challenge. "I-well...yes, very well."
Dumbledore looked sadly at his niece (A niece! How could I have missed that?) and smiled softly – something Tom thought he would never see him do. "I just hope he was a good man."
"He was." Her back straightened with pride and Tom was lost in the conversation, their eyes speaking tomes he'd never decipher.
"You will need to fill in some paperwork for you to attend...perhaps you could do that during the summer holidays and owl it to me?" Dippet said, breaking the heavy silence.
"Of course, Professor Dippet." She smiled a little at him before turning to Dumbledore. "Uncle, will I...?"
"Yes, well, about that..." Dumbledore said, his eyes shifted about the room.
"Uncle..."
"It seems as though there is a little problem—"
"—Uncle—"
"—what with you returning so quickly—"
"—Albus—"
"—I think it's best that you stay with Mr Riddle, here."
Her jaw ticked and she glared at her uncle, eyes furious. "You're kidding."
"I will have to sort out further arrangements, Naomi." He said, carefully and, once again, Tom felt the conversation go above his understanding. "Staying with Tom may be—conducive."
"It is a necessity." She agreed, if begrudgingly.
"I'm hurt, Miss Dumbledore."
"Do not talk to me." She said, off-handedly, not even throwing a glare his way.
"I'm sorry, but I will come to pick you up two weeks before the holidays end. There are some things we need to do."
"Yes. There will be." Her voice was vacant, and melancholic, and sad and full of slow-burning anger.
The clock struck and silence became their companion.