Chapter 6: Life Doesn't Wait for You to Catch Up
Dear Overlo Fontius,
Next time you send fairytales, please select a more pleasant story.
With great disappointment,
Irene
Her quill plops into the inkwell with a splatter. With a lick and a pinch, Irene seals two letters destined for the Department of Mysteries—one for Fontius and the other for Evan. She pockets them to bring to the Owlery before her morning shift with Professor Merrythought.
There's a scalding heat that consumes her whenever she opens her core. Irene's grown accustomed to it throughout the long months of practice. It used to feel all-consuming—her body unused to magic—but now it soothes her into its dangerous lull. And perhaps that's the most unsettling part.
Irene breathes out as heat builds on the tips of her fingers. All of her focus centers on the string of dark runes that run the expanse of the artefact's base. It's the fourth and last item on her list for the day. Although she has another three waiting for her tomorrow.
Cold sweat trickles down her back—her heated body resisting the cooler temperature of the DADA classroom. The cursed piece is a magnificent statuette of a quilin that was anonymously gifted to the Ministry after the Supreme Mugwump incident in thirty-six. The secretary who opened the package touching the object immediately fell sick and was hospitalized until their eventual death only two days later. It was determined he was hit with a life-stealing curse—a terribly dark form of magic difficult to break. Since the incident, they've kept the artefact in the archives waiting till they found someone able to dispel the magic, afraid of causing more senseless deaths.
Magic swirls in ominous whisps of black smoke about the carved symbols, proof of mal magic meant only to harm, maim. Irene swallows.
Her hands hover over the runic pattern at the bottom. She doesn't touch it—it's much too risky to risk with particularly virulent curses, though her magic is usually quick to protect her. Silvery tendrils stretch from her fingers. With great care and caution, they grab and latch onto the smoke. Irene shivers, feels the bite of the magic seeping through her skin. It writhes, kicks and contends her in every pulse.
The sensation is always strange, as the heat of her core smothers the magic and a fullness settles in her gut. But when Irene looks down at her body, she can only see a faint outline of something inside her. She'd expect a large collection of magic energy, but it looks quite weak. A stark contrast to the abnormal heaviness she feels in her abdomen.
She returns to the quilin. The runes have lost their blackened tinge and Irene can see evidence of something else underneath. It's faint but incandescent in its glow almost reminding her of her own eyes. She leans in closer.
A rune?
Her eyes narrow. She doesn't think she's ever seen something like it. A sort of Chinese character perhaps? Maybe she could ask Professor Babbling next class if she has any information on Asian runes.
"Is something the matter, Miss Hill?"
Irene startles and leaps back from the voice. Professor Merrythought is once again hovering just over her. She swiftly pockets her hands. They tremble along with her pounding heart. She's too close.
"No. No. There's nothing wrong." Her magic leaks out from her in her own nervousness. Irene takes another step to widen the distance between her and the Professor, her hands fisting the fabric of her pockets like an anchor.
"Are you sure? You're looking a little pale, dear." Professor Merrythought's brows pinch in worry.
"Yes. Of course." She takes another step back, closing her eyes. Calm. Settle your magic. She breathes in and pulls her magic in tight. It's gradual, but the heat cools and her eyes blink back to their usual black hue. It's been months of practice, but she still would prefer her space when working. Confidence. That's what Evan said she lacked, but Irene doesn't think it's confidence she lacks. Her magic is inherently dangerous. If anything they should be less confident in her.
Irene exhales shakily. "Did Fontius say anything about what I can do? I mean I assumed, but I never asked."
The Professor frowns. "He didn't ask for your permission to tell me?"
She shakes her head.
Merrythought sighs. "Now that I remember who we are dealing with I don't see how he'd even consider such a thing," the words come out in an exhale. "Yes, Miss Hill. The inconsiderate nutter informed me of your magic absorption abilities."
Irene releases her tight hold over her robes. "I-I can control it better than before, but I still don't think it's safe." Her throat grows tight, she swallows. "If you could, um…."
