perception
real-placebo-effect
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the silence
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true silence is the rest of the mind; it is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.
william penn
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thursday, july 26th, 1941
7:23 AM
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The girl had been oddly quiet. Admittedly, it had only been a day, but Tom had high expectations from the little girl who had manually beat down a wizard and she wasn't living up to them. She was silent, almost too silent, he adds on, darkly.
She'd been silent since they'd slid into the car that would take them to the orphanage.
Tom had expected more – expected a stream of questions about Muggle life and disdainful comments about the sheer brutality of it all. But there had been nothing, not even cool acknowledgement. On their arrival, she'd been shown to her room and slid in through the slip of her door without so much as a thank you, a small click left in the space she used to occupy. It was as though the girl was locked up in herself, seeing nothing out of her blank eyes.
He focused once again on the scene before him, as the door slid open like a parody of the last time it had shut on his face, and the girl stood there, the unflattering grey uniform only making her skin look even more pallid.
"Riddle." Her greeting was bland, made Tom's brow furrow, before she gestured for him to lead the way. Tom did so after nodding curtly at her, confusion and unease gnawing at him, still.
"This way."
She followed him, silent and unquestioning.
.
"She's a bit...odd, isn't she, Harry?" Hermione asked, lips bitten raw.
"I don't think she's—odd. Maybe just, I dunno, unique?" Harry suggested. Ron rolled his eyes from next to the Boy-Who-Lived.
"Thought you'd be asking why the bloody hell we're gonna be sneaking around after curfew, without the Cloak!" Ron exclaimed. Then he grinned. "Then again, Iam wrong, sometimes."
Harry chuckled as he responded. "Or maybe Hermione just grew a pair."
"Either way, I'm not going to go check, mate." Ron countered, throwing his hands up in defeat.
Harry laughed and Hermione glared, but a small smile grew on her lips nonetheless. "Honestly, you two are so immature. I just think—"
Suddenly, Hermione stopped smiling. Ron craned his neck, trying to see what Hermione was seeing and glowered. "Snape's heading this way!"
The Trio scrambled, trying to hide and finally managed to hide behind a familiar, and fortunately friendly, suit of armour. As Snape walked in from one direction, unfortunately for them, two students – second-years by the looks of it – chose that moment to laugh loudly, walking right in front of Snape.
"Stop." He intoned, and the doomed second-years froze. "Turn."
They did and were faced with the oncoming wrath Potions Master. "Fifteen points, for sneaking around after hours."
"That's hardly fair, Professor, seeing as how there's still ten minutes to curfew." Blake interrupted¸ smoothly. Snape looked slightly startled as he turned to face the witch; she'd seem to have appeared from nowhere, raising an eyebrow to the surly man.
"Tell me, Blake," Snape sneered, recovering from his surprise quickly, spitting out her name like it was a curse. "How will these students gather enough brainpower to coordinate themselves to run when they can't even do the most mundane tasks assigned? I can assure you that it will most certainly take a lot longer than the ten minutes to curfew. "
"Git." Ron muttered under his breath and Harry nudged at him, hard.
"Of course, Professor Snape." Blake replied, looking defeated, head hung low. Snape smirked and turned to walk off, but managed to catch her saying,
"Well, Professor Snape did make a good point, in his roundabout kind of way. There's only ten minutes to curfew and you're in the opposite direction of your Common Room. But—in the spirit of the new year...take ten points for not arguing with him!" Blake smiled at the second-years who smiled shyly in return before running off as they sensed the not so metaphorical ominous cloud that was Snape heading back their way.
"What was the meaning of that, Blake?" Snape hissed as the two students scurried away, eyes wide.
"A gift, I suppose." She countered, tipping her chin in a show of defiance, a smirk growing on her face. "They still lost five points, didn't they?"
"That's not the point! The point is you showing favouritism to your Gryffin-"
"Favouritism?" Blake exclaimed. "I haven't been in this castle for a day and you're already accusing me of favouritism? You, the only teacher to enjoy awarding points to Slytherin? You clearly didn't see their ties just now, so let me inform you—" Here she poked the chest of the annoyed Potions Master. "—that those two were both Hufflepuffs, not Gryffindors. So, your accusations are as baseless as they've always been, Severus."
She turned to walk away, but Snape stopped her with nothing but his next words, which were said coldly. "Perhaps you should zip up your shirt a bit more, Professor. No one wants to see your overused assets."
