When Eve arrived at the Great Hall with Sophie and Kate on her second morning, there was somebody already sitting in her seat.
"Who's that?" she asked, slowing her steps and eyeing the foreign head of tousled brown waves. She frowned—judging from the back of the person, which was covered by classic black robes, he was a male Hogwarts student, but she couldn't say that she felt any kindling of familiarity.
"Augustus Nott," answered Sophie from beside her, though the response sounded more like a question than a statement. She too had slightly paused in the middle of the hall, an expression of slight disdain quickly accelerating across her face as she stared at the boy.
"Nott's back?" came Kate's voice from Eve's left. She wrinkled her nose distastefully, withdrawing her arm from Eve's to lean forward and squint, as though the sight of Augustus Nott sitting at the Slytherin table was unbelievable. "Damn, I was hoping he'd died or something."
Her friends' reactions to the newcomer—Nott—only amplified Eve's concern, and she hesitated. "Nott? Is he—a bad person?"
Sophie and Kate met each other's eyes, sharing a significant look before the latter turned back to Eve, launching into a tirade in the middle of the Great Hall.
"Nott's basically Lestrange, but without any of his kiss-ass tendencies," Kate explained, her lip curling in clear dislike. Sophie nodded her head vigorously. "He's an arrogant bastard. I'm sure you've heard of the Notts—they're one of Britain's richest and most influential pureblood families, being of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and all." She paused to snort in aversion. "So, Nott obviously comes from a lot of money, though you'd think he'd literally been born clutching a Galleon in his hands from the way he struts around the halls."
"He's a horrible, prejudiced person," interjected Sophie, shaking her head and looking troubled. "It's not just his pure-blood supremacy beliefs, but the fact that he acts on them—calling Muggleborns the M slur whenever no teachers are around and pulling what he calls 'pranks' on them." Disgust seeped into her voice. "It's like a hobby for him. In third year, somebody locked two younger Gryffindors in an abandoned side of the dungeons for two days straight. In fourth year, somebody somehow charmed all the mirrors in the castle bathrooms to show writing on them that said 'Mudbloods are scum.'"
"Don't forget about the bubotuber pus."
Sophie snapped her fingers. "Right, that too. Last year, a fourth-year Hufflepuff—Muggleborn, of course—got landed in the Hospital Wing with third-degree boils all over her body after somebody filled her body wash with undiluted bubotuber pus."
Eve couldn't stop herself from placing her hands over her mouth in shock. "Undiluted bubotuber pus can be fatal! How come he hasn't been expelled?"
Kate scoffed loudly. "As if that were possible." She held up a finger. "Firstly, he's—Merlin, I can't believe I'm about to say this—clever. He's smart; he hides his tracks extremely well. Everybody knows he did all those things, but nobody has proof—he guarantees that." She held up a second finger. "Secondly, going against the Notts is like a personal guarantee of expulsion from society. Only Dumbledore's ever told Nott off before—in third year, when Nott cursed Laura Mead with a Calvorio in the middle of class—and that resulted in a six-week investigation by the Ministry on Dumbledore's 'methods of teaching and education.' She placed air quotes around that last part, rolling her eyes. "So nobody really interferes because it always ends up uselessly going in the opposite direction, and Dippet's too much of a wimp to kick a Nott out. Go figure."
To say that Eve felt disturbed would've been an understatement. Extreme, prejudice-rooted bullying had been occurring for years, and nobody was doing anything? A corrupt Ministry, hindering action? A third-year Draco Malfoy immediately came to the forefront of her mind, and the parallels to a specific Hippogriff's near-assassination were nearly undeniable. Kate could've replaced Nott with Malfoy in her explanation, and nothing would've seemed amiss.
"Unbelievable," she murmured, the mixture of incredulousness and unsettlement within her chest trickling into the lone word. "That's unbelievable."
Sophie sighed loudly. "At least there's only a year left, and then the halls will be cleansed of him. Though," she frowned, "I thought he wasn't returning until the beginning of next year. Apparently, his parents pulled him out of Hogwarts at the end of last year and enrolled him in Durmstrang for the first half of seventh year. Double exposure to different teaching methods, or something." She gazed at the back of Nott's head. "I guess that plan was scrapped."
"Maybe he spent a day at Durmstrang, realized that there weren't any girls willing to get with him and switched back," Kate suggested sarcastically. Her tone then turned serious as she directed her stare back onto Eve. "If he ever tries to talk to you, Eve, just rebuff him—ignore him, turn around, and walk away."
Sophie nodded and gestured towards the Slytherin table, her solemnity slightly melting into a grin. "And since he's sitting where you sit now—which was where he usually sat before—you can just sit next to me!"
"Yeah, c'mon," Kate slid her arm back around Eve's, pulling her forward slightly. "Let's go sit. We probably look like a bunch of nutters right now, just standing in the middle of the Great Hall and staring at him."
As Eve let herself get dragged towards the Slytherin table, she kept her eyes glued to the back of Nott's head, her mind occupied.
Was that the type of power Riddle craved? The type of absolute power that inspired fear with only a name and had even the Ministry of Magic bowing at your feet? She could now see Riddle—he slowly came into view as she approached—sitting at the table, flanked by Mulciber and Lestrange, his gaze focused forward as he listened to whatever Nott was saying to him. What is he thinking now?
She wondered what the power dynamic between Nott and Riddle was like. Clearly, Riddle had the capability of reining in those from even the most powerful of wizarding families, as exemplified by his hold over Lestrange. But if Nott—who she knew was also one of the original Death Eaters—held implicit control just through his surname over not only the authoritative figures of Hogwarts but also the wizarding government itself, then she couldn't help but ponder if he was as pliable of a follower as Riddle perhaps preferred.
And—of course—Riddle noticed them first. His gaze immediately shifted away from Nott and onto Eve as she, Sophie, and Kate reached the table. He was the image of perfection—his robes were, like usual, perfectly smooth and flawless, no creases in sight. He was like an automaton—his clothing was always cleanly pressed, his hair was always pristine, and his facial expression was always just neutral enough to look natural.
"Good morning," Eve said first, meeting his gaze and trying hard not to fidget. It wasn't like there was anybody else she could address—both Avery and Rosier were noticeably absent from the table, and Abraxas and Alphard had informed them the night prior that they were going to sleep in and skip breakfast. She barely even knew Mulciber, and she was not about to greet Lestrange. She'd decided that she was going to linger to quickly introduce herself to Nott—it'd be weird if she didn't—and then she was immediately shooting towards Sophie and Kate.
"Good morning," Riddle returned, smiling pleasantly just as Nott's head turned around at the sound of Eve's voice. "Ah—Nott, this is Eve Laurence, our new seventh-year Slytherin. Miss Laurence, this is Augustus Nott."
Back in 1996, Eve had forged an unexpected friendship with Theodore Nott after they'd been paired together as Potions partners for the entirety of sixth year. The Slytherin's appearance had always been the subject of light teasing from her—with his daily dark circles and unkempt hair, he'd seemed to possess the perpetual look of someone who'd just rolled out of bed and depended on coffee to survive and function through the day.
