Quirinus Quirrell had never been brave.
As a child, he possessed many fears: dragons, vampires, werewolves, boggarts, dementors, and, for some reason, centaurs. Goblins eager to snatch wizard boys from bed and use their blood in fiendish rituals. His father's temper when Quirinus did something to embarrass him. The stray, beady-eyed kneazle that peered at him through the fence as though he were a tantalizing mouse. The possibility his grandfather might come back as a ghost and haunt him like he promised. And while adolescence and adulthood often weathered down childish fears, for Quirinus, it did the opposite.
He had never been brave, but he'd always been inquisitive, and the more he learned, the more frightening the world became. Obscure diseases, vile beasts, cursed artifacts, a thousand ways a die, two thousand ways of torture that could make one beg for death—the world was an open book, and like a good Ravenclaw, Quirinus devoured it. Eventually, his passions led him into Academia, where he'd impart his knowledge onto others and learn until his heart's content. And he was satisfied with that, mostly.
But not fully.
For although Quirinus had never been brave, he was rather inquisitive, and the latter spurs the former a surprising amount. No longer content with the books stuffing the shelves of the Hogwarts library, or even his own library, Quirinus instead longed for knowledge that wasn't written in ink, knowledge only given to a select few. And the only man who could bestow it was none other than the most feared man in wizarding Britain.
Quirinus's family never bought into notions of blood purity, and neither did he. But there were certain…ideas…in Lord Voldemort's platform that could be palatable: Namely, his support of research free from morality-based legislation which, combined with his alleged ability to overcome life's greatest mystery, compelled Quirinus to seek him out. He spent years tracking rumors of the fallen Dark Lord, only to have leads continuously slip from his grasp like Tantalus reaching for the vine. But then one fateful day, he heard rumor of a shade in Albania, and it was inquisitiveness and bravery—or perhaps ignorance and cowardice—that caused him to strike a Faustian bargain. Ownership of his body was a small price to pay for knowledge beyond mortal comprehension, and their symbiotic relation lasted well until the day he stumbled upon something that Should Not Have Been.
Quirinus had never been brave, and today he was very, very frightened.
He gulped, sweat trickling down his brow as he creaked the door to his office shut. Before he did, he quickly glanced down the corridors, though entering his own office was hardly suspect. Still, paranoia reared its head every time he communed with the Master, a natural effect of the Malfoy heir and Granger girl stumbling upon him talking to 'himself' after class one day. They hadn't even entered the classroom before Voldemort sensed their presence and alerted Quirinus to perform the Obliviation.
The office looked meticulously neat as usual, the only exception being a slightly-askew stack of books on the mahogany desk. He moved closer to fix it, but froze as a light yet commanding tone slithered around him. "Unbind me, Quirinus."
With quivering fingers, the professor obeyed, draping the purple turban over the chair with the reverence of sacred vestments. He was grateful he couldn't see the Master's expression and certainly wasn't brave enough to glance at the nearby mirror. Still, Voldemort's tone left no room for misinterpretation. "Your raging ineptitude continues to disappoint me. How many weeks has it been since the Chamber's opening? And yet here you stand, empty-handed."
"I-I'm sorry, Master." This time, the stutter was real. "I've scoured every inch of the castle, but haven't found anything."
"It must be here," Voldemort hissed. "A mere child wouldn't be able to open the Chamber without…additional assistance."
He heard the smirk and shuddered. Voldemort told him—albeit reluctantly—about the Horcruxes (Qurinus suppressed a smile at the thrill of forbidden knowledge), and though he refused to reveal how many were created, Quirinus surmised it was enough that Voldemort himself wasn't 100% certain which item was the culprit. He seemed to be leaning towards the diadem or the diary, the latter of which he entrusted to Lucius Malfoy. But if the diary was responsible, Quirinus didn't understand why he would be foolish enough to give it to one of his children.
"Have you made progress with the girl?"
"No, my Lord," mumbled Quirinus. Voldemort should know this, He was attached to the back of his head, after all. Yet many times the Dark Lord seemed (Hecate forgive me for this thought) ignorant to the activity around him in a manner that couldn't be attributed solely to the turban. Quirinus suspected Voldemort sometimes entered a trancelike state similar to the Dreamtime legends, though for what purpose, he couldn't imagine. "I understand your concerns about Abrax–"
"'Concerns?'" echoed Voldemort. "Does a man 'concern himself with the flobberworm beneath his boot? Abraxas is a weak, deluded old fool clinging to an illusion of power. Nothing more."
Quirinus wisely bit his tongue. "I misspoke. I simply meant your…conclusion that, as Abraxas's grandaughter, the two might be colluding with one another. I've been intercepting her letters in the Owlery and see nothing that indicates any contact whatsoever."
"You believe you know the situation better than I?"
"N-No, Master, I simply—"
"Abraxas is a conniving snake who'd love nothing more than to disgrace me. The possibility of collusion—willingly or unwillingly—through his descendents cannot be discounted."
"I understand, b-but, er, you said—you said she knows nothing."
"And here I thought you to be clever. A pity."
Quirinus bristled, but knew a rhetorical response when he heard one. He waited until Voldemort chose to elaborate. "Before Severus's untimely arrival on the day of the Chamber's opening, I was only able to parse surface thoughts. While the Obscurus may present a challenge, I require an opportunity to delve deeper into the recesses of her mind. You must get her alone, Quirinus, especially since your most recent plan was an abject failure."
Unable to find a way to circumvent the ancient spell barring males from entering the girls' dorms, Quirinus placed an upperclassman—Gemma Farley—under the Imperius curse as a sleeper agent. Every other night, the prefect awoke and crept into Diana's room in search of wayward Horcruxes. Every night she'd be met with a blanket of black, a silent guardian eager to protect the room from intruders. And every other morning, Gemma and Diana would wake none the wiser to the previous night's conflict.
Quirinus' hands began to sweat. "She's attracted Dumbledore's attention. I'm not certain whether—"
"Ah yes, our second possibility," Voldemort murmured silkily, "which, perhaps, is more likely. He was here the last time the Chamber opened, and timing cannot be coincidental."
"You believe Dumbledore would cause injury to a student?"
Immediately after the words left his lips, he braced himself.; Voldemort didn't respond well to doubt. Luckily, his master was too fixated on the possibility to care. "Yes. He'd do anything, so long as it fits his ill-defined sense of 'greater good.'" He scoffed. "Tragic, really, how well he pulls the wool over everyone's eyes. The man was a friend and confidant of Gellert Grindelwald, and parents willingly place their children under his care. Disgraceful…"
Curiosity tugged at Quirinus. He heard rumors, but… "Him and Grindelwald? Truly?"
