Chapter 15: Pieces of the Puzzle
Irene's shell-shocked. As the light of the night sky illuminates the cold room, she stares at her bandaged arms, pulse racing and face flushed. Maybe she is brash. That was a bit reckless of her after all—talking back to Voldemort, provoking him, refusing to humour his offer. But then again, even though there's unease that simmers inside, she's never felt such relief, freedom. With an exhale, Irene shoves her wand under her pillow.
The lies. The attempt at subterfuge. It's a skill she may never gain. Only a month has passed since she has begun her tiptoe around him. The proof she's not cut out for deception shows through her poor execution and the situation's subsequent—and abrupt—descent into chaos. At least Voldemort seems to have more patience, or perhaps leniency, than she thought. Three months ago, she'd assume he'd Avada her or something, but perhaps he's not as murderous as she believed. She slumps back into the cotton of her bed, moaning and groaning from her aches and pains.
Click. There's a squeak from the hinges of the double doors. Irene tenses.
Careful steps clack down the walkway until a figure comes into view.
'Fontius?' Irene asks.
She winces, hurrying to sit up. With a grave smile, the greyed man walks to her. His purple robes rustle around him and settle as he stops at the end of her bed.
'You should not be up,' the Overlord says.
'Well, it's not exactly easy to rest.'
'Yes, admittedly it shouldn't be for you.' He sighs and slumps into the seat next to her. 'I am sorry, Irene.' His face is obscured by the low light of the hospital, expression shadowed.
Her breathing catches, and she feels the heat of her burns flare. A reminder not to forget. 'It's not your fault.' Irene wonders if Riddle was right. Maybe she should've seen this coming.
'No, but your well-being is my responsibility,' he says.
She grimaces. The edge from her encounter with Riddle is wearing off—that courage and resolution slipping from her fingers. 'Are you here to talk about the incident?' Her gaze hits her lap, eyes blinking slowly, but her pulse races regardless. Hornby's brown wand flickers in her mind's eye, the sting of her wrist ever present. She's not sure if she can talk about it right now.
There's a lengthy pause after her question. Yet, Irene doesn't look up.
'You should rest tonight. We can speak when you wake,' Fontius says.
'I'm afraid to sleep,' Irene nearly blurts. Instead, what comes out is, 'my head's a little loud right now.'
His eyes flicker to her nightstand. 'It appears Griselda neglected to leave a vial of Calming Draught for you.' He curses under his breath. 'I will gather some from the back chambers.' Fontius stands and clacks down the halls through the door.
Irene settles against her pillows. The room spins around her as she lays. She feels sick, nauseous, and heavy. It's the silence that shrinks the walls in and weighs the air. The icy blue of the winter night brings its frosty edge into the vacant Hospital Wing. Irene lies on the metal-wire cot, body aching from the burns that mar her body—a mirror of her medical stay in London.
When she thinks back on the incident, her hands tremble and knees weaken. Hours from that disastrous event in the closet of the fourth floor, and Irene's not sure if the fear is here to stay. The heat of her burns flare in reminder. She grits her teeth and bares the panic. Bares the rushed pulse of her blood, the deafening pound of her heart, until it's nothing but a calm thrum. Her breath catches as she struggles for air.
Irene takes in the sight of her tremors. Will it carve out a hole—dig its place? Will it fester and taint?
She swallows. There's nothing but the rough hospital blankets to comfort her in this empty ward. They catch against the cloth that binds her skin. Terribly uncomfortable, terribly restricting. The bed urges her to rest. But does she want to? Sleep approaches, heavy and threatening. What she'll find in her dreams frightens her.
Is there anything that can offer comfort?
Despite the long night prior, Tom finds his seat in the Slytherin Common Room in the haze of the early morning. Through the tall windows of the chambers, oscillating waves of green scatter against the floors. He waits in the almost sacrosanct quiet of the morning. The fire being the only crackle in the room. Tom crosses one leg over the other, relaxing in the velvet loveseat positioned on the far end of the room. Here, there is a view of the spacious chamber. Whether it be the doors leading to the dorms, or the entrance to the dungeons and Slughorn's office, Tom can see when his guest makes their appearance.