"Give you space?" The Professor smiles understanding. "Of course, dear. Will that conclude your work for the day?" She leaves it at that.
She nods. "Yes, Professor. I'll be back tomorrow to finish the other half." With a swift thank you and have a good evening, Irene leaves the DADA class for the kitchens.
Irene's feeling a bit jumpy like her magic is writhing under her skin—an unwilling captive in its cage. Maybe yesterday's spell casting wasn't enough. But what's she supposed to do? Practice around the other students? That sounds like a bad idea, unless she plans on making a repeat of Lestrange who still sits in the infirmary with her bug appendages. Irene was right, no matter how much of a bigot the other child is, she still feels guilty for basically cursing the other.
She cards her fingers through her hair. She doesn't want to sit with her friends right now. Her heart's still pounding away in its cage, desperate and scared. Irene bites her lip. Nothing's happened, she needs to move on.
To calm down, she just needs to be alone.
Her feet pad down the corridors and stairs. The sconces hiss while drafts of wind breeze by. Flames flickering on the walls cause shadows to dance and twirl in the dim light. When she glances about, Irene notices the students' numbers have decreased as she nears the entrance of the castle. It appears that most vacate the Great Hall shortly after eating. Irene makes a note in case she needs privacy in the future. Loafers squeaking under her steps, she reaches the end of the corridor.
It's quiet. Her shoes are the only noise echoing off the empty stone hallway. Irene steps around the corner to the final stretch. It's dark she notes and looks at her feet.
Something large and dark skitters past.
Her heart jumps to her chest. She lunges back. The black figure speeds across the ground at an inhuman speed. She whirls around to track it. Her wand is out and drawn in a second. But there's nothing there.
The dim corridor empty, barren.
She points a Lumos into the dark corners of the hall. An ornate flag and suit of armor sit in the dead end—the only fixtures that could hide something as large as the shadow she glimpsed. Irene places her wand between her and the metal statue, approaching slowly with silent steps.
What if it's a creature from the forbidden forest?
The hairs on the back of her neck stand. God, why didn't Fontius put her in Care of Magical Creatures? Irene inches closer regardless, wand at the ready. "It's more likely to be someone's pet," she comforts herself.
"Cistem Aperio," Irene whispers.
A white light shoots from her wand and the armor bursts open, pieces clattering to the ground in loud clangs. She hesitantly looks into the suit.
There's nothing, just the hollow iron shin guards and shoes of the knight.
Irene glances side to side. Not a single shadow monster in sight. Her brows knot. She must be tired. With a sigh, she murmurs another spell to mend the fallen knight. The sound of iron clicking together rings through the empty hall accompanied by the crackling sconces. Her tense muscles relax, and she turns.
A dark mass stands towering over her.
Irene whips out her wand, a spell on her lips.
"Woah, woah there. Didn' mean ter startle yeh." The giant shadow backs up a few steps, hands out in surrender.
Irene recognizes the student robes belatedly. Her eyes trail up until her head is nearly leaning on her back to meet the other's face. "Hagrid?" She blinks.
"Er, yeah. Tha''d be me," the half-giant says sheepishly.
"Oh," she says absently while pocketing her weapon. "Um, sorry. We haven't met, have we?" Irene rubs the back of her neck while offering her hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Irene Hill, fifth year."
The giant beams. "I know. Heard 'bout yeh from me friends an' saw your sorting. Rubeus Hagrid, third year."
Third-year? Bloody Hell. She tries not to gape. "Any reason why you were right behind me?"
"Oh, er, yeah…." His eyes dart up and down and Irene thinks he's very fidgety for a Gryffindor. "Thought yeh might've need some help with tha' there suit o' armor since it was in pieces, yeh see. But it seems yeh got tha' righ' under control." He slaps a hand against Irene's back. The balls of her feet dig into the ground to keep her from sweeping off the floor.
Oh. How embarrassing he must've seen her spooked over nothing. "Yeah, just a little clumsy that's all. Thanks for trying to help though." She smiles to hide the pain her back is under. "Anyway, I should be going, still haven't had dinner and all that."