"Yes, and at the risk of sounding like schoolyard gossip, I heard they were possibly more than that. It wouldn't surprise me—the man's judgment leaves much to be desired."
"It's difficult to imagine him with a man so—" His kneejerk response was to say 'evil' since it was the most common word used to refer to Grindelwald. But Quirinus hadn't believed in infantile concepts like 'good' and 'evil' since he was a boy. "—Antithetical to his current values."
"Despite his posturing, he's less morally upright than one would imagine. In fact, he once burned an orphan's wardrobe right in front of the child, or so I'm told."
Quirinus stifled a sigh. That was too cartoonishly evil to accept at face value, and it cast doubt upon Voldemort's earlier rumors. Not that he'd ever tell him that, of course.
"And isn't it curious," continued Voldemort, "how this madness starts right after Dumbledore convinced Flamel to give him the stone?"
"Yes, the timing is rather odd…"
"If Abraxas truly has no involvement—which I'm not yet convinced of—then I believe Dumbledore is using the hapless child as a proxy to discredit Lucius and the blood purity movement as a whole. An Obscurial with her history provides a convenient scapegoat that would draw attention once her predicament is known. He either allows the Chamber to be opened or oversees it, 'solves' the crime, stokes fears of Muggleborn mistreatment and creates public discourse, all while sitting comfortably, sipping the elixir of immortality content with the knowledge no one would oppose him. The arrogant fool…"
"H-He won't be unopposed, Master."
"Of course not. He doesn't know about us, and one mustn't underestimate the power of the…unexpected."
Quirnius heard the growl, and knew exactly what 'unexpected' event Voldemort's thoughts drifted towards. "And if the girl…isn't involved? The third possibility?" he asked feebly.
'Then it's none other than Harry Potter." Voldemort spat the name like a curse. "Who else?"
Harry didn't seem all that impressive in class, but Voldemort suspected they possessed some sort of link which allowed him to tap into the Dark Lord's power—perhaps a Horcrux embedded into his scar that fateful night, awakened upon entering the school grounds. "Though I am all but certain the girl is the culprit. You must establish rapport with her, Quirinus. Use your shared history to gain her trust, if needed."
It took a moment to understand what 'shared history' he was referring to, and when he did, his lips curled. Like the girl, his existence was a product of a wizard taking a liking to an unwilling Muggle. The Quirrell family was well-off, but not obscenely wealthy to the point where those less fortunate actively rooted for their downfall, and Quirrell couldn't recall any publicity surrounding his integration into wizarding society. Then again, such an occurrence was commonplace at the time, and not worthy of any fanfare beyond his father's irritation of an unplanned child.
When Pomona spoke of kinship and dropped hints of how it might be a 'great deal of help' for Diana to form a connection with a professor—especially one who experienced similar circumstances–he restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Unlike the Malfoy girl, Quirinus was largely satisfied with his station in life and had no desire to rock the boat and turn his lineage into his entire identity like those Association rabble-rousers. He couldn't deny a period of curiosity (and twinge of adolescent rebellion) where he immersed himself into learning about Muggle society and culture, which led him on the path to becoming a Muggle Studies professor. But he always looked upon that world through a distant, objective lens.
Since he was brought into wizarding society at such a young age, he couldn't recall his mother's face, or even his birth name. That was the one piece of knowledge he never felt any compulsion to uncover.
But of course, any misgivings were irrelevant now.
"Yes, Master."
It was a shame, really. Miss Malfoy was a quiet girl who seemed to enjoy his class–one of the few who did. In any other year he'd enjoy having her as a student, but this was anything but a normal year.
"I sense your hesitation, Quirinus. Need I remind you that you pledged your body to me? Our fates are intertwined, now and forever."
"I know, Master."
"Is it possible you find yourself regretting our union?" Quirinus could hear the sneer in Voldemort's voice. "Preferring a life of solitude? A life without me?"
"No."
Quirinus was surprised at how firm his voice sounded, but realized it was true the moment it left his mouth. "I don't regret a moment of your presence and wisdom. You've initiated me into a world I never imagined possible, and every day I feel thankful you chose me above all others."
"I see." There was a long pause, and Quirinus wondered if he laid the sycophantry on too thick. "Then put on that blasted turban and let us depart."
Quirinus's heart leapt, and he did as ordered. Voldemort's voice was much less hostile than it was earlier, and Quirinus exited the office at ease.
He wouldn't have been at ease if he stayed a few moments longer to witness an ashen-faced blonde girl peek out from behind the desk.
Diana didn't want to break into Professor Quirrell's office. In fact, she was adamantly against the idea, something she mentioned to Tom multiple times. Yet despite this, she somehow found herself in his private office, holding a book on Albanian wilderness in one hand, with the other wrapped around the knob of a desk drawer.
It was an odd juxtaposition; her mind felt light and scattered, but her heart thundered with the intensity of a jackhammer. As the world around her grew into focus, she hastily shoved the book onto the pile and stumbled backwards, eyes darting around the room. She didn't see any frozen bodies or bloody messages. But she had no doubt whatever caused her to sleepwalk last time (the Obscurus?) brought her here without knowing.
But why? And how? Memories flickered through her mind. A week ago, Gemma told her Quirrell never used to wear a turban, and Diana made the mistake of mentioning it to Tom. He felt that sudden change indicated Quirrell had 'something to hide,' which Diana thought—not knowing what she knew now—seemed vaguely racist. His theory regarding the Obliviations was that Dumbledore and Quirrell were in cahoots, and the only way to eliminate Quirrell as a suspect would be to investigate his office to look for 'clues' while he was teaching. Diana rejected the possibility immediately, and Tom eventually agreed she was right. Then she tucked the diary away and tried to take a quick nap before—
Wait, the diary…
Diana's heart sank before mentally slapping herself. No, Tom couldn't be responsible for this. He was half-Muggle and trapped within a book. Not only would it be impossible, but he'd have no motivation.
But maybe there were some inherent dark properties of the book itself. Lucius owned it, after all, and it had enough power to trap a wizard within its pages. Then again, she wrote in the diary almost every day, and with the exception of the night of Janice' petrification and this afternoon, nothing happened.
Maybe Dumbledore was mistaken, and it really was her Obscurus, this time acting on subconscious curiosity regarding Quirrell's possible guilt.
But I wouldn't have known how to break through the wards…unless Professor Quirrell doesn't have wards in here. No, that's stupid—of course he must have them. Maybe they're the reason I broke out of the trance?