A faint click from the boy's dorms notifies him that Mulciber has arrived. His leather shoes clack against the darkened flagstone and the viridian carpet as he passes the hearth, leather chaises, and wooden fixtures. It's a picturesque scene, sequestered, and regal. Ornate, intricate designs are weaved into every fabric that decorates the chamber from the rugs to the curtains and upholstery.
Near meters from Tom's seat, Mulciber twists his ring. White light shimmers faint on the floor, circling Mulciber and then fading. When the range of Mulciber's ward reaches Tom, the sounds of the fire fade into quiet. The privacy barrier that encases them keeps their conversation from reaching outside its boundaries.
'My Lord,' Mulciber bows his head.
'Mulciber,' Tom greets. 'How did your walk fair?'
'The Black Kite left the owlery sometime last night.' He takes a seat on the empty emerald loveseat at Tom's side. 'I'd like to be present if any punitive measures are taken. If need be, it would honour me to be your sword.' His eyes glint hungrily.
'If I deem it necessary to act, I will inform you,' he says lazily.
As for punishment, he'd rather not allow Mulciber the pleasure. He rather seems a wild mutt in need of re-educating. If Tom were to let him go, a rift would no doubt arise between the two purebloods.
'Shall we discuss what happened last night then?' he asks.
His follower nods and begins his recounting of events, from Slughorn's hour-long discussion regarding the Yule Party, Lestrange's distraction, to the trek up to the fourth floor and potions' supply closet. There's some worthless information showered in here or there—Mulciber's mind working in labyrinths rather than paths—but overall, Tom sees the picture. It is almost exactly what he predicted. Except….
'This bracelet. You said it appeared to be a human transfiguration artefact?' Tom taps his fingers across his lap.
'Yes. I believed it was one at first; however, when I inspected the object, it held no magic of any kind,' Mulciber says. 'I imagine it fooled that bitch as well—thought it was real up to the end.'
Hill had been in the company of Hornby for approximately three hours. Not too lengthy or too brief. Enough so that her Gryffindors had likely just noticed her disappearance. If the artefact is authentic, as he suspects, it would only take an hour for it to activate, but immense magic is required to power it. Perhaps Hornby didn't have enough? Then again, Madam Weber had mentioned the inventory discrepancy. Tom's fingers still.
'What was Hornby engaged in when you entered?' Tom asks.
'She was crouched over Irene holding her wrist,' Mulciber says.
Skin contact. Tom hums.
It's outrageously early in the morning when Minerva's called into Dumbledore's office. The lavender sunrise peaks through the intricate cherry trimmed windows of his office. It's a cluttered space, but nonetheless warm with comforting colours of red and orange. Wall to wall are portraits, shelves, and in the space between windows open to expose the Hogwarts grounds. Scattered about redwood furnishings are countless oddities that frankly alarm her. She knows the professor has a penchant for odd things, but with no limit on hazard, there's bound to be something unsafe for school children.
Minerva breathes out of her nose, grieving the lost two hours of rest. She's not sure what exactly took place the night before, but she hadn't missed the disturbance. Both McLaggen and Brown had been called out while she was on prefect rounds. Something to do with a missing student if she remembers correctly. Not an uncommon incident during the first semester. The castle is massive and the Gryffindors tend to explore carelessly. She straightens her back, standing rather than sitting in front of the desk as she levels the Vice Headmaster with an icy look. Favourite professor or not, Dumbledore can get trampled by a pride of Hippogriffs for all she cares.
'There was an incident with a muggle-born student last night,' Dumbledore says.
He places his hands on the desk, clasped in front of him. Today's chosen ensemble includes white robes with silver snowflakes.