She froze, turning slowly, a dark look on her face. "Overused? I'm hoping that you're not insinuating what I think you're insinuating."
"Not insinuating, no." Snape replied, a cold smirk on his face, making Blake's jaw tick with suppressed fury. Her heels clacked along the empty corridor as she stormed back to him, pale hands a contrast against the sheer black of his robes, as her fingers fisted themselves in the material to drag him close.
Harry could hear Ron's growing horror at the unfolding scene and had to fight to stop laughing out loud.
"As a Professor, I'm here to educate, am I not?" She murmured, each syllable dragged slow and heatedly, "Won't you let me educate you? Let me learn all the places of your body and let me press against you so you can feel just how overused my assets really are? Hmm, Professor?"
She slowly tugging on the zip of her shirt revealing more skin, flushed and warm. It was clear that Blake had no desire to pursue this, what with the way she stopped unzipping just as the shadowed areas of her chest were brought to light, but he was still ridiculously delighted when Snape, scowling all the while, put his hand over hers, zipping up the shirt again, two high spots of red appearing on each cheek, unable to meet Blake's eyes.
"I thought not." She said, smugly. Her fingers dug into the man's jaw as she forced his gaze back to her, "Besides, I don't see any overused goods here. Just one piece of unused equipment."
Her eyes flickered momentarily to his groin and Snape's face turns purple. "Goodnight, Professor Snape."
"You—" Snape tried to snarl out, grabbing Blake's upper arm. She whirled around, wand out and pressed against the man's jugular. There's a moment of complete stillness between them, both furious and unwilling to give in, and then Snape's hand loosened its grip on her arm, the fury falling away from his face until he looked exhausted.
The look on his face was so unfamiliar and raw, Harry had to look away.
"Merlin, Sev." She said, quietly, as she pulled away, running a hand through her hair roughly. "I can't—"
She fled and Snape turned on his heel, leaving the Trio to look at each other, completely and utterly confused.
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sunday, july 29th, 1941
7:47 AM
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As everything in life did, they settled into a mundane routine. Tom would knock politely on the girl's door, waiting for less than a minute outside her room, and take her down to breakfast. He supposed that the girl would talk to Dumbledore of her experience at Wool's – and her impression of him – and if he showed initiative maybe the Transfiguration Professor would give him more room to breathe.
He'd definitely need it next year.
After breakfast, they settled down in whatever corner they could find, and passed the day away doing ordinary things; reading books, writing letters. It was the most peaceful Tom's time at the orphanage had ever been.
Sometimes, they'd play chess.
The girl had lost every game so far – her moves a typical bold and rash kind that were nearly always transparent. Gryffindor, he'd smirked. Tom pointed out her technique and its flaws and she merely gave him a blank smile,
I couldn't ever just sacrifice the pawns like that.
On Saturday morning, Tom found himself falling into routine once again; waiting outside her room, which had once belonged to Delia Summers. The girl was ten minutes later than she was usually and Tom was near restless with impatience. He contemplated knocking on the door once more but it slid open before he could, just wide enough to allow her small form through.
"Sorry I'm late." She said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. There were rules about hair length – about tying it up, at least – but somehow, strands always fell out, irritating both of them, but no one commented. She offered no explanations and Tom wouldn't ask – he didn't particularly care.
He ignored the gooseflesh rising on his neck and arms.
They headed toward a table – slightly less rickety than the others – and set their cups and plates on the table down carefully. As the girl put a spoonful into her mouth, she winced and Tom smirked widely at her before taking his own bite with a grimace. The other children kept well away from both the girl and himself – and Tom made the mistake of relaxing.
"Hello there. I'm Leon Bailey. My friends and I wanted to welcome you to Wool's Orphanage." Bailey's voice was polite as always, a stab in the dark at being charming – he wouldn't know charming if it came to him as a roast chicken, Tom sneered, stabbing the dismal grey sludge on his plate – calling the girl's attention to him. Bailey had clearly been standing there for a few minutes and Tom hid a smirk at the thought that perhaps he'd been ignored.
"Naomi." She said curtly and paused in her eating to slide her cool green gaze over the group of adolescents only to dismiss them with ease. No surname supplied, Tom noted, curiously.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Bailey gave her a toothy grin. Seeing her lack of response, Leon decided to take another route. "Have you been sho—"
"Yes." She replied cutting him off. "Tom's showed me around already, thank you."