Her fingers fumbled into her robes pockets, and breathed a sigh of relief upon feeling the smooth silver of the Brisingamen. She clasped it around her neck and grimaced as it pulled down with the force of an anchor. One of these days, my neck will snap…at least then my problems will be over.
She was about to head out—and hoped no one was watching—before distant footsteps caused her to stop midway. Her legs made the decision before her mind did, and she soon found herself huddled and cramped behind the large desk as the office's owner finally emerged.
What happened next was something out of a horror film: Her mild-manner professor unfurled his turban, revealing—through a glimpse in a nearby mirror—a twisted, snakelike visage fused to the back of Professor Quirrell's head. Throughout the entirety of the conversation, her hands shook and sweated. She held her breath, mentally pleading to any god in existence that Quirrell wouldn't change his angle so the second head could see her the way she saw him.
For once, her prayers were answered. Quirrell exited the room none the wiser, leaving Diana with the unenviable task of making sense of what she just saw and heard.
She waited another minute before tentatively peeping outside and slipping through the door and down the corridor. As she paced down the hall, her mind trembled with the crushing weight of her thoughts.
She was far from an expert on the wizarding world, but recalled reading about wizards being fused together via apparation in Magical Mishaps. What was it called again? Splinching?
But splinching didn't explain the way Quirell and the other man interacted with one another, with Quirrell calling the other man 'Master.' House-elves aside, she didn't think slavery existed in the wizarding world, and the only modern-day wizard she read about that inspired that level of deviation was the elusive Lord Voldemort.
She shuddered, feeling as though the suits of armor stared at her as she rushed through the halls towards the Slytherin dorms.
It couldn't be him. Quirrell literally sat right next to Dumbledore—the strongest wizard of the modern age—every day during breakfast. She refused to believe he and the other professors were incompetent enough not to realize Voldemort was attached to the back of their coworker's head. And if Voldemort survived and was trying to keep a low profile, it made no sense to put himself in a school with hundreds of wizards. Plus, if what Arthur said was true, the castle grounds were protected by wards and charms that prohibited entry by malicious forces.
But it let me in. And something's killing the unicorn and petrifying students…
Still, even if it was Voldemort, that wouldn't explain the contents of the conversation. The splinched man and Quirrell were trying to uncover the culprit—why would he try to help Muggleborns instead of celebrate their suffering? And why would a bigshot like Voldemort lower himself into worrying about who was behind the petrification?
The splinched man sounded like an arse, but that didn't mean he was Voldemort. It had to be someone else; that was the only option that made sense.
Diana whispered the password, watching dully as the stone wall slid open. Whoever he was, he suspected her, and for good reason. Maybe Dumbledore was wrong and she was responsible.
Maybe Dumbledore was the one controlling her in the first place.
Diana's bottom lip wobbled. She hadn't communicated with Abraxas since August, so out of the possibilities raised by the mystery man, Dumbledore was the option that made the most sense.
She didn't want to believe it, but also knew the futility and foolishness of placing full trust in adults. During their first lesson, she got the vague impression Dumbledore had an ulterior motive, but wasn't sure if it was the result of her paranoia. Then again, being paranoid and being right weren't mutually exclusive.
And what stone was that bloke talking about? And why did he think Harry might be involved? Is that even possible?
A dainty, delicate cough interrupted her thoughts, and she stifled a groan as Daphne gave her a pointed look from across the room. As usual, Pansy and Tracey flanked the Greengrass heiress, the former sneering while the latter's eyes narrowed in a mix of hatred and envy. Millicent flipped through a book on her bed with Nyx curled beside her, ignoring the other girls as usual.
I don't have time for this shit.
Diana flopped down on her bed, the Brisingamen staying around her neck.
"See how she ignores us? So rude…" Daphne sighed airily, making no attempt to lower her own voice. "We're just trying to be friendly."
"At least she doesn't look like a zombie this time," giggled Tracey.
Pansy's lips twisted into a scowl. "You shouldn't joke about that. My great-uncle's corpse was used in a reanimation ritual, and it's absolutely horrid."
"O-Oh, sorry," squeaked Tracey, cheeks flushing.
"I'm sure Tracey didn't know," hummed Daphne. She redirected their conversation back to their common enemy. "And she wasn't anywhere near as rude as Diana was when Theo tried speaking with her."
The white kitten leapt on her bed and snuggled next to Diana, though the added warmth did nothing to stave off the cold chill creeping over her. She didn't remember Theodore speaking with her. It must have happened when she was (Possessed? Cursed? Controlled?) heading to Professor Quirrell's office.
She had no choice but to swallow her pride. "What else did you see?"
All three heads turned in unison. "You think we have nothing better to do than watch you?" jeered Pansy.
Daphne chose a more diplomatic approach. "All we saw was you drifting through the common room like the Grey Lady. But we understand," she said, voice brimming with false sympathy. "Adjusting to the magical world must be difficult. If you have any questions or need help, all you need to do is ask."
"I do have a question, actually."
Daphne blinked, and one of the butterfly clips pinned in her hair fluttered in surprise. "Yes?"
It was a lofty gamble with a chance of backfiring, but if anyone would know, it would be these rich bitches. "Does the wizarding world have slavery? Besides house-elves, I mean."
Pansy's face scrunched. "Of course not, we're not barbarians like Muggles."
"Muggles don't have them anymore, either," Diana defended. "It was just a question…"
"Wizarding Britain doesn't have slaves, and never has," clarified Daphne. "But in other places of the world, perhaps…I heard stories of what the wizards of Thule sometimes do to captive Dwarves."
"What about humans?"
"Oh!" Pansy's eyes lit up. "I rea–um, my great-aunt read in that Quibbler that there were a couple isolated tribes in the Amazon and Africa and America and other primitive places that did that! I can't remember if they took Muggles or other wizards, though."
Daphne giggled. "The Quibbler, Pansy? Really? You can't believe anything in that rag."
Pansy's face flushed. "I didn't read it. My great-aunt did!"
"I read they have them in Hyperborea," mused Tracey, twirling a lock of brown around her finger. She bit her lips when the others looked at her in surprise. "I-I think. It might be indentured servitude or something like that…"
"But nothing in Britain?" repeated Diana.
"No."
Daphne tilted her head. "Why are you so interested in this, Diana?"
She knew this line of questioning was coming, but it was annoying all the same. "Just curious."
"This topic couldn't have come out of nowhere," she pressed.
"Don't you have to go to detention?"
An ugly scowl maimed Daphne's pretty features. With a huff, she stood and beckoned Pansy and Tracey to follow her outside. Diana rolled her eyes; Tracey didn't even have detention, so there was no need for her to get up beyond dramatic effect.