As she stared at Augustus Nott—at the way he was lounged across the bench, head tilted and stance unbothered—she could see the resemblance to his future relative: the slight air of carelessness surrounding him, the aesthetic of ease pervading his space. He had the posture and manner of someone who'd tucked all the time in the world inside his pockets.
But, while Theo's eyes had been droopy and relaxed, carrying with them a sort of idle energy that matched the rest of his personality, Augustus's were piercing and slightly too wide, giving him the maniacal appearance of someone who'd consumed too much caffeine. It was a rattling feature that looked almost displaced on his otherwise objectively-handsome face.
"Hi, it's nice to meet you," Eve offered neutrally. Although the earlier warnings about Nott from her friends were echoing around inside her head, she was careful to keep any edge of unease out of her voice, as if she'd never heard of him up until this point.
Nott's returning smile looked more like a leer than anything else. "Nice to meet you." But he didn't move, didn't offer more words or a handshake. Instead, his eyes moved slowly down the length of Eve's body, lingering—or had she just imagined it?—on the expanse of her upper torso before continuing on, his fingers casually drumming along the side of the table.
Eve shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say next. The manner in which Nott was choosing to now stare at her made her want to conjure an Invisibility Cloak to wrap around herself.
Maybe Sophie's radar for uncomfortable awkwardness was extremely accurate—or maybe she just had great timing—because Eve couldn't be more grateful for her friend's "Come sit, Eve!" hollered from her right. She wasted no time in flashing Nott one last insincere smile, just eager to escape his vicinity.
Of course, Riddle had to ruin it all.
"Nott, sit next to Lestrange."
Eve froze, having barely taken a step towards the empty spot to Sophie's right. She felt something akin to molten lead slide down her throat at Riddle's sudden words, which had been uttered in that quiet-but-firm tone she'd come to learn he only utilized in certain situations—when he wanted something.
Nott's head whipped back towards Riddle, his expression of ease morphing into one of confusion. "Excuse me?"
Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Riddle's eyes seemed to darken a shade at Nott's request for him to repeat himself. Eve felt herself involuntarily tense. "I said for you to sit next to Lestrange."
The table had suddenly become deathly silent—although, the future Death Eaters were the only ones who looked genuinely nervous, with Lestrange's eyes now darting between Riddle and Nott like he was watching an intense game of Muggle tennis. Even Mulciber was sporting a miniscule fragment of emotion on his face. Sophie and Kate were observing the exchange with only mild curiosity, oblivious to the significant undertones of Riddle's voice.
Eve would've been impressed at how easily Riddle could shift the atmosphere of a situation had she not been holding her breath as well.
Nott was still staring at Riddle. "I—why?"
"You're sitting in Miss Laurence's seat."
Oh no.
The bewilderment slid off Nott's face absurdly fast, and he laughed, as though Riddle had just told him a hilarious joke. "That academic memory of yours is failing you, Riddle. I've sat in this exact spot across from you since first year."
Riddle didn't move a muscle, his gaze on Nott so unwavering to the point where even Eve was resisting the urge to squirm on the spot. "And you gave it up when you decided to pull that embarrassing five-day stint at Durmstrang, not even lasting an entire week. Miss Laurence has been sitting across from me since her first day here, and you're making her wait."
Nott was staring at Riddle as though he had no idea whether or not he was dreaming. His cheeks had reddened considerably, and the sight finally snapped Eve out of it. She had no idea why Riddle was suddenly insisting on her sitting in front of him, but she'd never even wanted to sit in front of him in the first place, and this was her chance to get out of it.
"Hey, wait—" she interjected, a wave of self-consciousness washing over her as every pair of eyeballs nearby immediately snapped onto her. "Um—it's fine, Riddle, thanks. It's not like we have assigned seating at mealtimes or anything." She gestured at the bench awkwardly. "I mean, there technically aren't even any seats—it's just a bench. I can just sit next to Sophie, so don't worry about it."
Riddle allowed Eve to wallow in a second of thinking she'd won before shooting her hopes down with a steady "I insist, Miss Laurence. It's only polite."
Eve wanted to glare at him. What was he playing at? Was this some sort of surveillance thing—keeping her by him so he could monitor her? She hadn't forgotten his attempt at infiltrating her mind last night, although the implications of that occurrence suddenly didn't seem very important at the moment. "No really—it's okay. Nott got here first anyway, so."
"Yet you're the one who arrived for seventh year and sat there earlier than he did."
"Yeah, but he's been sitting there since first year. I swear, Riddle, I'm alright with it."
"I'm sure you are," replied Riddle smoothly, diverting his case into something much more indirect. Eve hated how clever he was. "I was merely suggesting the well-mannered course of action for Nott to take."
"I. . . ." Eve opened and closed her mouth helplessly, officially out of rebuttals. What was she supposed to say to that? "Well. . . . Okay. Thanks."
A glazed look had seemingly settled over Nott's face from watching Eve and Riddle go back and forth, and it seemed to take a second for him to shake himself out of his momentary stupor and realize that mostly everybody at the table—even Sophie and Kate—was now staring at him expectantly.
When nobody came to his defense, his face hardened into something bitter, and he didn't look at Riddle as he got up and shoved past Eve silently, moving to the other side of the table in an action that just felt incredibly awkward. Eve tried not to cringe as she hesitantly sat down in the now-empty spot in front of Riddle, looking anywhere but towards where Nott was now sitting next to Lestrange.
She glanced over in Sophie's direction, shooting her friend an apologetic smile. Sophie only shrugged halfheartedly in return, though neither she nor Kate seemed to look as though they thought Riddle's actions just now were awry in any way. In fact, Kate even bizarrely nudged Eve's side and jerked her head in Riddle's direction with a smirk. Eve proceeded to ignore the gestures, her annoyance towards Riddle's acting only flaring up further within her as breakfast then officially commenced.
Perhaps what was even more unnerving than a suspicious Riddle drilling her with questions—which she thought he'd do after all the events of yesterday—a normal Riddle. Throughout breakfast, Eve encountered no mind-infiltration attempts, no questions even bordering suspiciously-invasive, no indication that Riddle felt any sort of skepticism towards her at all.
There was no other way to put it: it was like yesterday never happened. Nothing was amiss—despite Eve being hyper-cautious and on edge the entire time, Riddle was just as courteous and polite as he always was, and the most comprehensive topic he broached with her was Transfiguration homework.
She should've been glad, should've felt relief, but nothing except the exact opposite feeling to that was induced by it all. At the end of breakfast, Eve left the Great Hall feeling disoriented and with an unexplainable feeling of unease trailing behind her.
—
After Herbology class, which had felt like it'd taken a whole day rather than an hour (Eve blamed the mundane task Professor Beery had assigned them of plucking the petals off piles and piles of scurvy grass—halfway through the class, Abraxas had actually fallen asleep in a heap of the white petals), Eve found herself in a unexpected situation: squished next to Edmund Avery as they hid behind the statue of Lachlan the Lanky on the seventh floor of the castle.