"Tom?" Bailey asked, evidently surprised. He turned to face him as though he'd only just noticed Tom sitting there. "You two friends or somethin'?"
"I suppose so." She said, slowly turning to meet Bailey full on. Tom felt satisfaction as the other boy flinched slightly at being the object of her scrutiny (and no, it wasn't because Tom felt happy that others found her gaze disconcerting too, despite that small rush of relief that said otherwise). "Why?"
"Why on earth would you bother with him?" Bailey sneered, gesturing in his general direction. "He's a freak."
"A freak?" She inquired, her face carefully arranged to look curious against her own will. Perhaps Tom was the only one who could see the building anger in her eyes and the set of her arms.
"A total freak." Bailey said, stopping for what Tom assumed was an unnecessary dramatic pause. It was utterly amusing how the boy seemed to talk about him as though Tom wasn't sitting right in front of him. "Strange things happen to people around him, y'know?"
"Is that so?" She asked, shortly, but it was restrained enough for Bailey not to notice.
"Exactly. Just look that creepy school he goes to. Full of nutt—"
The resounding clang as the girl's spoon dropped in her empty plate shut the other boy up completely.
"First thing's first, Leon." She snapped. "First, I go to that creepy school you're talking about. Second, you're insulting my friend, right in front of him as though he's not there. Third, one of those nutters is my uncle, who happens to be a teacher at the creepy school that I go to. "
"H-hey, I'm so-" Bailey didn't get to finish as the girl continued, slightly louder, on her tirade.
"Fourth, I don't need your insincere apologies." She wrinkled her nose. "You're not sorry, and neither am I. Stay away from me, Leon or you will regret it, little boy. After all, birds of a feather, flock together, right, Tom?"
She raised an eyebrow towards him, and Tom smirked, a thrill running through him as Bailey paled in the thought that the girl might just have similar abilities to Tom. If he'd actually been asked, Tom would have rejected this fiercely – the girl was weaker than him. He couldn't even sense her magic, that's just how pitiful it was.
She turned back to Tom, smiling widely, clearly dismissing Bailey as one of his cronies murmured, sympathetically. "Better luck next time, mate."
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thursday, august 2nd , 1941
8:20 AM
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She'd gotten into the habit of jogging in the morning, after the pitiful excuse for a breakfast they were served every day. It was one of the only times Naomi could remember that the thought of returning to Hogwarts had appealed to her. The jogging calmed her down, and she knew she'd needed to get her body back into shape if she wanted any hope of catching up with Riddle's power.
Not to say she was weak – she'd merely been hiding her magic – but Naomi was notably incapacitated after the battle. She couldn't do any more than jogging, but she felt it was a good start considering the extent of her injuries.
After discussing at length with Harriet, Naomi had been allowed to go – with Tom's supervision – to the park nearby to train. It wasn't small, but it wasn't the size she was used to. It doesn't matter, she told herself firmly. It's not like she could practise uprooting trees anyhow. Naomi had decided on starting out with the basics – stretches, meditation and jogging.
Riddle usually sat down by a bench, reading some book or another, power oozing out as though taunting her with it. Naomi wondered if he thought about world domination or setting the park on fire or cursing the loud, laughing toddler as the child passed him by. But then she realised she had better things to do.
Slowly but surely, she'd been working herself up. From one lap, she managed two and now, was slowly working herself up to four laps. Naomi's mind whirred as she jogged, the Riddle (as she'd aptly named it) repeating over and over in her mind. What do I do? Where do I go? What do I do?
Naomi realised pretty early on that she knew nothing about the future psychopath she was living with – besides his name and house. Tom Marvolo Riddle, heir of Slytherin, Lord Voldemort. The last, at least, Naomi was confident she knew enough about – his attack plans, his defence, the Inner Circle, his snakes within the Ministry.
But Riddle and Voldemort seemed, to her surprise, like two different people.
Naomi stood upright once more, trying to hide the fact that she'd been scrutinising Riddle and began to start jogging. She nearly tripped over her own feet when Riddle got up, walking at a brisk pace next to her.
"How many rounds do you usually do?" Riddle enquired, breaking the silence. Naomi considered lying to him, because she can't show weakness, but decided against it. She had no idea when he'd become a Legillimens. There is still so much I don't know about him. How do you combat the unknown?