The knowledge this was the last detention for the enchanted pumpkin juice incident put Diana in a foul mood. She laid in the bed for what could have been seconds, minutes, or hours until the aggravating sound of her kitten using the bed as a scratching post caused her to groan. "Stop it, cat."
"You still haven't named her?"
Diana jumped; she'd forgotten Millicent was there. "Not yet."
The kitten kept scratching until Diana lifted her up and moved her to a different section of the room.
"Why were you asking about slavery?" asked Millicent.
Diana paused; she wasn't used to the other girl asking questions. "I heard someone–an adult—calling another person Master, and he kind of, um, acted like a slave, I guess? They didn't know I was there, and it was weird. And this happened over the summer, in Diagon Alley."
She added the lie at the end to protect herself and, possibly, Quirrell. Another lull of silence descended, and Diana shifted back into position on the bed. Then, she jumped again as a paperback landed on the bed with a soft thump.
Her brows furrowed as she inspected the cover. In the center stood a shirtless pirate with an impressively-toned chest and lock black longs waving dramatically in the wind. Kneeling at his feet was a scantily-clad blonde woman in chains. Diana flipped the book over, surprised to find it was a Muggle publication, and read the blurb on the back indicating the book was about a pirate and his kidnapped 'wench.'
"My mum reads these. She got them from my grandma. There's a whole set of 'em."
"Oh." Diana didn't know what the appropriate reaction would be, so settled for a simple, "That's neat."
Millicent scoffed. "The only reason I'm telling you is to show you some adults like this."
"Like what?"
"Slavery, genius. Not, like, actually owning a person, but imagining it. Or imagining they're the slaves. It's a thing some adults do, called role…something."
Diana's eyes popped out like saucers. "What? Why?" Her eyes roved over the cover again, nauseous. In retrospect, it shouldn't have been that surprising. Wasn't her mother essentially a slave?
She tossed the book back to Millicent before the fleeting image of her mother in place of the book's heroine could take root.
"I don't know, they just do. Some of them, anyway."
"Wizards too? Not just Muggles?"
"Yeah."
"Eww."
An unfamiliar look crossed Millicent's face, and Diana took a moment to recognize it as bashfulness. "I know it sounds gross, but they're…not that bad. Mum doesn't know this, but I read most of her collection. They're actually quite good—sometimes. I brought some from home, if you ever want to borrow them."
Her gut instinct yelled 'Fuck No,' but she was socially shrewd enough to recognize an attempt at building a connection. "Thanks. Maybe I will, after the holidays."
Not.
Mentioning the holidays brought forth another wave of gloominess. Both her and Draco expressed desire to stay at Hogwarts, though Lucius and Narcissa insisted they spend the holidays at the Manor.
"What's wrong?" asked Millicent, noticing the sudden change in expression.
Diana didn't want to discourage the possibly-fleeting camaraderie, but couldn't tell the truth either. "The person I saw was a man. Could that whole…thing…with fake slavery happen with just women, or could it happen between two men?"
It certainly matched with the talk of 'union' and 'pledging his body' to the man who 'chose him.'
"Don't see why not," shrugged Millicent.
"Okay."
There was another long pause, and then she added hesitantly, "This might seem random, but is there any way for two people to be combined into one?"
"Splinching, but you'd have to be sloshed to the gills to mess it up that badly. If there's another way, I don't know how. Why? Were the two men you saw splinched?"
"No," she lied. Though she didn't witness it, she felt Millicent's eyebrows raise. "I was just thinking," she began to ramble, "about, like, the best way to torture someone. Not so I could do it, but so I can protect myself if anyone tries anything."
Millicent chuckled. "This isn't the Muggle world. There are no limitations to what people like us can do. You can go over every twisted scenario in your head, and there will always be someone more twisted who can do things you'll never dream of. Your best bet is to hope Fortuna likes you."
On that cheerful note, Millicent flopped on her side, ending the conversation.
Tom didn't seem particularly shocked after hearing about the splinched man's existence, but did ask many questions about him and the mysterious stone.
None of that matters, she scribbled furiously. I sleepwalked again! This definitely means I'm somehow responsible for what happened to Janice.
There's no reason to jump to conclusions, especially since there was no body this time, Tom swiftly responded,
Why was I in Professor Quirrell's office then? We just talked about him, so the Obscurus could be acting on my subconscious. Or maybe I really was being controlled…
I find the latter to be a more likely possibility, and agree with your professor's conclusion.
I know, she wrote, feeling sick. You were right the whole time. I just don't get why he would use Muggleborns as bait if he helped Mum.
Tom made it very clear over the past month how he didn't trust Dumbledore, and how the old man had a well-hidden callous streak. The splinched man corroborating the story about the wardrobe quenched the flickers of doubt about Tom and entrenched suspicions of Dumbledore. But when she tried to speculate about the man's identity (assuming he must be an old classmate of Tom's or a child of one who heard the story) the boy in the diary prevaricated, claiming the memories were 'too painful.'
I understand you're feeling conflicted, but that's a testament to his strength as an effective manipulator. Remember, he's a wizard—and one with high social standing, at that. It's impossible to achieve such an important position without engaging in unscrupulous activities. I have no doubt Dumbledore is involved with your current predicament, the Obliviations against your allies, and the deaths of the unicorns. Remember how he knew their locations?
But they didn't run from him, she argued. The unicorns would sense danger. They can see inside people's hearts.
That much wasn't a lie, at any rate; she looked it up to confirm Dumbledore's assertions.
Then perhaps the unicorn killer is a different culprit, he reasoned. But he is behind the Chamber's opening. The stone all but confirms it.
Do you know what stone he's talking about?
If my suspicions are correct, He's referring to the stone of Nicolas Flamel, an item said to provide the key to immortality.
But what does that have to do with the Chamber?
If he catches the culprit responsible for opening the Chamber, it will reinforce Flamel's faith in him and prove the stone is 'safe' under his watch. Of course, the 'culprit' is none other than a hapless first-year placed under the Imperius, one that has a condition that makes her a convenient scapegoat. No one will ask questions or think deeply about it because everyone else will be relieved the halls of Hogwarts are safe once more.
Diana's eyes blurred, but she blinked the tears back. I can't believe I almost fell for his rubbish!
There's no need to be so hard on yourself. Manipulation under the guise of kindness is always the most insidious, and I truly apologize if my words caused discomfort.
A drawing of a rose emerged on the page, and Diana's heart fluttered.
The next day she awoke in high spirits, relieved to see the emerald green of her canopy instead of the walls of an unknown location. The only thing slightly askew was the faint smudges of ink on her hands, but what did she expect falling asleep after writing in the diary?