If anyone passed by and saw them in such a compromising position, Eve wouldn't blame them for getting the wrong idea—after all, she was currently pressed up against the wall by Avery in a very intimate position.
However, contrary to the usual expectations of what entails between two individuals in such a situation, Eve and Avery were not doing that in any sort of manner. In fact, their position was the only position that ensured complete concealment from the current object of their attention: the Bloody Baron.
After Herbology had ended, Eve had stumbled out of the greenhouses and into the castle a sweaty mess from having endured the burning heat of the sun for nearly an hour, plucking petal after petal off that bloody scurvy grass. Maybe heat stroke had gotten to her, because she hadn't even questioned it when Avery had sidled up to her side and randomly suggested following the Bloody Baron, who'd been passing by at that moment, around. She'd shrugged, muttered "Sure" (because why not?), and now she was here, flattened against the wall behind a stone Lachlan the Lanky.
"Avery, I can't breathe." Eve's voice came out muffled due to the large amount of Avery's robes pressing against her mouth.
"Sorry—hold on—" Avery, who'd been peering over the side of the statue with great focus, wiggled around for a few seconds before managing to adjust his body so that Eve had enough space to peek over as well.
From their hiding spot, they had a perfect view of a less-populated corridor on the seventh floor, one through which the Bloody Baron was currently gliding. Said ghost was making his way down the corridor at the speed of an ant (which Eve had learned from the last ten minutes of trailing the Baron was his usual speed), his chains rattling and dragging behind him on the floor.
Now, Eve acknowledged that following a ghost—especially the Bloody Baron—wasn't exactly a conventional choice of entertainment. All ghosts did was drift around the castle aimlessly, anyway.
The thing was that the Bloody Baron was a special case—it wasn't the ghost himself that was entertaining, but the people he encountered.
For the past ten minutes that Eve and Avery had tailed the Baron, they'd witnessed the ghost inadvertently terrify at least fifteen separate students. The students would be so engrossed in whatever was occupying their attention as they walked down the corridors (reading, frantically studying textbooks, chatting with friends) that they wouldn't notice the Baron floating towards them until it was too late, and then the jumpscares would happen.
The results were wildly entertaining—the common reaction was to jump and gasp at the ghost's sudden appearance. There were occasional hands-to-chests, and maybe an "Oh Merlin!" or "Bloody hell!" would be yelped. Two girls who'd had their heads bent together and had been giggling over something had simultaneously screamed and clutched at each other when they'd suddenly come face-to-face with the Baron, and another young Slytherin who'd had his nose buried deep in a heavy textbook had actually dropped it right onto his foot in startlement. When they saw that happen, Eve and Avery had to physically muffle each other's laughter with their hands.
Honestly, Eve didn't blame them—the Baron's frightening appearance made him look like he'd popped straight out of a horror novel. His gaunt face; matted hair; pale complexion (pale even for a ghost—somehow); wide, staring black eyes; bloodstain-covered robes; and silver, rattling chains all contributed to that overall ghoulish appearance he embodied. Running in that unexpectedly would make anyone piss themselves.
Eve pulled back from spying on the Baron to brush her hair out of her eyes, the gray strands by the front momentarily obscuring her vision, and then looked back over Lachlan the Lanky's shoulder—to see an empty corridor. The Baron was gone.
"Laurie, go!" Avery dashed out from behind the statue, ushering frantically for Eve to follow him. "He just floated through the wall!"
"Again?"
They rushed through the corridor, their footsteps echoing through the silence. They were just slowing down at the edge when a loud CRASH! suddenly reverberated from some point beyond the corridor, causing Eve and Avery to immediately halt before immediately bolting towards the wall and flattening themselves against it.
What was that? Eve mouthed, turning to stare wide-eyed at Avery.
He shook his head, looking just as puzzled as she was. I don't know.
Eve inched forward slowly, keeping her back pressed against the wall until she reached the perimeter of the corridor. With a quick glance behind her, she silently motioned for Avery to follow, before turning back around and slowly peeking over the corner of the wall, just enough to see what was going on beyond it.
A very familiar-looking poltergeist was hovering over the shattered remains of a chandelier on the floor. Peeves looked exactly the same as Eve remembered him from 1997—covered in outlandish clothing, contributing to his classic jester-esque look. Even fifty years into the past, his eyes still possessed that ever-present mischievous glint that Eve was sure she could spot from an entire Quidditch field away.
Beside Peeves was the Bloody Baron, who had his back towards Eve. Peeves was bowing his head towards the Baron with his hands folded demurely behind him, a sight that was both comical and strange. Throughout her entire six years at Hogwarts, Eve had never seen Peeves interact with the Baron—although she knew that the Baron was the only one who had any control over Peeves, it was much more interesting to see that control happen in person.
Eve felt Avery sneak up against her. She crouched slightly, allowing him just enough space to stretch over and poke his head over the edge of the wall so that it was right above hers. Together, they observed the scene unfolding in front of them.
"Mr. Baron, Sir," Peeves was saying in an oily tone, "forgive old Peevsie for disrupting your day."
"I have matters to attend to, Peeves," replied the Baron hoarsely. His voice sounded grating. "Take your antics somewhere else."
Peeves bobbed his head incessantly. "Of course, sir, of course," he said greasily, rising further into the air. "I'll be off now, Baron—apologies once more."
And, with that short exchange, he zoomed away, quickly disappearing from sight.
Eve and Avery watched the Baron look down at the shattered chandelier for a moment before rising vertically through the air in an unexpected motion and floating right through the ceiling. There was a moment of silence as the two of them stared at the spot he'd disappeared from, as though he was going to come back any second. Eve half expected him to do just that.
When nothing happened, she turned back to Avery. "Did he just float through the ceiling?"
Avery was still staring at the spot the Baron had just been at. "I—yeah, I guess." He frowned. "I didn't expect him to do that. He's just been floating through walls at most these past ten minutes, so. . . ."
Eve pushed herself off the wall. "Well, there's no way we can chase him now." She began walking back in the direction they'd come from, and Avery followed, looking like a disappointed puppy. "I didn't know Hogwarts had poltergeists."
Avery waved his hand. "There's just Peeves. Watch out for him—he likes to mess around with students."
They turned the corner and entered a slightly more populated corridor, Avery now sporting furrowed eyebrows. "Actually," he murmured, "Peeves is probably planning something right now. He usually does something big in the first week of school, but so far the only thing he's done was pelt first years with tea cakes on their first day." He grinned. "I still have a huge stash of them in my dorm."
"He looked like he really respects the Bloody Baron," remarked Eve innocently.
"Nah. I think he's just scared of him."
"Well, that's valid, considering what we saw today."
They reached the staircases and descended, snickering to each other as they weaved through the many students they passed—the moving staircases had always been home to never-ending student traffic. Eve peered over the railing—she could see the heads of all the other people moving through the staircases on the levels below her, like tiny dots navigating through a complicated maze.
"You know," she mused, turning back to Avery and pondering a sudden question that had come to her just now. "The Bloody Baron scares so many students everyday, but . . . I wonder if anyone—or anything—has scared him before."
She almost regretted her words when she saw how bright Avery's eyes lit up.