"Anywhere ranging from one to five."
"And today?"
"Today...maybe three."
"I see-oompf!" Before he can continue what he was saying, Riddle suddenly disappeared and she stopped, looking around.
"Riddle?"
.
The blurs in front of him slowly cleared up and the image of the rock he'd hit his head on became unmistakable. How did this even happen?
One minute, he was attempting civil conversation with the girl and the next, he was falling down the slope, which was conveniently covered in trees and rocks. She must've pushed me, Tom decided. Annoying little bint.
Sitting up, Tom reached for that aching spot on his head, rubbing it gently. I'm definitely going to feel that tomorrow morning...
His head spun and he slowly became aware of a dull throb in his leg—his whole body,actually. Trying to discern where he was, Tom squinted and sighed loudly when he could see nothing but unfamiliar trees, ones that kept on repeating over and over again. Sighing again at his predicament, Tom decided on a course of action.
The only way was forward, after all.
.
Oh, this is hopeless! Completely and utterly hopeless! Tom thought frantically, still dragging himself through the god-forsaken woods – no wait, jungle, and trying not to put pressure on his leg, which was still throbbing. His fingers had numerous splinters in them, and he had a niggling suspicion that his littlest finger was broken, making his hands too sensitive to check.
He finally caved in, yelling out his frustration, punching his fist into a nearby tree trunk, only to hiss in pain at the contact and retract his hand immediately, the throbbing worse than ever, tucking it close to his chest.
"Well, that was pretty stupid of you." A breathy voice came from behind him, and Tom turned around, while trying not to move his injured leg, so fast that he ended tripping and falling over.
"You!" Tom snarled, pointing a splinter-covered finger at her. She raised an eyebrow in reply.
"Yes, Naomi, at your service." She mocked, curtsying. Tom glared at her.
"You—I—park—you pushed me!" He snapped, his eyes widening like plates. The girl looked shocked for a second, her eyes were amused, wondering perhaps when he would start foaming at the mouth, before a scowl plastered itself to her face.
"How dare you accuse me of doing anything like that?" She demanded. "You know, I actually like decent conversation, like the one we were having before you decided to be an idiot andtrip over a rock!"
"I did not trip!" Tom argued. "You pushed me, with your big, manly hands, and th-"
"I do not have manly hands, you je-"
"And Merlin knows, if you wanted to molest m-"
"Molest you? I'd choose Leon Bailey over you any-"
"-e or something, you stupid, annoying-"
"-day of any week! You're an egotistical, obsessive –"
"Vapid, sycophantic-"
"Arrogant, with your stalker hab -"
"Haughty, foul-mouthed-"
"Emotionless, obtuse-"
"Idiot!" They both yelled, glaring and eyes flashing with anger. Their chests rose and fell with each breath, tension flying like sparks. Tom opened his mouth – no doubt for a cutting remark – but was halted.
Drip.
The girl stared at him, her eyes widening in comprehension. She reached out to his knees, greedy and grabby.
"What are you doing?" Tom growled out, moving away from her.
Drip.
"You're bleeding, Riddle." She pointed out. "It's your leg. Just let me—"
"No, I'm quite fine." He ground out. She's trying to molest me, I swear to Merlin. Tom thought frantically. First pushing me into bushes and now this.
"Riddle, what is wrong with you?" She said voice sharp and eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What plant did you land on? Was it a magic mushroom? Belladonna?"
"No." He snarled. "I'm fine; I should be asking you this, you're the one trying to molest me in a park!"
"Riddle, there's something wrong!" The witch insisted, quite annoyingly. "Let me check you for injuries. It was an incredibly steep hill that you, uh, were pushed down."
"So, you admit you pushed me?"
"Pfft, no." She rolled her eyes, and Tom's eyes narrowed in response. "Riddle, please. I know you're hurt and I just want to help. Please."
"I'm not hurt and I don't need your help, Dumbledore." He spat, and to accentuate his point, he tried to stand up. Tom fell to the ground in a heap and refused to look at her face.
"Oh right, my mistake, you just tripping about all over the place acting like a drug-addict whilst smearing blood everywhere is a perfectly normal daily occurrence." The girl countered, sarcastically.
"There is nothing wrong me." Tom insisted, pushing her hands away roughly. "Get away from me."