She reached into the nightstand and pulled on the Brisingamen after getting dressed. It suddenly occurred to her that she should probably wear the necklace even while sleeping, but the possibility of never getting a reprieve from that wretched thing was horrifying.
She woke late enough that the bedroom was empty, but the common room was packed. Goosebumps crept up her arms as she watched fellow Slytherins huddled in groups having animated conversations. She scanned the room, and after seeing Harry and Draco weren't present, attempted to leave through the door.
Gemma blocked her path and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, Diana. Professor Snape said everyone needs to stay inside."
The thought of not having the freedom to leave caused her to panic like a mouse in a trap. "Why?"
Gemma's eyes flickered to the side, so briefly Diana would have overlooked it if not for Narcissa's tutelage. "He didn't say why, but I'm sure we'll find out s—"
"It's because a student was murdered!"
Dread slammed into her as she spun around. Pansy's eyes danced in merriment as she pranced closer to her cousin and Diana.
"We don't know that for sure," chided Gemma, placing a hand on her hip. "This is how rumors spread."
Pansy placed a hand on her own hip in mockery. "Oh, really? Why are we stuck in here then? And Araminta Bellingham's your friend. She's the one who said Kevin Entwhistle was found dead next to a suit of armor." She said the last part purposely loud enough so heads turned. "You don't trust the words and eyes of your own friend? Poor Araminta…"
Diana's heart sank. Kevin was a Hufflepuff in her year; they never spoke, but it was sobering hearing someone her age was attacked. It made everything seem more dangerous somehow.
Gemma rolled her eyes. "He might have looked dead, but that doesn't mean he is. There are lots of spells that mimic death at first glance, and it's not like Araminta had time to check before the professors rushed over."
Diana swallowed. "Were there any, um, messages left? From the…killer?"
"There was!" squealed Pansy. Diana's heart stopped. "It said, 'The Heir sees the two behind the one,' written in black ink all across the walls!' Isn't that exciting? 'The Heir!' It's just like the legend of the Chamber of Secrets!"
What the hell is wrong with this girl?
"Alright, that's enough out of you," snapped Gemma, flicking Pansy's forehead. The younger girl glared, but grudgingly rejoined Daphne and Tracey. Despite the chaos in the common room, Daphne was a portrait of serenity. Tracey, much less so.
Diana shuffled off to the side, trying to avoid further conversation and quell her hammering heart as she waited for her brother and Harry to emerge from the boys' dorm. Eventually they did, looking bewildered at the amount of students.
"Kevin Entwhistle's another victim," she breathed, rushing over. "But I don't know if he's dead or petrified."
Harry stared at her blankly, while Draco's eyebrows scrunched. "Who?"
"Kevin Entwhistle," she repeated, pausing for the name to register. When it didn't, she let out a hiss of frustration. "He's in our year! Hufflepuff, curly black hair, sits in the back during Charms class."
Still no reaction.
"Bloody hell," she exhaled. "You're both impossible."
Draco jutted his chin haughtily. "Why should I be expected to remember the names of every lowborn?"
"You, I'm not surprised. But you?" She looked at Harry in dismay, who had the grace to look embarrassed. "Come on Harry, you have to know him. He was one of the students who spoke with you during the Association meeting. He was with two older Hufflepuffs…"
Recognition—albeit vague—finally sparked in his eyes. "Oh, him. Huh….I suppose they really are targeting people who attended the Association meetings." His eyes widened as a sudden thought struck him. "Hermione!"
"The idiot's supposed to be escorting her down the halls."
"Ron can't be there all the time," corrected Diana, "and we agreed to rotate, Draco. It's not fair to put it all on him."
"We've been slacking off on it anyway," sighed Harry. "Getting complacent…"
"And we can never be complacent," Diana said, a steel edge developing in her tone.
Draco nodded, though Diana suspected it was for a different reason. "Were there any messages left behind?" he asked.
"Yes," she said glumly. She told them more details about Pansy's account and then, in hushed whispers, about her sleepwalking into Quirrell's office, seeing the splinched professor, and the suspicions about Dumbledore. She left out the parts about the romance and him suspecting Diana and Harry, but either way, it had an impact. Harry looked shaken, while Draco's eyes shined with glee.
"He's splinched?" Draco repeated with a Cheshire grin. "That would explain why he's not married."
"Not necessarily. Maybe he's just not interested," defended Diana.
"He's the only son of Palinurus Quirrell, he has to continue the line. But to think: a man his age, foolish enough to be splinched? And a professor, no less!" He laughed. "He must be an embarrassment for his whole family."
"You're such a git," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes.
"Don't tell anyone, Draco," she warned. "Otherwise I'll never tell you anything again!"
"Alright, alright." He sobered. "So….this confirms it. Dumbledore is responsible. Looks like I was right after all."
"I can't believe I almost fell for it," mumbled Diana. "He really did seem like he wanted to help me..."
"Because he's using you. He doesn't do anything without his own agenda. The sooner you realize this, the better."
Draco was biased; he felt Dumbledore ruined his family over the summer and had been indoctrinated into disliking the 'Muggle-lover' since birth. But that didn't mean he was wrong.
"He's got his hands in everything. In fact," he drawled, turning to Harry, "I bet you all the Galleons in my inheritance that not only was he the one who put you with your aunt and uncle, but he also knows perfectly well how horrid they are."
Harry's expression darkened. "Why do you think that?"
"You're the savior of the wizarding world," Draco replied with a slight trace of mockery. "You think they don't have someone keeping an eye on you? Probably wizards pretending to be Muggle neighbors or something."
"You're wrong," snapped Harry. "They wouldn't see them and me and then just…do nothing."
Diana could tell from his tone that Draco was entering minefield territory, but her brother plowed ahead anyway.
"For a Slytherin, you're hopelessly naive," scoffed Draco. "People are only in it for themselves. You should know this by now."
"You're wrong," repeated Harry, voice low and dangerous.
Diana bit her lip. Harry could get very…intense…sometimes, but Draco habitually poked the sleeping bear. While the Boy-Who-Lived was affable in many ways, there was no denying he carried darkness within him.
Could he be involved somehow, like Quirrell's partner suspected? Harry appeared genuinely ignorant of Kevin's existence, which tracked with his tendency to focus on people and things that interested him to the detriment of everything else. He was certainly oblivious to Tracey practically throwing herself at him, at any rate.
But even if he wasn't a willing participant, he could still be the culprit via the Imperius or a different spell. He had no shortage of enemies, after all.
No, I'm the culprit! I had smudges of ink on my hands!