—
Eve's first Ancient Runes class in 1944 passed in a blur.
The professor, Professor Dunne, a short, stout woman with a rosy complexion and homely smile, had been kind enough to adjust the class seating arrangement so she could place Eve next to Logan, the only friend Eve had recognized in the class.
It had been a short-lived moment of contentment, though. Dunne's docile appearance, it turned out, was incredibly misleading—that woman had shot through the class lesson like rapidfire. Eve had found herself scribbling down notes faster than she'd ever had to.
When class finally ended, she slumped out of the classroom, utterly drained.
Logan, who'd followed Eve out, eyed her with amusement as she groaned loudly and flopped against the wall, not caring that some of the other students leaving the classroom gave her strange looks at that. "You okay?"
"How does Dunne talk so fast?" Eve complained. "That speed of teaching is actually humanly impossible." She pressed her cheek against the cool stone of the wall and closed her eyes. "I never want to move again."
She heard Logan laugh. "Believe me, I think that everytime I sit down in that class. The only thing I want right now is to return to my dorm and take a nap." He sighed, and Eve detected the slightest hint of irritation. "Unfortunately, Tyler Morris saw fit to inform all the Ravenclaw prefects about an impromptu prefect meeting only an hour ago, so I can't do that. In fact, the meeting should be in—oh, nevermind, it's now."
Eve turned just enough to catch Logan quickly pull his sleeve over his watch and hastily hoist his book bag over his shoulder. He shot Eve an apologetic look, already moving. "I'm late—I gotta go!"
"Okay." She raised her hand and gave him a halfhearted wave, her body still slouched against the wall. "Bye."
He grinned, returning the wave and jogging down the corridor. "I'll see you later!"
"Run!" she called after him, watching him turn the corner, and she swore she heard a distant chuckle. Then, silence once more, as if he'd never been there at all.
Eve stared at the spot he'd vanished from for a few seconds before heaving a sigh and looking around. She was all alone in the corridor now.
God, I'm tired. Eve let herself wallow in exhaustion for a few more seconds before pushing off the wall, exhaling and brushing her hair out of her eyes. As much as she wanted to do exactly what Logan had just said—go back to her dorm and take a long nap—she couldn't let herself do that yet.
Right now, she needed to head down to the Hogwarts Library, and she only had one goal in mind: research.
She'd already put it off for too long. Dumbledore had said that he would research her time travel situation as much as possible and try his best to find a way back for her, but that didn't mean that Eve felt content with just sitting back and relaxing. It was her future on the line—she couldn't just depend on Dumbledore's solo efforts when what he was working towards would directly affect her.
It wasn't a matter of ungratefulness or doubt in Dumbledore's abilities and intellect, but rather a matter of feeling helpless. Dumbledore could be researching for fifteen hours a day, and that wouldn't change an iota of Eve's mindset—she wasn't about to cast aside the responsibility of researching when she very much had the ability to do so.
The fact was that she would feel—for lack of a better term—useless if she didn't take initiative. Or rather, she just didn't see why she shouldn't take it into her own hands. She had the time and resources to research—for Merlin's sake, she had the whole of the Hogwarts Library at her disposal! It wouldn't hurt to try, and the worst outcome would be that she ended up right where she'd started—which, her pessimistic side screamed, would happen. After all, if the countless geniuses who'd conducted research and experiments on time that spanned over decades couldn't find anything, how would a regular seventeen-year-old girl?
But that doubt—while sizable—was overshadowed by optimism (or rather a great deal of desperation). Who knew? Maybe something would pop up, and she would discover something even potentially useful. If she didn't exert effort, there was a very real chance that she would never be able to return to her old life. Never be able to see her loved ones again.
Harry. Hermione. Ron. Mum. Neville. Ginny. Luna. Fred and George.
She had to try.
—
The library was moderately empty, although a good number of students littered the tables by the entrance.
Eve glanced around as she made her way down the central pathway, pasting a look of curiosity onto her face as she passed the innumerable bookshelves, as if she was just a new student admiring the magnificence of the library.
On the contrary, she was on the lookout for a person. Searching for a specific individual—rather, the lack of a specific individual, whose absence from the library was imperative to her plans for the next hour.
That specific individual was, of course, Tom Riddle.
If Tom Riddle—Tom Riddle, the future Voldemort, who already harbored feelings of suspicion towards her—caught her reading up on time magic and time travel, topics that were neither in the seventh-year school curriculum nor topics that exactly constituted light reading material . . . Well, Eve didn't want to think about the consequences of that.
If Riddle found out that I'm from the future, what would he do? Torture me for information? Use Crucio on me repeatedly until he could pry out what his current efforts turned into? And then force me to recount all of his future mistakes as Voldemort and tell him how he can avoid them so he can build a new, successful future for himself—for Voldemort? A future that was bleak and dangerous, because this time Voldemort wouldn't make the mistakes that he would have made—all because of me?
Eve quickly banished those dark thoughts from her mind.
Luckily, there were no young Dark Lords in sight as far as she could tell. Still, she had to keep her guard up—she stayed vigilant as she moved past the rows and rows of books, venturing deeper into the library. As she did so, the amount of students browsing the shelves and seated at the tables around her slowly dwindled, until there was virtually nobody she passed by.
To Eve's convenience, she already possessed the knowledge of the location of the tomes on time magic within the library, thanks to that one time in third year when she'd accompanied Hermione to check out a few of them, oblivious to her friend's actual reasons for doing so. From what she remembered, they'd been situated near the very back corner then, not too far from where she and her friends had sat yesterday before dinner, and she doubted that the location would be any different now.
She was right—immediately past the bookshelves with the labels Emotions, Portraits, Mirrors, Squibs, and the names of various other topics engraved on their side plaques was—finally—Time. After whipping her head around multiple times to double check that she really was alone, Eve quickly slipped into the row between the first two bookshelves bearing the Time label—and effectively found herself encased on both sides by two towering walls of tomes, both of them extending so horizontally forward and so vertically upward that it seemed as though she'd stepped into a literal box of indefiniteness.
She stared up at the first shelf, already overwhelmed. Just the sight of the neverending book spines in front of her made her eyes spin—and these weren't even the only two rows of bookshelves in the library carrying time-related books. If she had to estimate, there were probably at least five more neighboring shelves housing books of the exact same subject area.
That was the thing about the Hogwarts Library—although many topics of study, such as time, were not widely researched or read upon by the student population at Hogwarts, there was almost a guarantee that the library was still stocked with shelves upon shelves of books on them. It had a plethora of information on virtually everything, which was why the resources of Hogwarts were considered amazing and a large factor in why Eve felt as though she already had sufficient material for self-research. Even though books on time weren't exactly part of the pool of often-checked-out books from the library, there was still an incessant amount of them available, and—within that unceasing number of resources—maybe Eve would be able to find something.
Where do I even start? she thought, gazing upwards, the endless amount of book titles in front of her assaulting her eyes and making her vision swim.