But she stopped his resisting with her next words, delivered so softly that he struggled to catch them, "Riddle, please. "
He looked into her eyes and found, to his shock, not pity or contempt, but a sort of urgency and fear. Tom tore his eyes away, almost feeling her puzzlement at his actions, before her whole posture seemed to relax in relief.
His hands fell away from her wrists, allowing the girl to move them freely.
She got to work quickly, ripping away the leg of his trousers, just to the knees to assess the damage. Her eyebrows drew together at what she saw. "Riddle, how did you not notice a branch sticking out through your bloody calf?"
"I'm not quite sure." He replied, quite honestly. She gave him an amused look and brought out her water bottle, unscrewing the lid quickly. Where was that this whole time? Tom thought, absently.
"Riddle, I'm going to pull out the branch, okay?" She explained, and Tom wasn't sure if it was meant to reassure him or not, but it did, by a small fraction. "This is definitely going to hurt. Sorry."
Without further ado, she pulled out the piece of wood with an ominous slick sound of something very bodily and real and imbedded in his calf. The pain that came to Tom was unbearable – throbbing, throbbing, aching and burning, acidic, throbbing, throbbing, concentrated all on one spot, stabbed, throbbing, throbbi-
"—shh, it's okay, Tom, you're doing good. It's okay, m'gonna help you—" She murmured, her voice pulling him back to earth, back to sanity, back to reality, shuffling even closer, hesitating only slightly before caressing his cheek. Another jolt of pain went through him and he gasped at feeling the same pain again and he watched as the girl's face paled.
"No, no, no, not possible—h-he—no-how? Why?" She said fervently, to herself, but by Merlin, if she didn't stop the agony now he was going to stab her with the stick. See how she liked it.
"What are you waiting for, Dumbledore? All my blood to leak out of the gaping wound on my calf? Do something." Tom hissed and her eyes snapped back into focus, just as another wave of pain crashed over him, tugging him into the sensation, and he didn't want to, and Merlin this bloody hurt and he was—
Tom sighed out in relief as the cool water washed over his leg and he slid his turbulent eyes open to see the girl's eyes narrowed in rapture. She spoke, without even looking at him, an action Tom found rather insulting – "I have to make sure there aren't any splinters in your leg muscles. This might—agitate you. Sorry."
This time though, Tom could control his gasps, because her hands were just as cool as the water as they gently cleared away the dirt and other impurities imbedded in his salmon-pink, bloody flesh. After a few minutes of her doing so, Tom spoke up. "Where did you learn to do this?"
She paused for a moment, her hands and facial features frozen, before she replied, if a bit hesitantly, "We were trained for this kind of stuff."
Something about the tone in her voice alerted Tom to the fact that it would not be wise to pursue the subject. For now. After all, his leg was on the line. So he resigned himself to watching the girl as she managed to clear away the wound, which was still bleeding. She moved her hands directly onto his calf then and softly began to massage, humming quietly under her breath. Again, the hot, twisting pain from earlier flood through him again, and he had to bite his tongue from crying out but, surprisingly, the pain was diminishing. It was going away. Tom hoped to every deity out there that she wouldn't stop.
"I won't." She said, and Tom reflected lazily that perhaps, in his daze, he'd spoken out loud. The pain was going away, and that's all that really mattered in the end, anyway. He turned a lazy eye towards the calf that she was treating only to feel consciousness wash over his, piercingly.
She was using magic to heal it.
He could see it, the sinew slowly stitching itself back together and she sang, as quietly as she could, the healing charm under her breath, a cool, calming soothing chant, one of reassurance. The muscle was stitching itself back together and it was completely, utterly surreal. He could sense it, the magic weaving into every cell, encouraging it, reassuring it, growing it. His skin started to grow over the bleeding lump of flesh, covering it, and he could feel his arteries, veins and capillaries attach to his newly grown skin.
"Right, it looks like your finger's broken. I can reset it, if you'd let me." Wordlessly, and still in shock – she was using magic! – he gave a stifled gasped as she pulled his finger into place, soothing the throbbing there with her strange magic again, cool as water. "Okay, you have a scratch on your head too, but it's only a flesh wound. I can bandage those up and pull out the splinters with tweezers or something, yeah?"
"I—yes."