"I can ask Professor Dumbledore when I see him tomorrow," she squeaked, hoping to ease the tension. That finally dragged Harry's eyes away from Draco, but his brows furrowed even deeper.
"Your session's not canceled?"
"It might be," she shrugged," but I haven't heard anything."
"If he is responsible, you shouldn't see him again," said Harry. "It's not safe."
"He's right," agreed Draco. "Pretend you're sick."
"I'll have to see him again at some point," she argued. "And he doesn't know that I know. Maybe I can get information somehow."
"You can't outmaneuver Dumbledore. Even the Dark Lord couldn't." Draco's eyes darted around as though Voldemort would apparate and drag him down to Hell for those treasonous words.
"What if there's a way to create some kind of safety net?" speculated Harry. He adjusted his glasses. "Maybe when we see Hermione later, we can ask if she knows the spell that could make someone talk to animals. Maybe you can—I know this is going to sound really daft, but maybe you can bring your kitten, or stick Scabbers in your pocket. If something happens, they could run back to the castle and we'll know what happened."
In spite of everything, Diana giggled at the ridiculous mental image. "Like Lassie?"
Muggle references were sometimes hit-or-miss with Harry, but this time he got it. "It's just a suggestion," he mumbled, face heating. "Until we get a better idea, it's better than nothing."
"Talking to animals?" scoffed Draco, with the sour expression he often had when he didn't understand a joke. "There's no spell that can do that."
Harry frowned. "There has to be. A few months ago I spoke with a snake. That had to be unconscious magic, right?"
Draco's jaw dropped, eyes flashing from shock, to excitement, and then, finally, dread. Harry looked as disconcerted by Draco's reaction as Diana felt.
"What?"
"How many descendants do you think Salazar Skytherin has?"
Dumbledore paused, the spoon of elderberry soup hovering right outside his mouth. Diana shifted on the wooden bench, grateful for the raucous laughter of patrons, clanging utensils, and flute and harp music within the tavern. If she craned her neck to the side, she could peek outside the tavern door and witness the expanse of cavernous layers and fairy lights that illuminated the underground land of Thule.
Despite Draco's speculation, Dumbledore did not cancel their lessons. She suspected he wanted to get away from the castle, and so did she—though she'd prefer if she wasn't accompanied by their primary suspect. Still, she couldn't hide her amazement after entering the magical boat that turned what would have been a multi-day journey into one that lasted a few minutes, and gaining access to the mystical kingdom of legend.
"Am I correct in assuming this question relates to Mr. Entwhistle's predicament?"
"Yes," admitted Diana, seeing no sense in lying.
"Truth be told, I'm surprised you haven't mentioned this earlier."
"Well, I've kind of been distracted by…everything here." She gestured to the tables of braided Thulians decked in furs and blue face paint, as if plucked from the pages of a Viking story. "Is Kevin, um, dead?"
"No. He will recover, much like Miss Pepper." He placed his spoon in his soup bowl and stood. "As I stated previously, the Professors will handle it."
She bit down yet another retort, though this time part of it slipped through, albeit in a more tempered way than what she was thinking. "You said that last time."
"And it will prove true." He peered at her from behind half-moon spectacles. "Did you experience anything within the past few days you find concerning?"
You mean besides the two-headed man? "No. I was asleep when it happened"
Not for the first time, she felt like a frog with its insides splayed open, ripe for dissection. Her fingers instinctively brushed against her necklace. "How many descendants does Slytherin have?" she repeated, determined not to let Dumbledore evade the question.
"The lineage has been well-traced, and to preemptively alleviate your concerns, you don't share a singe drop of blood with Salazar Slytherin."
Just answer the sodding question, already!
She took a bite of potato, trying to act casual as she asked, "Does he have any living descendants?"
"I suppose it comes down to your perception of living." Diana's patience frayed. "None of the students in Hogwarts are descended from him, so you needn't worry. Will you be staying at Hogwarts for the winter holidays?"
She was annoyed—but not surprised—by the sudden change of topic. "No."
If her father or stepmother signed the form, Dumbledore would have known, and she suspected this was an attempt to gauge how she felt about it. But if he was going to be reticent, then so would she.
"I'd like to talk about Harry, actually."
"Ah, of course. I imagined our conversations would eventually drift towards him."
She decided to be blunt. "Is there any way for him to stay at Hogwarts over the summer? His Muggle relatives are horrid."
Dumbledore's expression grew somber. "I'm afraid not. Though it may seem unfair, it is imperative Harry stay with his blood family."
"Like I had to stay with mine?" she couldn't help but snap.
A brief flicker of discomfort crossed Dumbledore's features. "I understand why you're upset, but this is a different situation. Has Harry spoken to you about his family?"
"Sort of." She'd been able to glean bits and pieces, but Harry wasn't one to emotionally unload like Hermione. "I can tell it's something bad. I don't think they even want him."
"Nonetheless, they accepted him." He placed his spoon in his soup bowl and stood. "I suppose we should head out, lest we miss supper at the castle. Though I'm not sure I'll have any room left after this."
Anger flared in her, both at his dismissal of Harry's predicament and his attempts to brush her off. "Did you know he was going to live with them after his parents died?" she pestered. "Are wizards guarding his house?"
"The focus of today is you, not him," he replied, polite but firm. "Now, we should make haste. Remember, the gentleman at the gate said we must speak with the Völva before leaving."
To Diana's satisfaction, he didn't sound particularly enthused. Dumbledore wasn't someone often caught off guard, but like Diana, he didn't expect the attention they received when entering Thule. Apparently, it was a tradition for the inheritors of the Brisingamen to make a visit to Thule at least once in their lives.
The childish part of her wanted to stay at the table and sulk, but she reluctantly followed him through the door. He tried to make conversation about neutral topics and she gave clipped responses in return. Eventually silence descended, the emotional gap widening as they descended down the widening dirt path.
She tried to distract herself by watching the Thulians, though her eyes darted away whenever she felt their own eyes on her, or—more accurately—her necklace. The most interesting aspect of Thule's inhabitants wasn't their attire or facepaint, but rather their 'wands.' They didn't look like wands in a traditional sense, but some Thulians carried staves and staffs, while others carried swords or axes used to channel enchantments. She couldn't help but feel a tug of awe and subsequent guilt at being fascinated by something magical.
"Do you know why I brought you here?" he asked, as if sensing her thoughts.
"No."
The more she saw of Thule, the more this choice of destination surprised her, especially since previous lessons made it seem as though Dumbledore wanted to show her the elusive 'gentle side' of magic. But for many years, Britain had been supporting Thule in a proxy war against the dwarves that lived even further below, not wanting the 'optics' of a wizarding community succumbing to nonhumans. Likewise, the amount of support the dwarves received from Goblins, Fey, and other nonhuman races prolonged the war indefinitely.