Time Travel: A Study, A Comprehensive Guide to Time Magic (1933 Edition), The Past and the Future, Time and Existence, Time's Natural Laws, The Mystery of Time Magic, Time Travel Experiments and Experimentations, Achievements in Time Travel, History: Time Turners, The Case of Eloise Mintumble, Basic Time Facts for the Curious, The Natural Laws of Time.
The titles were already starting to blend together, and she hadn't pulled a single book off the shelf yet.
Eve supposed that the smartest—although most tedious—tactic would be to simply look through every single time-related book within this section of the library.
Even just thinking about such a torturous task made her grimace—but what else could she do? It wasn't like she had a specific nook within the topic of time that she was exactly looking into—she was just looking for anything that could help her situation. She couldn't risk skipping out something that could possibly send her back to 1997—back home.
With a renowned sense of determination from that thought fueling her, Eve leapt into action. She reached forwards, eyes scanning the shelves as she started grabbing books with the most generic-sounding titles relating to time. The Study of Time. Time Theory. Time's Technicalities. Time Magic: A Record of Research. If she started out with books on the broad subject of time itself, she reasoned, they could maybe help her narrow down to specific pockets of subtopics within the subject that may be useful and that she could thus pursue first in her research.
She perused the bookshelves, occasionally noticing a book and adding it to the growing collection of tomes within her arms. The stack of books she held only grew taller and taller as she weaved between the rows of shelves, plucking book after book out from them.
The action eventually grew robotic. Eve felt her focus dull as she placed what had to be her tenth book onto the pile of books in her arms, staggering slightly when the pile swayed precariously in the air. She quickly rushed back to the edge of the row of shelves, finding an empty spot on the bookshelf to her right and nearly dumping the books in her arms onto it.
With the weight of ten heavy tomes gone from her arms, she felt a bit of her energy come back to her. She turned her head; a quick glance at the clock on the wall behind her told her that she'd been perusing the bookshelves for nearly fifteen minutes.
Eve inwardly groaned—that was already a fourth of her break gone. She'd intended for it to be a productive break, but now she only had forty minutes to do anything before she had to make it to lunch, which she'd originally planned to skip, until she realized that the action probably wouldn't contribute anything great to lessening Riddle's suspicions towards her—it wasn't like she was suddenly drowning in enough homework to constitute skipping meals.
Okay, she thought firmly. I'll make sure that there aren't any more possibly-useful books in this row of books, and then I'll actually start reading and researching. She nodded to herself and, with that ultimatum etched in her mind, began wandering towards the other end of the row, eyes inspecting the shelves beside her rapidly as she went.
It didn't take her too long to reach the very end—and, when she did, she couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief at having come up empty-handed. There were already ten other books waiting to be read by her (and, of course, she couldn't possibly finish reading all of them within the next forty minutes—she'd have to check some out); she honestly couldn't even handle just one more.
She stuck her head out of the row just to peek over and see how many more bookshelves bore the Time label on them—and paused.
Right next to the bookshelf she was currently behind, hidden partly behind the bookshelf that began the rows of bookshelves adjacent to hers in an almost concealed position, was a lone student. A Hufflepuff girl, to be exact—either a first or second-year, by the looks of her. Her back was facing Eve, but Eve could just tell that she was a young underclassman.
Her position had been right out of Eve's vantage point earlier, but now, with Eve's head just slightly poking over the side of the bookshelf, she had a perfect view of her. In fact, Eve was close enough that she could slightly shift her head and read the words on the pages of the book clutched in the small girl's hands if she wanted to.
She was surprised—she hadn't thought that there was anybody else in this part of the library. Clearly, this Hufflepuff girl was trying to stay obscure, judging from her choice of seating position and her behavior. Every few seconds, she would look up from her book and look around in a seemingly-nervous manner, as though she was expecting a Dungbomb to blow up around her at any time.
Maybe she's also a time traveler, Eve thought jokingly, reading up on how to return to her time. She kept herself silent behind her bookshelf and squinted at the book in the girl's hands, wondering what exactly a probably-first-or-second-year was reading that made her choose to act so suspiciously anxious and sit in such a concealed, unpopulated location.
House . . . mounted . . . frequent use . . . sport . . . never quite still . . . closing of a hand.
Eve frowned, eyes focused on the page of the book the girl was reading, trying to read the words on it. She was at that exact distance from the girl where she could only frustratingly make out a few words or short phrases.
Then, Eve did a double take. And stared.
Because if she wasn't mistaken, she'd just seen the name Gatsby flash from the page.
Eve rubbed hard at her eyes, scoffing to herself. She'd probably just seen wrong. There's no way she's reading The Great Gatsby. That was a Muggle book, and nobody with a pinch of common sense would bring a Muggle book into the Hogwarts Library, especially in the 1940s, when pure-blood supremacy beliefs reigned.
She tiptoed forward, quickly ducking behind the bookshelf that was directly behind the girl, covertly hidden once more. She peeked through the crevice between the books and the shelf she was level to, heart hammering as she looked over the girl's shoulder from this much closer position—and, sure enough, she recognized the words of her favorite novel immediately. If she hadn't been certain that it was The Great Gatsby earlier, she was now—the telltale label of "old sport" floating off the page the girl was reading immediately cemented Eve's certitude.
She felt excitement bloom within her chest. That's right! The Great Gatsby was published in 1926—how could she have forgotten? She'd just assumed that none of her favorite novels had been published in 1944 yet, and she'd just grouped that masterpiece within that assembly as well. The realization that her most favorite novel still existed within this time period—that she could read it—made her want to burst with elation. The Great Gatsby was one of those works that she could reread a thousand times and never get tired of.
Eve examined the book from a distance. The Hufflepuff girl looked to have charmed its cover to resemble that of a random wizard's biography, a smart move that nevertheless was rendered useless by the girl's sitting position. She clearly thought that hiding near the back of the library to read would be the safest option for ensuring nobody saw her reading material—and it would've been, had she chosen to sit with her back facing the wall instead of the bookshelves behind her, where anyone could creep up and read the pages of her book (as Eve was doing).
Despite the girl's poor job at concealment, Eve couldn't help but feel a wave of sympathy overtake her excitement over the Gatsby book. The implications of why the girl was hiding were obvious—openly reading a Muggle book during this time was like purposefully painting a target on your back. Bigotry against Muggles and Muggleborns very much still existed now, and the girl's attempt to remove any chances of somebody discovering her with a Muggle novel clutched in her hands was completely justifiable.
Eve wanted to walk away, wanted to leave the girl reading in peace. But—
The Great Gatsby. The Great Gatsby, her favorite novel, the one she'd always read whenever she was in a bad mood or felt in the dumps. Her comfort book.
It wasn't like Eve could get the book on her own. The Hogwarts Library didn't have a Muggle literature section. Even in 1997, it hadn't had one—although the idea had been taken into heavy consideration by the school in Eve's sixth year, any chance of it actually happening had completely flown out the window with the start of Eve's seventh year.
There weren't any wizarding companies now that were stupid enough to openly sell Muggle literature either—Eve couldn't just Owl Order The Great Gatsby. Maybe Eve had been able to ask Hermione for Muggle books from her collection back in the 1990s, but Eve didn't have a Hermione around her now.