'Why isn't Allan here then?' Minerva asks.
'Mr McLaggen was informed last night.'
'A Gryffindor was the attacker or the victim?'
'Victim. Although, I must say not without a fight.' He brushes his beard with a twinkle in his eye.
That only spells trouble. She massages her temples. 'Which student?'
'Miss Irene Hill.'
Minerva's attention snaps to him. 'Who did it?' Was it—
'Alas, I believe I cannot answer that due to regulations. And based on your reaction, I also think it unwise.' He raises a curious brow.
'How is she?' Minerva asks through gritted teeth.
'I'm afraid, not well. She went through quite the ordeal, but Miss Hill is in stable condition. We welcome visitors later in the evening if she wakes. I ask that you keep the peace within Gryffindor. Most will assume that this incident is the result of a pureblood, since a muggle-born is involved.' He leans back in his chair. 'There has been tension between the students, as you already know. This attack may be the tipping point.'
Minerva nods. 'I understand. May I head back to the dorms?'
'Yes, you may. I recommend discussing this with the fifth-years before breakfast begins.'
The professor excuses her, and she leaves, having no intentions on keeping the peace. Irene had asked her to forget the conversation from yesterday, but Minerva can't. Not now, while she's in the hospital. Not now, while Minerva's left to think about whether she could have done something more. She's not a fool. She'd seen the unusually blank stares Riddle had sent Irene's way the day prior. But had she done a thing past observing? No.
Minerva continues down the halls and up to the seventh floor. All the way to the portrait of the Fat Lady, she stews in thought. It's not a good sign, her dad had told her. Being stuck in one's head can lead to disastrous happenings, disastrous choices. Minerva's sure there's truth in that, but she can't stop the righteous fury that builds in her palms, urging her to take up her wand. It's always been hard to see calm when there's so much red.
Fairness, justice. Things that seem to slip through the cracks as she ages. These truths become clouded in what her dad had said were complications. Her mother's lies were one of such things.
'I lose myself at times. Too busy mulling over my thoughts, Pepper. I'm sorry for my absence. Being a father is…tough,' her father said.
'But you're still with mum, so you've forgiven her right?' Minerva asked.
'Yes, and no. She lied about something foundational to our future and although I understand why, it aches. I love her, but sometimes two things can be true at once. That's what makes being an adult complicated.'
The lines her father used to explain the ten-year cold war that lasted between her parents still evades her logic. And although justified—mum lying about being a witch—it would've been simpler if he'd made a clear choice. To forgive, move on, or forget and leave. Rumination doesn't always work in one's favour. So, Minerva is left with a question.
To act or not?
Her hands curl into fists. Irene has two incidents in one day. What's the chances it'd be anyone else? When she comes to in the expanse of the common room, she can't remember the journey up, can't remember calling the fifth-years into the chamber. Beside her, Allan is watching, waiting for her to take charge.
Minerva coughs into her hands. The Gryffindor Common Room is illuminated by the rising sun of the winter morning. It's a dull dusting of pink that sets it's shine on the rich colours of the high-ceilinged tower. About the fireplace, the fifth-years settle. Some students sit on the sofas and chaises while most are outstretched on the floor. Sleep weighs them down. All half-lidded and shoulders curved inward.
'As some of you know, there was a disturbance last night, and one of our own went missing,' Minerva says.
Her eyes glance over at Gwen and Blythe. Both of their complexions are a shade to the ill end, eyes darkened by lack of sleep.
'Irene Hill was involved in an incident with another student and is being kept in the Hospital Wing until further notice. No visitors will be accepted until later in the evening under the purview that she wakes.'
Murmurs break out amongst the group. She can feel the stares of both Edmund and Iris on her. Their gazes are scrutinising and assessing. She turns to Allan. He steps forward.
'We ask that you refrain from any foolish behaviour before Miss Hill is out of the medical ward. Gryffindor is the house of the brave, not brash. Remember that,' Allan says.