She ripped the bloodied and torn part of his trousers and then it was finished. She looked at him, eyes clear, if not a bit tired. "It's finished. You'll have to lean on me for a bit; you don't want to strain the leg muscle just yet."
Tom could only nod stiffly, reeling from shock and she pulled him up, an arm around his waist as they limped back to the orphanage – because she'd used magic.
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saturday, august 4th, 1941
7:37 AM
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She sipped the heavily diluted (read; disgusting) tea contemplating the empty seat in front of her carefully. Riddle had uncharacteristically gone to put their trays away, leaving Naomi to contemplate her new course of action. Her previous plan would not work; his suicide – forced or otherwise – was just not an option anymore. His reaction to her magic was—unexpected to say the least, but not a total loss, Naomi thought. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, alerting her to the presences behind her. Straining her ears, Naomi managed to listen in;
"-we should warn her or something?" The whispered voice of pubescent girl asked another and received a derisive snort in reply.
"Isn't it obvious? She's all that's keeping him away from the rest of us. The last thing we need is for her to back off from him now." A male voice hissed back, fear creeping into his voice.
"Didn't you hear her yesterday? She's just like him. They're both the same." The voice of Leon came, disgusted.
"Then, really, she is th'only one 'oo's in 'is way. I 'eard from 'arriet that she's one of 'is teacher's kids or sumffin' so 'e can't really do nuffin' t'er, can'e?"
"But you know, Millie, better than 'nyone that he's not just gonna hit ya. He's inta mind games and all sorts. I'd be real surprised if she didn' go mad or somethin'."
"So, basically, you'll sacrifice her, to save your own skin? I'm not afraid of Riddle and I'm not a coward."
"Then, you're a fool, Angela. Riddle is evil and I had hoped that you wouldn't underestimate him. Remember what happened to Dennis and Amy?" The names made Naomi frown, where have I heard them before? – "Don't pick fights with him, Angie. If she hasn't realised the danger of being around that-that freak by now, she never will." A deeper male voice said, nearly begging Angela. "But she'll buy us some time, Angie. Time is what we need."
"Time for what?" A little boy's voice came, timidly.
"Joe and Delilah got married, yeah? They got money now too – real rich kid, Delilah is. They'll spill the beans on Mrs. Cole soon and the orphanage'll close down or they'll sack her and get someone else. They'll come for us."
There was a contemplative silence then.
"And what happens, once she does something to offend Him? What happens to us then, Greg?" The fearful remark came from the first timid girl and the obvious capitalisation of 'him' not unlike the habits of Naomi's own acquaintances in the future in reference to the elder Riddle made her feel ill – he's always been like this, there's no hope, no hope, no ho—
"Then? Then we're doomed." Greg, the deep male voice form earlier, replied nonchalantly.
Riddle returned then, a smile plastered on his face and Naomi's eyes slid back into focus. He held an arm out for her in the typical pureblood fashion, palm faced upwards to receive her own. Naomi noticed the slight scuffling of the small group behind her dissipating and, for the first time, a shiver of apprehension rose up her spine. Giving him a brief smile in return before allowing him to lead her in such a way, the two left the food hall, Naomi's eyes dark in contemplation.
.
"Harry, you alright?" Hermione enquired, tilting her head so that her hair fell over her shoulders, her eyes gazing intently into his.
"I-er-yeah...I just-Ron, you know-I..." Harry trailed, helplessly. Hermione squeezed his hand in response and gave a sympathetic smile.
"I'm here for you, Harry."
I'm always here for you, Harry.
.
"Welcome to Defence Against The Dark Arts. As you all know, I am Professor Blake. I only teach from the fourth year upwards whereas Professor Comason teachers what I call, the lower years. Please, don't bother sitting down or taking out books." Blake called out, walking into the Defence classroom with the others behind her, in single file, peering curiously around.
The room had been redecorated since Umbridge's stint; there was a much more 'zen' feeling to it but still foreboding, like the fake Moody's had been - pictures of werewolves during the Change; a picture of Bellatrix Lestrange with her wild eyes and windswept hair casting the Killing Curse, face illuminated by the eerie green light; pentagrams; alchemists; Dark magicians; Light magicians; wand diagram; Wicca legends– her walls were filled with information, but not in such a way that it was overcrowded.
There was a loud crash and the class abruptly turned around, to see what all the commotion was about. Blake was bodily shoving all the desks, row by row, to the other end of the room and the class could only watch in awe.