"What do you find troubling about this society?"
"Um," she blinked, uncertain. "No one really remembers how the war started, but they dedicate their lives to fighting the dwarves, and neither side tries to make peace."
"And aspects you find admirable?"
"They take care of their squibs," she remembered. "And value them just as much as magical children. And the people seem nice and friendly—unless you're a dwarf, I suppose."
Dumbledore nodded. They passed a painted mural depicting a god underneath a sprig of mistletoe, a bitter reminder of the upcoming Christmas. "And do you recall the poetry reading we passed by earlier?"
"Yeah." She couldn't make heads or tails of it since it was in the native Thulian tongue, but she enjoyed watching the village leader in front of a group of clapping, squealing children.
"The inhabitants of this realm are equally skilled with their words as they are with a blade. Truly remarkable. Not for the first time, I find myself perturbed we have such a dearth of fiction writers in magical Britain, though the same cannot be said of Muggles."
The Völva's hut grew closer, and it looked much taller and imposing now than it did before, and her stomach twisted with nerves. "I still don't understand why you brought me here."
"Just as in Thule and Hyperborea, there are multiple facets to any society. There are always elements that can—and should—change, but such change is impossible without those on the inside willing to take a stand. This land, as far as I'm aware, has no dissenting voices and thus, stagnation and endless war are its only fate. But magical Britain possesses a diversity of opinion with steadily growing voices, though I know it might not seem that way at times."
She focused on the grooves of the black wooden door, thinking of all the people who helped or sympathized with her. Mr. Weasley, Nia, Phoebe and Grace, Hagrid, Ridley Grayson, Penelope, and Janice. Draco, sort of. Harry and Ron and Hermione and—
Her fingers clenched against her forearms as those sparkling blue eyes sliced under her skin. Dumbledore might be an actor, but he was a damn good one.
Luckily, she didn't have to answer. The door creaked open, and a sullen redhaired girl not much older than Diana stepped out. "My mother will see you now."
Diana took a breath and entered, eyes widening as she took in the woven tapestries of goddesses, battles, and creatures adorning the interior of the hut. The other girl swiftly headed towards the back, pulling aside a leather curtain with runic symbols hung and whispering to the woman obscured behind it. "She needs a moment to prepare the seidr. You"—she pointed to Dumbledore—"will wait outside once it begins."
"Why?" Diana whispered as the girl retreated behind the curtain to rejoin her mother. She tried not to feel jealous.
"Seidr's a type of magic similar to Divination. In Thule, it's traditionally been considered women's magic. According to Thulian legends, the very essence of magic itself comes from their goddess Freya."
He gestured toward one of the ornate tapestries, where the goddess of love and war stood radiant, smiling breezily with outstretched hands above several dwarves bowing in supplication. A necklace of silver and emerald clasped around her neck.
Diana's eyes bulged. "Holy shit."
"Indeed."
She remembered Abraxas offering many possibilities about the origin of the Brisingamen. "It doesn't just look similar, it looks identical! Did she—does she—really exist, or was this a legend that came after the necklace?"
"Alas, matters of theology elude me. At any rate, your necklace appears to have a rather rich history."
The more Diana stared at the tapestry, the more confident Freya's expression seemed. Though if what she read in the books was true, Freya had no reason to be.
She tore her gaze away and looked at a different tapestry, where the soul of a Thulian was led away by the Valkyries, leaving behind the body of the warrior-mage with his hand wrapped around his stave. "I hope all these stories aren't true."
"Why?"
"Well, look at that one. The people here think you can't go to Heaven or whatever their version's called unless you die in battle. So someone could be the nicest person ever, but if they end up getting really sick and dying, they'd be screwed. That's not fair."
But when are things ever fair?
"I understand your concerns, certainly. However, keep in mind this is only speculation. Outside of this realm, most wizards don't share these particular beliefs of the afterlife."
She knew for a while there were a variety of spiritual beliefs in the wizarding world, and like their Muggle counterparts, most British wizards regarded it as largely a private affair. The majority seemed to ascribe to some form of Christianity, albeit with a heavily Gnostic slant, but she'd heard plenty of cultural references to Celtic, Roman, and Greek pantheons as well. And while she wasn't sure how much or how little involvement a hypothetical divine presence would have in her life, death was inevitable.
"If wizards can do so much, why can't they create a spell to figure out what happens for sure after you die? Or which gods–if any–are real?"
Dumbledore smiled wryly. "Some mysteries are beyond even a wizard's knowledge, I'm afraid.""
"People must know something," she pressed, "especially with all the ghosts floating around the castle."
His smile dimmed. "We know there is a Beyond, and magic allows us to understand the nature of souls in a more empirical way than our Muggle counterparts, who must take its existence on faith. Yet the larger, philosophical questions such as our reason for being—should such a reason even exist—or the exact nature of divinity and the afterlife remains beyond our grasp."
"Do Muggles have souls?" she asked tentatively. "I–I know they can't become ghosts, but will they go to the same Beyond or whatever when they die?"
She said it so quietly, so nervous of the answer, that she wasn't sure he'd hear.
But he did, and his eyes softened. "Of course, Diana."
It was at that moment the leather curtain of the hut's entrance flapped open. "She's ready to see you now."
Diana bit her lip, but Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. She followed the girl, catching one last glimpse of the headmaster exiting the hut before the dark curtain obscured her view of the outside world. A heavy whiff of charcoal and incense filled her nostrils as she turned to face the Völva.
The woman sat in the midst of a red painted circle, deckled in dark blue robes and a sheepskin cloak. Bracelets and necklaces of animal bones adorned her neck and wrists, and blue facepaint circled her deep brown eyes. Unlike her daughter, the woman's long red hair hung loose, and she smiled warmly as she gestured for Diana to sit in front of her, next to a clay bowl with clear liquid and a few leaves floating on top. Different-colored balls of thread lay in the center of the red circle.
"Hi," squealed Diana. Her eyes started watering from the incense as she sat in the designated location.
"Hello child." Unlike her daughter, the Völva's English barely had an accent. "My name is Solveig. It has been a long time since one from your line has entered this sacred space. Back then, I stood where Thyra is." She smiled at her daughter.
Diana didn't know how to respond, so instead asked, "Why did you want me to come here?"
"The women in your line wield the Brisingamen, and if Freya deems you worthy, then it would be remiss for me not to offer you this blessing. Take a ball of thread and wrap the end around your right palm."