More whispered chatter breaks out.
'Double the points will be taken off for any unbecoming conduct,' he warns.
'As the regulations dictate, only the individuals involved and professors will be privy to the details of the incident. Any questions?' Minerva asks.
Evelyn raises her hand. 'Was this an attack by a pureblood student?'
'You know we can't answer that, Sloper.' Allan frowns.
Her lips pull into a thin line before she turns to Lillian.
Gwen is the next to raise her hand. 'If not, was it a Slytherin?'
Minerva rubs the point between her brows. Allan doesn't even bother to answer.
'I bet it was both,' Blythe grumbles loud enough for everyone to pick it up.
Robert Weasley starts up. 'I saw Lestrange last night yelling at Mulciber over something to do with muggle-borns. You don't think—'
'Again, we are not allowed to discuss this,' Allan says.
'If you're not allowed to even tell us that, then what would we even ask?' Charles Brown rolls his eyes.
'You could ask things like, "is she going to be alright?" or "how bad was it?" to show that you care,' Iris snaps.
Charles wisely shuts his mouth, watching Iris warily.
'Miss Hill will make a full recovery, though she was in terrible shape when we located her. No doubt she will need help from her house as she recuperates,' Allan says.
'Now then, breakfast will be beginning shortly. Dismissed,' Minerva finishes.
She continues about her morning, gathering her materials from the dorms, heading to her morning prefect meeting, then breakfast.
Her eyes naturally trail to the Slytherin table, naturally latch onto a certain git. Riddle sits perfect posture, pristine manners, talking amongst Rosier and Nott as his attention flickers towards Lestrange and Mulciber every so often. Minerva narrows her eyes. Expressions flicker across Riddle's face, but not once does his eyes change, always holding the same open and assessing gaze.
Minerva stabs the sausage in her plate. It's not right. Her fork goes through the meat and clangs against the metal platter in a noisy ding. He's not right. Across from her, Lillian squeals with a jump. Evelyn frowns.
'This one's got your temper, Rob,' her mother had always said whenever Minerva got in trouble with the other kids at school.
It's true. Maybe that's why dad stuck her in lessons with him rather than choosing one of her two younger brothers. 'Temperance,' her father would remind her, 'it's the path to freedom from impulse.' And apparently, their types need some sort of means to work out their pent-up stress. She's always been quick to make up her mind—take a stance. Then here at Hogwarts she'd found someone just as rash as her, if not more. It helped mellow her out until second-year and the subsequent fallout, but by then she'd found another outlet. Quidditch. Minerva's fingers itch with the need to grab her bat.
'Brash,' her mother would say.
'Steadfast' she'd call it.
She finishes breakfast and heads to the Transfiguration chamber. It's not hard to spot the target of her rising ire. Riddle walks alongside his friends. Groups of goggling girls gaze and flush. Her nose rises in disgust. She keeps her eyes on him for the rest of the day.
Minerva observes Riddle more carefully this time, trying to see if she can pick out the callous monster that lay beneath his façade. And the truth is, she can't see it, but she does notice an absence of something, an absence of genuine warmth in his expressions. The blank stares, guarded glances, and pinched looks. She organizes them one by one, like puzzle pieces sticking together. Irene was right. There is something cold about him.
Her fingers twitch over her wand.
It's not long before lunch begins. Rumours are common among the students. Spending everyday locked in a castle with only your peers and no privacy does wonders for petty drama. So, it's no surprise that by the evening the Gryffindor table is echoing with wild stories of what happened to their muggle-born fifth year.
'Renee attacked her as retaliation for the courtyard incident, I heard,' says one third year.
'I bet it was that Slytherin Mulciber. Have you seen how he looks at her?' says another.
Charles leans over and whispers, 'Actually, I heard from a Hufflepuff that it was the other Lestrange. Apparently, she saw Mulciber, Lestrange, and Riddle talking in the halls. She swears there was some burnt girl with them.'