As far as she could tell, there was no way she could get The Great Gatsby herself.
Seeing and recognizing the physical book had invoked something within Eve—a sense of yearning in her heart. She felt drawn to the book, to the sense of familiarity it offered. Here she was, stuck in a whole different time, with nothing to call her own—not even her own identity, which had been forged and fabricated the second she got here. It was a foreign, lonely feeling that Eve most pushed down whenever it threatened to rise within her.
Now, as she stared at The Great Gatsby held in the Hufflepuff girl's hands—all she felt was a sense of need for an object of familiarity.
Eve slowly stepped out from behind the bookshelf she'd been hiding behind. "Hey."
The small girl whirled around. There was an expression of poorly-concealed panic frozen on her face. Eve noticed her try to shove the book into her robes, to no avail.
She tried to make her voice as gentle as possible. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but do you happen to be reading The Great Gatsby?"
The girl turned as white as a sheet at the sound of the book title, and Eve saw the grip of her fingers on the book tighten. A wave of pity unfurled in her stomach, and she tried not to let it show on her face.
"It's just that it's my favorite book, so I recognized it when I passed you," she said carefully, lowering her voice and giving the girl the friendliest smile she could muster. "I promise I don't mean to hurt you in any way. I love to read Muggle novels."
Distantly, Eve hoped that this girl wasn't some spy plotted here by Riddle to serve as some sort of surveillance agent against her. She quickly pushed that completely random and absurd thought away, inwardly cursing Riddle for the paranoia he'd instilled inside her—whether purposefully or not.
The girl looked around nervously, still silent. She looked like she was on the verge of standing up and making a run for it.
"Don't worry—nobody's around. I checked already." Eve saw the girl's shoulders immediately lower just a miniscule amount at her words, and sympathy overtook her once more. "I understand that you're scared. I'm sorry if I scared you."
The girl merely stared up at Eve for a few seconds, as if she was trying to weed out any lies in Eve's words, before finally nodding timidly. A confirmation that it was The Great Gatsby she'd been reading.
"Are you a Muggleborn?"
Hesitancy, and then another nod. Eve detected a small sliver of belligerence in the girl's expression, though it was still mostly a mix of terrified and nervous.
Eve looked down, tugging on one strap of her book bag so that she could reach her hand inside. She dug around for a second, before her hand closed on something circular and smooth. She pulled out the Galleon and offered it to the girl.
"I know this sounds really random, but could I buy the book from you?" she asked, and the flicker of surprise that crossed the Hufflepuff's face wasn't unexpected. "It's just that I don't have any other means of buying Muggle literature."
Seconds passed. The girl looked to be genuinely considering it, though Eve couldn't really tell. At least she hadn't bolted for the door yet.
"You don't have to sell it to me," she offered quickly. She of course didn't want to pressure the girl into giving her the book. "You can tell me no."
The girl regarded her for a moment. "Yes," she whispered quietly, to Eve's surprise.
"Oh—you'll sell it to me?"
The girl handed her The Great Gatsby as a response.
Eve stared down at the book, hand smoothing over the false book cover. She was holding The Great Gatsby. Her favorite novel. In 1944.
It was something small, but it meant something to her.
She quickly snapped out of her reverie and glanced back up at the girl, who'd stood up and was now shifting on her feet, looking uncertain. "Thank you," she said sincerely as she handed the girl the Galleon, which she quickly pocketed. "Be a bit more careful next time you're reading a Muggle work in the library—it'd be safer to sit with your back against the wall so nobody can see the pages."
She didn't know if the girl heard her advice—by the time she finished, the girl was already scampering away, nervousness back on her face. Eve watched her scurry between two bookshelves and disappear.
She looked back down at the book in her hands, heart soaring. The Great Gatsby. She didn't waste any time sitting down at the table the girl had just been at (with her back against the wall, of course), cracking open the book eagerly. She began to read, and the world around her faded.
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. "Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had." . . .
It felt like drinking water with a parched throat. Eve hungrily took in the words on the pages—words that she could honestly recite from memory because of how many times she'd read them. If she focused hard enough, she could tune out her surroundings, and pretend as though it was 1997, and she was just reading The Great Gatsby for the nth time, and there was no Voldemort, and there was nothing to worry about, and she was just another student reading her favorite novel. It was like she had a small piece of 1997 back with her.
Minutes passed—she didn't know how much due to how immersed she was in the book. She was so immersed, in fact, that she made a critical mistake:
She let her guard down.
"Buying Muggle literature from younger students? Miss Laurence, I didn't peg you as the type."
Eve froze.
She slowly tilted her head upwards from the pages of her book and looked at the owner of the voice, despite recognizing him the second the first word had escaped his lips. She didn't know how long he'd been standing there, watching her, but it was too late.
"What's this?" said Tom Riddle, tilting his head to stare at the cover of Eve's book. He was leaning against the bookshelf next to her, hands casually twirling his wand around. "The Life of Richard Llewellyn?"
"It's a fake cover." She felt like a deer in headlights. How much had he heard?
"Ah. Clever." He regarded her silently. He'd stop the wand-twirling—now he was still, almost in an unnatural manner. From the angle he stood at, the light from the nearby window hit only one side of his face, illuminating his sharp cheekbone and dark waves.
Eve swallowed. "How did you know I was here?"
"I usually study in the back of the library because there's no people and it's quiet." He didn't move. "So, when I heard two voices conversing with each other and disrupting my studying, of course I had to investigate."
"Oh. Okay." And that was when Eve started to panic, because she was in the back of the library with Tom Riddle, and they were a secluded corner, and they were all alone, and he'd just caught her red-handed with a Muggle book in her hand, and he had his wand in his hands, and what is he gonna do to me?
"My parents really liked Muggle literature," she blurted out. No doubt he'd heard her entire exchange with the Hufflepuff girl and was wondering why this previously-homeschooled pure-blood orphan had a Muggle novel as her favorite book. This was not supposed to happen. "They kept a lot of it in the house, so I picked it up and began to read Muggle books."
"I see."
"It's not something I just proclaim to people, due to the prevailing . . . beliefs of this time. You'd understand why I'd try to hide it."
"Of course."
"Yeah, so I just got really excited when I saw that Hufflepuff girl holding one of my favorite Muggle novels, and I bought it off her."
"That's understandable." He still hadn't moved, and Eve was beginning to get that itch she sometimes got that screamed at her to get out of there!
She smiled up at him. "So, that's that. I'll be going then." She stood up and shoved The Great Gatsby into her book bag. "Sorry to have disrupted your studying." And she didn't give him a chance to reply because she was already bolting away.
Her last thought as she flew past the library doors was At least he didn't catch me researching.
—
Luckily, Riddle didn't show up to lunch.
In fact, none of his future Death Eaters did, other than Avery.
Eve didn't know why, but she didn't really care. She was just glad that she didn't have to interact with Riddle.
"Hey Laurie, I gotta run."
Eve, still reeling from her encounter with Riddle in the library earlier, had to blink a few times before registering Avery's voice. She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. "Why?"