"Now, who would like to define Dark and Light magic for me?"
"Welcome to the Defence Club. I am, as many of you know, Professor Blake and this is Professor Snape." Blake said, sharp eyes scanning the room, students flinching away. Harry made a mental note that majority of the students were from the previous years' DADA but there were also a lot more Slytherins than he expected.
Like Draco Malfoy, looking sickly pale and nervous.
Who thought he'd need Defence? You think he'd want to learn how to use the Dark not defend against it...Harry mused.
"I want to assure and dispel any rumours you may have about this club. This is not a duelling club. We are not learning duelling etiquette. We're learning how to defend ourselves in battle – with Dark or Light magicians – to survive by any means necessary. If you're here for duelling, I suggest you leave. Now." Snape continued, silkily, his own eyes piercing each student individually. A few left – a Slytherin, a small group of Gryffindors, two or three Hufflepuffs, but majority stayed. They knew exactly what they signed up for.
"Defence...is complicated. When you are defending yourself, there are no morals. You do and use and exploit anything and everything at hand to deliver the final blow to your opponent before they do so to you. That is what makes defence different from duelling. Duelling is a sport. Defence is a way of life. You will have to do more outside of these sessions than you have ever had to do in classes; exercise, incantations, practises. If you expect to live through this war, you can't duel. Your opponent will kill you before you get the chance to even bow. Bellatrix Lestrange, Alastor Moody, Fenrir Greyback, Kingsley Shacklebolt...highly trained, highly skilled Defence masters that you may eventually have to face." Blake picked up the speech easily, folding her arms under her chest, head titled back defiantly before glancing at Snape.
"Sometimes, when you face these masters, the goal is not to win but to survive. And that's what we're here to accomplish; your survival. In these sessions, there is no Slytherin, no Gryffindor, no Hufflepuff and no Ravenclaw. Because you have to be cunning, brave, hard-working and intelligent to survive." Snape finished, eyes dark and serious, showing the brevity of what he was saying.
"So, we're all in, then?" Blake exclaimed ecstatically, clapping her hands together, eyes shining with anticipation. "Excellent."
"Let's begin."
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wednesday, august 16th, 1941
3:00 AM
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Tom's eyes flashed open, body tensing immediately, fists wound tight and ears straining to pick up the soft almost inaudible noise that had come from outside his front door. Making sure that the noise hadn't repeated – most likely a mouse – he froze completely as he came to a shattering conclusion.
The girl's room was across his room.
Cursing everyone from Ptolemy to the girl's mother, he rolled out of bed swiftly, pulling out his wand which he'd stuck along the ridges of the weathered door. Stepping out quietly, he scanned the empty corridor, illuminated by moonlight, the flimsy curtains floating in the hissing wind, the orphanage creaking and groaning in protest – eerily reminiscent of the first night he'd ever seen her, at Hogwarts less than a month ago.
Careful to soften his breathing he stepped slowly towards her room, arriving in a few minutes before softly turning the doorknob and pushing the door to her room open. His heart began to pulse frantically as he realised that she wasn't there.
Where on earth are you, little girl?
Rushing out of the room which was far too empty and bare, the suitcase shut tightly with a few articles of clothing hanging off the edges and her bed hastily but neatly made, Tom sprinted lightly down the stairs, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
You stupid child.
.
Breathe, child, breathe. There's no need to cry; all you know was never there. Time, time, time swirls all around you and you can see it all because it's who you are. You see a young boy with Remus' smile and a girl with redred hair and you know they're meant to be together – but they won't be and it's all going to be a heartacheacheache. You see the way almond, emerald eyes gaze at the (your) beautiful boy with the beaming face – but it's her wedding day and she shouldn't be looking at the best man like that. You see long blonde hair and snarky words and a man – you know him, yes, you do but so much older, so much later, much too late – with red hair and all-too-knowing blue eyes and a kiss in time – but it doesn't happen because the Time-Turners were destroyed. You see jet black hair and warm brown eyes and an unspoken agreement as their hands wind around each other – but this doesn't happen because he found the stormy one and the rest is history. Cinnamon brown eyes close and tears slip out as you see her heartache; she wants to see green eyes in the morning, not blue – but this doesn't happen because they're dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Because of you.