Her knife freezes over her steak. Burnt? Minerva's breathing stops. She looks up and meets eyes with Charles.
'The girl was burned?' she asks calmly.
Charles stares at her. 'Yeah. I can't tell you who told me, but she says she didn't even think it was a person at first. Too much red and black. But shouldn't you already know this? You're a prefect.'
That's all it takes for Minerva to rise from her seat, her mind made up. The teachers might see fit to ignore this, but Minerva doesn't. Riddle has messed with the wrong house.
There's a free block after lunch that they both share. Usually, it's occupied by tutoring with Irene, but that's off the table. Outside of the Great Hall, she winds through the scattering of students. The thing with study hall is that the more studious students are predictable. All of them head towards the library. Her eyes latch onto her target. The wide corridor makes it easy to gain on him. Greyed skies shed their meagre light through the tall windows. Chattering students and clacking rubber soles fade into the background.
It's just not right. Why isn't he suspended? Didn't Dumbledore say Irene got him back somehow? Where's the justice in this? Her fingers knot into a fist.
Screw compassion. Screw forgiveness. There's only one thing Minerva knows for certain. If you start a war, then you should bite the bullet. Minerva taps Tom's shoulder. Her fingers digging into her palms.
'Riddle,' she says.
He turns, and it feels as if the world has slowed. She sees every twitch of his face. The muscles that raise his mouth to a smile are only a millisecond faster than the ones that scrunch his eyes. And doesn't that seem fake? It's terribly flat, and Minerva wonders how she'd never seen it before. Her fist tightens along with her building pulse.
Tom's face shifts to a frown as their eyes meet, 'Miner—'
Smack!
Her fist slams into his jaw, flesh bending to the force of her hit. An uppercut to the chin. Tom staggers back but doesn't fall. Blood spills from what must be a cut on his lip. Surprise etches itself into perfect features. And Minerva doesn't hesitate. A two step. Her feet are light against stone. She's back in his space, hands brought up in a guard. Muggle boxing. A gift from her father. A lesson in temperance she doesn't see fit to use now. Her left fist winds back. But Riddle is quick to react. He steps back; her blow ghosting over his stomach. A commotion breaks. Students gasp and chatter.
'You think you're above reproach?' she hisses under all the noise.
Tom steps back. He straightens himself, holding his jaw and flexing it with shrewd eyes on Minerva. His usually coiffed hair slips from its position to hide his eyes.
'Try anything again and I'll—'
A curse from behind her hits her in her tunnel vision.
Tom rubs tired hands down his face, sitting at the side of his bed. The bruising from the day's excitement has already been removed, but the physical damage is nothing in compare to his utter shame. A muggle assault from another student. Shock had allowed a strike to hit true. He grits his teeth. 'Hill,' his thoughts hiss. Tom knows she's the one to blame for the violent altercation with McGonagall, despite the prefect's refusal to explain why she had attacked him.
Two soft taps on the dorm room door interrupt his thoughts.
'Come in,' Tom says.
Blonde hair hesitantly peeks into the room. Nott tries to read Tom's expression before stepping into his dorm chambers. Rosier lazily grabs his wand and twirls it to lock the door behind him. Then returns to his current fixation. Sitting on his bed, he pays no mind to them, papers spread about him in focus. Quidditch practice occupies their other roommate at the moment. Tom stands and walks around to the end of his bed. Leaning against the footboard, he gestures to his desk chair for Nott to take his seat.
With a sigh, Tom crosses his arms. 'What brings you here, Eldwyn?'
'The letter from the Ministry has arrived,' Nott says.
He pulls out a large parchment from his inner robe pockets. It's like all Ministry correspondence, tanned and stamped in red letters. He hands it to Tom. The rough envelope slides against his fingertips. With a slicing motion of his index finger, he cuts the top of the packet. Tom plucks the document out and reads it. Nott is restless in the seat across, foot shaking impatiently or, perhaps more accurately, anxiously.