She plucked a silver ball and did as the Volva instructed, insides churning all the while. "I, um, I don't know what any of this is for. I didn't even know my relatives used to come here until today. Everything just kinda happened at once."
"Yes, that much is apparent. Thyra, bring more candles."
Diana decided to be more direct. "What's going to happen?"
"You will be sent on the path to discern your place in the world and what is to be."
Her and Dumbledore would make quite the cryptic pair.
Frustration bubbled within Diana. "Could you be a little more…specific, please?"
"Soon, all will be made clear." Solveig paused. "In a sense."
As they waited for Thyra to return, a thick, heavy awkwardness filled the air—at least from Diana's perspective. Solveig smiled cheerfully and was the one to finally break it. "You must feel honored your family was chosen by the Mother of Magic."
"Um, y-yeah…"
She tilted her head, amused. "What ails you, child?"
"Nothing…"
Solveig raised an eyebrow as Thyra returned with the candles. Diana lasted about a minute before she caved. "I just—I don't want to sound rude or ungrateful, but some of the stories about her are kind of…"
She trailed off, hoping Solveig would get what she was referring to. If she did, she didn't say anything, but her daughter did. "I believe she's referring to how Freya laid with four dwarves to receive the Brisingamen, Mother."
Diana's cheeks heated. "Y-Yeah…"
After receiving the necklace, Diana poured over legends and myths surrounding it, only to be disappointed by the mythological progenitor essentially pimping herself out because she wanted a pretty trinket. So much for female empowerment.
"Why does the legend bother you?'
"Because she just kind of"—Diana searched for a polite way to phrase it, but found none—"treated herself like a prize. An object, I guess. And if she's a goddess then she shouldn't do that. In my opinion," she added quickly.
Thyra's eyes narrowed. "Why on earth should–"
"Thyra, please. You may leave us now."
The girl glared, but obeyed. Solveig looked contemplative, not angry, but Diana started babbling nonetheless. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to offend, I just—"
"There's no need to apologize for answering truthfully. However, I would like to offer a different perspective. An object has no control over who wields it, but Freya made the conscious choice to lay with the dwarves. She did not 'give up' her body. She used her power as a woman and used it to her advantage to get what she wanted. In our culture, we do not see that as a sign of weakness."
"I didn't say she was weak,'" Diana protested weakly. "I just don't think it's right."
Solveig smiled. "Then it's her ambition you take issue with? I was under the impression that was a trait valued in your family."
Diana opened her mouth to argue, but couldn't find a way to articulate her thoughts. Solveig showed her an angle she hadn't considered, but the idea still felt off. She wasn't sure if it was British cultural norms, her young age, or discomfort surrounding the nebulous concept of sex in general, especially as a result of her mother's experiences.
She gestured to the candles. "What's the next step for the ritual?"
"Now you will drink the nectar from the bowl. I will hold the other end of the thread, invoke the goddess's presence, and you will be taken on a journey into your deepest self."
Diana gulped, and the ritual began.
Looking back on that moment weeks, months, and years later, she couldn't recall the exact steps, everything seeming like a blur through the haze of stress, incense, and what Diana suspected to be hallucinogens. She remembered the sweet, tangy taste of the liquid, Solveig thumping her distaff on the ground while chanting in her native tongue, eyes rolled to the back of her head, the incense growing thicker and thicker, the room spinning. She remembered Solveig holding the other end of the yarn and wrapping it around her fingers like a spiderweb, remembered the blade of panic slicing through her in a moment of clarity, and the animalistic urge to bolt like a frightened rabbit. And then—
And then she was everywhere and nowhere at once, floating and sinking, existing and not existing, spiraling through a whirlwind of thoughts, feelings, and magic. The only clear image she could see was a towering tree—one that she knew, somehow, would later become the stump she saw at Westwell Estate. A bolt of lightning struck, cracking and splitting the tree's center. And from the sparks, ruins, and ashes, she saw herself emerge, clawing out amidst the tree sap, though she had no eyes or mouth or ears. Then, the girl shifted into a gray cat, and then Diana became the cat instead of \an observer, running faster and faster towards a building storm in the distance. The storm clouds morphed into a black beast, a large smoky entity that devoured her in one fell swoop.
She fell deeper and deeper like Alice down the rabbit hole, passing snippets of times-yet-to-come.
Lucius in his study, disheveled, tracing the rim of an empty wine glass perched atop the desk.
Her and Draco on a bus (no, that can't be right, there are beds inside), her brother's eyes tired and bloodshot while she learned against him in a deep slumber.
A cluttered, cozy home she'd never seen before, sewing needle knitting a blanket in midair.
Diana, laying in a large, empty area with pillars lining the walls. Crouched next to her was Tom (and her heart leapt, even then), a boy of flesh and blood instead of black ink.
An older man she'd never seen before reading The Times, a tear dripping down his cheek while a BBC broadcast played on a telly in the background.
Ridley Grayson and that same man arguing in a laboratory.
Harry and Professor Quirrell standing in front of a large mirror in another unfamiliar area, Harry clasping a ruby stone in his hands and while Professor Snape stood on the opposite side with his wand out. Harry's eyes narrowed, and didn't break contact with Snape's as he placed the stone in Quirrell's eager hands.
And then she sank deeper and deeper until she couldn't make out anything besides misty shadows. Eventually they dissipated, one by one, until there was nothing left besides herself.
She drifted through the water, like the mermaids or fish she'd sometimes glimpse through the dorm window, filled with a serene calmness she hadn't experienced in a long time. She vaguely recognized a need to get to the surface, but had no desire to do so. She wanted to sink further into the watery depths, forever and ever.
But when she finally raised her head, she spotted light breaking through the surface. A woman's hand plunging into the water, reaching and searching.
Sarah's hand.
Diana pushed herself forward with more strength she thought possible, extending her arm, insides in a panic as she hoped and prayed Sarah wouldn't disappear. She swam and swam until she finally, finally grasped her mother's hand.
The sensation lasted only for a moment, but it was the most wonderful moment of her life.
Light filled her vision, and when she blinked again, she was in the Völva's hut, Solveig grasping her hand with a satisfied expression on her face. "Your mind has been cleared, and you have Seen. How does it feel, child?"
Her eyes prickled with tears, and she blinked again and again, gathering her thoughts as her heart's rhythms slowed to a semi-regular pace.
There were so many conflicting emotions pulsing through her veins: giddy euphoria, guilt and horror at the loss of control, gratefulness and peace and grief and loss.
But when she opened her mouth, she decided to express a separate thought. She wasn't sure what it meant, or how she felt about it, but something—for better or worse—was changing.
"My necklace feels lighter."