Naomi woke up, gasping against the crushing of her lungs as oxygen rushed back in through them. Sitting up, she coughed violently, hand covering her mouth to stifle the noise. Removing her hand, she found blood spattering it. Narrowing her eyes, she reached under her pillow for her wand, running several simple diagnostic spells. Nothing...Goddamn you, Fate. Why can't you just tell me things instead of pulling this shit?
Deciding to go for a drink – to remove the taste of death and longing but who would know? – before attempting to sleep again, Naomi slid out of her bed, warm feet padding along the floor with dull thuds. Glaring at her appendages, she snuck out the door and had almost passed Riddle's room—
—Creeeeeeak—
—aw, crap. Naomi thought, sprinting down the stairs lightly. As she made it into the small area that they called the Pantry which was full of stale breads and biscuits but fresh water, too. Grabbing a glass from the topmost shelf, Naomi poured herself a full glass and was about to sip when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Putting the glass back on the counter, she turned to face the intruder.
"Hello, Naomi."
.
Oh, but she was so, so stupid. He had said that a thousand times over, gaining vehemence each time but oh, she was stupid. Stupid enough to try and fool him, stupid enough to assume no one else would be here and stupid enough to engage him in conversation.
And it's all Tom can do to watch.
(Because, who would explain it all, when it ends?)
.
Her lips quirked in a semblance of a smile as she spoke calmly. "Hello, Bailey."
"I have to admit I did not expect to see you wandering around tonight."
"I tend to exceed expectations." Naomi shot back.
"You've exceeded my expectations, certainly." At her raised eyebrow, Leon continued. "You're still alive."
"Your unwavering faith in me is touching. But Tom Riddle can hardly hurt me." Naomi replied, smiling, fingers curling around her cup again.
"Yes, I'd forgotten you were birds of a feather. But even you would be naive to think that you could put a dent in him, Naomi." At her indifferent shrug, Leon sighed. "If that's how you see things, far be it for me to try and save you. You don't seem to be the kind of girl who needs saving."
No. No, I've bitten off more than I can chew, Leon. Save me. But outwardly she just sniggered. "No, I suppose not. It's dangerous for you to be wandering around this late, Leon."
"Riddle's not coming out to play for a long time, little girl. He's cautious around you. We're hoping you'll come back next summer, too." Leon said, flippantly. Naomi turned around and met him face on then – and he didn't flinch under her gaze. Instead, "Can I kiss you?"
"You are merely a boy, Leon. You should stay away from me. I'm not the kind of girl you want to kiss." He raised an eyebrow at that, disbelievingly. She snarled, losing her temper. "Blood and war and death, Leon. Holding a little girl as her eyes open wide and her intestines flow out. Watching a man smash his head against a rock over and over and over because he just can't take it anymore. And torture. So much pain and screaming and blood. I'm not the kind of girl you want to kiss."
Leon paled – but didn't back down. "I could hardly expect you not to have seen – or done – any of that, considering that there's a war going on."
She just deflated and sighed shakily. He stepped forward, carefully, as though expecting her to attack him. "Just because you did and saw those things doesn't make you evil, Naomi."
Her head snapped up to his, green eyes alit with faint surprise. "Then, what about Riddle?"
"Riddle," Leon started, calmly. "is demon spawn. He's – he can't compare to you."
"That is some severe bias, Leon." She pursed her lips, mockingly. "I'm leaving in a week. My uncle has sent me a – letter."
"It's not as if I won't ever see you again."
"You sound far too sure. You're also far too close."
"Oh, I hadn't noticed." He sneered slightly, rolling his eyes. Naomi cocked her head to the side, eyes calculating. Leon stepped forward again.
What happened next was a blur, really, Leon Bailey would think in retrospect. She'd somehow managed to twist his arm and bend him over the counter-top, his breath rushing out soundly. She'd growled in his ear...something that he'd keep to him until his dying days, brushed her lips against his cheek and then walked off, the glass of water she'd originally come for still full to the top.
.
Tom Riddle was so confused.
.
And Naomi returned to Delia Summer's old room and sat on the rickety bed, her hands held in front of her, so young and flawless and small, eyes seeing something so far away and her mind rushed with thoughts of a black-red-brown trio, an old, old man with twinkling cerulean orbs and the high-pitched laugh and scarlet, bloody gaze.
"There is no good or evil. Only power and those too weak to seek it."
It had truly begun.