Tom hums and slides his wand down to his palm. Tucking the parchment back in the envelope, he sets the letter aflame with a twirl of his wrist and murmur of Incendio.
'Thank you, Eldwyn. You've confirmed my suspicions and done me a great service.' He smiles. 'I believe you were interested in the Draught of Peace, correct?'
'I wouldn't dare ask—'
'Nonsense,' He waves him off. 'I shall have that for you before the start of the third trimester.'
He bows his head. 'I—Thank you, my Lord.'
'I must be getting to work now. You are dismissed.'
Nott bows his head once more before leaving, as Rosier dispells the door temporarily. In the solitude of his room, Tom rests his hands on the bed's end. Rosier looks at him with a quirked brow.
'Curious after all?' Tom says.
Rosier sits up, his attention fully off his work. 'Yes. Admittedly, things are becoming more interesting at Hogwarts because of her.'
Tom huffs a laugh. Rosier's attention is a fickle thing, but discord and chaos are interests that easily catch his eye.
'Flavian Aurelias Dante Fontius is Hill's guardian,' he reveals.
'I thought it was strange to see the Head Unspeakable in Hogwarts.' Rosier's eyes widen farther than Tom's ever seen before and then narrow. 'You don't seem surprised.'
'I ran into him the night of Hill's assault. This just confirms my suspicions. What can you tell me about the Head Unspeakable?'
Rosier flicks his wand, sending his belongings to his desk. With a rustle, he settles his chin on his fist, eyes closed.
'He's one of our own. Born in the spring of 1652, he has been Head Unspeakable for over a century. Before he held a seat in the Wizengamot. He proposed several controversial laws to restrict research. Eventually leading to the creation of the Ethics Committee for the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. A sort of auditing board to monitor the standards of the experiments conducted. He held position on the committee for twenty years passed its creation. Some of his greatest achievements include Soul and Life Force Theory, the invention of the Magianimaegramma, MAG for short, and the discovery of various modern healing runes. Rumoured to hate children and is the ex-husband of our current DADA professor.' Rosier opens his eyes.
'You're telling me he's nearly three hundred?' Tom asks.
'Yes. He looks younger than Dippet, doesn't he?'
He nods.
'Well, there's nothing definitive. However, some believe he's dabbled in some darker magics and doubled his lifespan. Nobody knows how he accomplished this. But it would explain his development of a conscience in his seventies and his tightened regulation on soul-related experimentation. If you'd like to know more, I can do a thorough work up later.'
'Interesting. Please gather whatever information the Rosiers have on the Head Unspeakable.' He smiles.
Tom turns and grabs his things for a shower. He finds he's almost envious of Hill's position. To work under someone with such vast knowledge, and one with such intimate knowledge of soul magic, would be a one in a lifetime opportunity. He sighs. Unfortunately, it's only natural that Hill will squander this opportunity. His own research into immortality has led him to soul magic, horcruxes in particular. Though he'd rather not separate his soul, it seems the reasonable option among philosopher's stones and vampirism. Unspeakable Flavian Fontius. He'll have to look into his research.
He exits the dorm, heading for the bathrooms. His fingers tap against his towel. The clack of his shoes reverberates against the corridor.
February the twenty-seventh of this year.
It's the last bit of information included in the document from the Ministry. The day that Hill received her citizenship. An odd date considering magical children are recorded at the time of their awakening. Roughly ten months have passed since then. She had mentioned seven months of studies before coming to Hogwarts. That puts her in the right timeframe. With a twist, he turns the doorknob and heads into the shared washroom.
Magical citizenship at the age of fourteen, a famous magical guardian, unknown powers, and no formal teaching before Hogwarts. Another trip to the library is in order. There's a book he'd read in passing—one on unique abilities—that he'll need to revisit.
Notes:
I should mention, I switched to British spellcheck. So words and punctuation have been changed to reflect that.
Thanks for reading.