He gave an exaggerated sigh as he stood from the table. "Rosier promised he'd help me revise my Magic Theory essay, but he's making me leave lunch early."
"Ooh, okay. I'll see you later then."
Eve watched Avery bound away, before turning back around—and catching Abraxas staring at her strangely from across the table.
"Uh—can I help you?"
"Where did Laurie come from?" the blonde accused.
"I—what?"
"Avery's nickname for you."
"Oh—ummm. My last name, I guess. Laurence."
Abraxas furrowed his eyebrows, bringing a hand to his chin. "I want to find a unique nickname for you too." He looked to be deep in thought for a moment, before groaning and slumping his shoulders. "Eve is such a hard name to work with. I can't come up with anything. Ev? Evelyn?"
Eve cringed. "No."
Beside Eve, Kate had turned to face her. She opened her mouth, but Eve cut her off with another swift "No" before she could offer the nickname Eve knew she was going to offer.
"Aw, come on! Evie isn't that bad!"
"No."
Abraxas was still rattling off suggestions, which had all somehow morphed into random words that rhymed with or sounded similar to Eve. "Steve? Beef? Sleeve? Achieve? Teeth?"
Alphard paused mid-bite into his treacle tart to look over at his friend incredulously. "Are you writing poetry?"
"Shove off."
"Okay," started Sophie, looking at Abraxas from across the table, "but what about a nickname for you?"
"Abby," said Kate immediately, and Abraxas gaped in horror at the suggestion.
"NO."
"Brax?" offered Eve. "Abra? Abracadabra? Fitting for a wizard, dontcha think?" She wiggled her eyebrows at Abraxas, who looked like he was regretting ever bringing up the subject of nicknames.
"I like Abracadabra," said Sophie with faux-seriousness. She gave Eve a thumbs up from over Kate's head. "It's creative."
Eve took a mini bow. "Thank you."
Kate held up a hand, mirth shining in her eyes. "Okay, what about for Alphard? Alphie? Ralph?"
A disgruntled expression overtook Alphard's face, and he set down his spoon. "Definitely not," he grumbled. "That makes me sound like a middle aged man."
Kate ignored him. "Steve, Abracadabra, and Ralph." She ticked off the names on her hands, and then turned to Sophie. "Your turn."
"Can I pass?"
"No."
Abraxas mumbled a stream of brainstorming under his breath. "Sophie. . . . Soph. . . . Phie. . . . Feet!"
Eve had to stifle her laughter with her robes.
"Feet!" Kate exclaimed, ignoring Sophie's protests. "Steve, Abracadabra, Ralph, and Feet." She grinned, opening her arms wide. "My turn. Shoot 'em at me."
"Kat?" Alphard proposed.
"Katie?" Eve suggested.
"Kit?" Sophie offered.
There was a moment as stumped silence as everybody concentrated, and then—
"Clit!" cried Abraxas, wearing a genuinely proud expression on his face—until it was slapped off by a thick slice of bread, which had been thrown through the air by a now enraged-looking Kate.
It was like a scene straight from a horror film. Kate stood up, her hair buzzing with electricity as she loomed over a suddenly-cowering Abraxas. Between the bouts of hysterical laughter suddenly wracking through her body, Eve swore she saw flashes of lightning come down around them.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?"
"Nothing!" Abraxas spluttered, looking like he was fearing for his life. "That was a joke! A joke! Forget what I said!"
And Kate unleashed her inner demon onto poor Abraxas; and Eve, Sophie, and Alphard roared with laughter; and a few other Slytherins nearby glanced at the scene with alarm; and it was a good lunch.
—
Charms with the Ravenclaws found Eve and Sophie grouped up with Logan and Yoora to practice the Lumos Solem spell.
The Charms professor, Professor Orford, a tall, lanky man who wore ratty robes and bore the appearance of someone who'd slapped a whole container of pomade onto his hair, had handed out sunglasses to all the students at the beginning of the class for protection against the blinding light of the Lumos Solem spell, and now the entire classroom was filled with sunglass-donning students.
The spell had been, frankly, easy to cast—all four of the people in Eve's group had achieved the correct bursts of light from their wand tips not even ten minutes into class, as now they were just seated together on the seat cushions in the back corner of the room with nothing else to do.
"You know," muttered Yoora as she gazed through her sunglasses at Professor Orford, who was helping out another student at the front of the classroom. "I wonder how much Orford spends on hair pomade every year."
"Definitely more than how much he spends on his clothing," said Eve, and both Logan and Sophie nodded in assent. She quickly held up her hands. "Not that it's bad to wear patchy robes, of course." She thought of a certain Professor Lupin and ignored the quick pang in her heart that followed.
Yoora sighed, propping her chin on her knee as she observed their professor. "It's a shame he slathers so much pomade onto his hair. You know, I think he'd been a lot more attractive-looking if he just left it naturally."
Logan stared at his friend in what looked to be slight disbelief. "You think Orford's attractive?"
Yoora raised her hands defensively. "I just think that there's potential! He's tall, lean, and rather young—I think Lindsey Crockford said that he's in his late twenties. His face isn't bad, either. It's just . . ." She winced. "The hair."
From where she sat with her back against the corner of the wall, Sophie snapped her fingers, grinning. "Okay, but do you know which professor is attractive? Professor Greaves."
"Oh Merlin, yeah! Have you seen that face?"
"And that windswept hair!"
"And those broad, broad shoulders." Yoora sighed dreamily. "He could totally model for Winthrop's Wizardwear. You know, that shop in Diagon Alley that sells formal robes for wizards."
"Wait, who's Professor Greaves?" Eve interrupted, trying to keep up with the topic of conversation, while Logan looked on from the side in befuddlement.
Yoora stared at her in shock. "You don't know Professor Greaves? He's the Alchemy professor!"
"He's the one who sits at the very far edge of the High Table," supplied Sophie helpfully. "The one with the long, sandy hair who's always talking to Professor Seaver, the Ancient Studies professor."
"Oh!" Eve exclaimed, recognition flooding her brain. That professor was quite good-looking. "Professor Seaver is that young brunette woman, right?"
Yoora hummed in confirmation. "I think they're together. They're always talking in the halls too." She shrugged. "Honestly, good for her. And him."
"Lindsey Crockford did mention once that she saw Greaves and Seaver walking together to Hogsmeade," said Sophie slowly. "Alone."
"Can professors date?" wondered Eve aloud. "It's not against the rules or anything, right?"
Yoora frowned. "I don't think so." Her frown morphed into a giddy grin. "Ooh, what if they're really an item? That'd be so cute!"
"I always see him placing food on her plate during mealtimes too!"
"Really? I see him always smiling down at her when they're together in the hallways!"
"Maybe it's some sort of secret thing! Oh my gosh—what if they're gonna get married soon?"
"Okay guys," Logan interrupted, still looking a bit confused. Eve, Sophie, and Yoora all paused their fawning to look over at him. "Uh, I don't mean to ruin the image, but doesn't everyone know that Professor Greaves is already married?"
"What?!"
—
By the time Eve arrived in History of Magic, she was ready for the day to be over.
She already knew that it was going to be her least favorite class here—not only was the professor Professor Binns, but she couldn't even sit with Kate or Abraxas, the few friends she had in the class, who both happened to sit in the front of the classroom. The only upside to Binns placing her in the very back of the room, where the last available seat had been, was that she could at least nap in the class whenever she wanted to (although she could sit in the very front and do the same, and Binns probably wouldn't even notice).
Eve glanced at the clock on the wall and barely restrained herself from groaning out loud—they were only halfway through the class, despite the fact that it felt like a lifetime had passed since she'd entered the classroom. She slumped further onto her desk, tuning out Binn's droning voice as she discreetly peeked over at her deskmate.
She was a Gryffindor girl whose shoulder-length black hair was up in a haphazardly tied ponytail. Eve didn't catch her name—they'd only managed to shoot each other polite smiles when Eve had sat down before Binns had begun his lecture, essentially shutting down any chance of them becoming acquainted.
She sighed, feeling her eyelids start to strain against staying open. History of Magic just had that effect—she swore she'd never gone a single week without falling asleep even for a little bit in that class.
Eve was very nearly asleep when she heard a small gasp from her right.
"Is that The Great Gatsby?"
Eve's eyelids snapped open, and she shot upwards, immediately turning to her deskmate, who'd voiced the whisper. She was staring down at where Eve's bookbag lay on the floor, eyes wide. Eve followed her gaze, and—great. The Great Gatsby had visibly fallen halfway out of the bag, still open to the page that Eve had left on.
Her heart was pounding; she was prepared to spew the exact excuse she'd told Riddle back in the library earlier, when—
"I love that book!"
The black-haired girl was grinning widely at her, gesturing towards The Great Gatsby with an expression of delight. "It's one of my favorites!"
"I—really?" Eve didn't know if she was hallucinating or not.
"Yeah! Are you a Muggleborn too?"
Ohh.
Eve shoved aside the slight surprise she felt at how easily and casually her deskmate announced her blood status and gave her an apologetic smile. "No, I just really like Muggle fiction. My parents had a collection of it at home, so I was introduced to it as a kid."
Her deskmate nodded in acknowledgement, looking a bit disappointed. However, the spark in her eyes quickly returned, and she grinned again. "I'm Grace Taylor."
"I'm Eve Laurence," Eve offered.
"I know." Grace beamed. "You're in my Potions and Ancient Runes classes."
Eve raised her eyebrows. "I am?" She didn't recall seeing the Gryffindor in either of those classes.
"Yeah—we just don't sit by each other in either class. I sit next to your friend Abraxas in Potions, though." She stared at Eve's hair with unadulterated interest, already moving on to another topic. "Though I've wanted to tell you—your hair color is so cool. I've never seen any student with gray hair."
"Oh—thank you." Eve reached up to touch the gray strands, blinking to catch up with Grace's rapid transitions from topic to topic. "I inherited it from my mum." It was getting easier to tell the lies.
"Yeah, it's so cool. I think you've started something with it—other students are literally planning to charm their hair gray."
Eve blinked in surprise at that revelation. "Wha—seriously?"
"Well, I overheard a group of fifth-years talking about it in the Gryffindor Common Room," Grace explained. "Something about that 'new Slytherin seventh-year with the gray hair' and how they were gonna all copy the look." She smirked at Eve. "You're a trendsetter."
"Wow, I . . . I didn't know I was that influential."
Grace laughed. "Surprise?"
The class passed by infinitely faster when Eve was chatting with Grace. When the bell rang and she stepped out of the classroom, the rest of the day sped by as well:
She walked to the library, studied for two hours with the study group (and actually got work done), randomly walked around the castle for another hour with her friends, and made her way to dinner in the Great Hall, where—to her immense surprise and gratitude—Riddle didn't show up again. It must've been her lucky day—she didn't even care about Nott glaring at her all throughout dinner, which she surmised was a product of his bitterness at getting kicked out of her seat by Riddle in the morning.
"I'm off to the Quidditch pitch," Abraxas announced once dinner was over. He already had his broom—which he'd brought down to the Great Hall with him—in hand. "Gotta practice for the tryouts next week." He grinned brightly at Alphard. "You're coming to act as the Keeper and help me, right?"
Alphard only muttered something under his breath in response.
Next to Eve, Kate yawned widely. "I think I'm just gonna go back to the dorm and crash." She nudged Sophie, who sported a similar expression of tiredness. "You coming?"
"Yeah, me too. It's been a long day. Eve?" Both girls turned to stare at Eve.
"I actually promised Logan that we'd work on our Ancient Runes essay together in the library," Eve lied, and her two friends nodded in acknowledgement. "I'll be back soon though."
They split at the center of the Entrance Hall, with Abraxas and Alphard exiting the castle through the main oak doors, Kate and Sophie climbing down the narrow stone staircase on the side that reached the dungeons and the Slytherin Common Room, and Eve making her way through the corridor that led to the library.
Although all she wanted to do was follow Kate and Sophie back to their dorm and fall asleep, Eve forced her legs to take her to the doors of the Hogwarts Library. She'd already failed at researching earlier in the day; this time, she wasn't about to let herself leave the library until she at least cracked open a book and read something possibly useful.
She probably spent a whole ten minutes scouting the area around the Time bookshelves for Tom Riddle. She wouldn't make the same mistake that she did last time and let Riddle sneak up on her.
When she was satisfied that there indeed were no young Dark Lords in the vicinity, Eve grabbed Time Magic: A Record of Research off the shelf and settled down at an empty table. She flipped it open, determination coursing through her veins.
She had three hours before curfew, and she was going to make every second of those three hours count.
—
Fortunately, Eve did make every second of those three hours count.
Unfortunately, she still left the library with nothing.
It's not like I expected to find anything, she thought, trying to tamp down the disappointment that was currently rising in her throat. There were only ten minutes left before curfew, and she'd just left the library. It's only one day into researching, and I've only gone through one book.
Still, it was discouraging. Not only was getting through all the books she wanted to get through going to take a lot longer than she thought, but what guarantee was there that she'd find something that Dumbledore hadn't yet?
She sighed, stepping off the last stair of the stone staircase and into the long, main corridor of the dungeons. At this hour, there were barely any students outside of their respective common rooms—the hallways were all empty, and Eve found herself to be the only one in the corridor she was now in. With the fire pits along the walls—the only sources of light in the corridor—casting eerie shadows onto the stone floor and the general silence of the corridor itself, she couldn't help her heart from hammering a bit faster than normal against her chest as she moved forward. The sound of her lone footsteps seemed to echo louder than normal, and she tightened her robes around her body.
Why does the Slytherin Common Room have to be so far into the dungeons? she thought to herself as she quickened her pace, passing numerous alcoves and dark side corridors that branched off from the main one she was currently speeding through. Eve had never liked being alone in the dark—she suddenly had the urge to look behind her shoulder, but she resisted, knowing that doing so would only freak herself out more.
She was getting closer—two more turns, and then she'd be facing the entrance to the Common Room. She slowed down her steps and turned the corner.
And Tom Riddle stepped out from the shadows.