"Yeah, yeh do tha'. An' i'll jus, er, stay righ' here an' watch this knight fer yeh."
Irene blinks but doesn't make any further comment, hurrying off to the portrait to tickle the pear and enter the kitchen for a meal.
Weird.
With two and a half weeks into the term, Irene's starting to get into a pattern. She has morning breakfast with Iris and the company, classes where she sits by Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs—so far, the Slytherins and Ravenclaws are too intimidating to approach, especially the Slytherin boy who has a staring problem—and evenings back in the company of her house members.
Sure, she hasn't been the best student. Not for lack of trying, but between choosing terrible grades over cursed classmates, Irene's confident she's made the better choice. And sure, she's reasonably certain the pitying looks aren't just because of her parents anymore. But on the bright side their interest in her is dying off at an exponential rate now, which is helpful even if that also means the Slytherins consider her fair game.
Irene sends a Finite and a Scourgify at her shoes that had been hexed with an oozing spell. She breathes in and heads down the quiet corridor to the Vice Headmaster's office. No one ever heads down this way apparently. Something to do with the cursed classroom of a deceased professor? Rumors are that a man can be heard wailing at night. Irene's not sure if such reports are just rumors when there's magic involved and ghosts roaming about. But there's also one about a monster that crawls across the corridors at night, climbing the tapestries to attack unknowing students. That one Irene has her money on being fake.
It's probably a way to keep the students from breaking curfew. She pads down the hall quickly.
She's a bit early—well maybe a lot early with thirty minutes left between the agreed time—but she doubts Dumbledore will mind. He requested to speak with her before lunch and although she's not looking forward to it, she had at least expected it. She could only show such terrible results for so long until one of the teachers broke down and called her in—unspeakable apprentice or not.
As she nears the door, the sound of yelling pierces through, loud and unobstructed.
Irene freezes, hand reaching for the doorknob.
"—He's in pain, Albus! It's been six years! Six years of suffering and waiting for this so called 'cure.' Don't you care?" the voice is deep, powerful, and trembling. She can't tell if that's because of the anger she can hear in every word or the pain that ebbs in every space between.
Dumbledore starts, "that's why the Flamels have—"
Irene breathes in quiet shallow breaths.
"No!" A harsh thump bangs against wood. "No," he continues in a snarl, "you don't get to dictate this part of our life, this part of his life. This isn't a game, Albus. It's never been a game. Not then and not now." The words are said with such venom and sorrow that Irene very nearly considers leaving and giving some excuse to Dumbledore the next day.
Then with the hiss of a flame the room goes quiet, as if the other's presence had brought an intangible intensity with him.
"It's…not a game for me either, Brother," Dumbledore says in a whisper.
Irene drops her hovering hand to her side. If she goes in now, he'll know she heard everything, and doesn't everyone deserve their own privacy? She swallows and slowly slumps to the ground to sit. She can wait fifteen minutes before walking in. So instead, she thinks about the rest of the day's schedule in the silence of the haunted corridor.
When enough time has passed, Irene knocks.
"Miss Hill," Dumbledore opens the door and gestures to the seat in front of his desk. "Thank you for coming. Lemon drop?" He pops open the container of candies and plucks one out for himself.
Irene stares at the brightly colored tin. "Uh, sure?"
He drops one into her palm and she plops it into her mouth. Her lips pucker instantly; it isn't terrible, maybe just a little anticlimactic.
"A tad too sour for your tastes, I presume?" He chuckles, but the laughter is too quiet to be genial, too painful to be amused.
Irene nods, ignoring that. "May I ask why I've been called in, sir?" She sucks at the candy trying to smother the sour out of it.
"Yes. I'm afraid it's related to your performance in class." He sighs and she can see the fine lines that are already beginning to carve themselves in the creases of his forehead and eyes. "You've been among the last to perform your transfigurations properly for the past two weeks. I believed it to be nerves, but perhaps there is something else bothering you?"
And he couldn't be any more correct. Irene had never thought of what it'd be like to perform new magic in a room full of children. At the DoM it didn't matter if her magic backfired or caused an explosion, with everyone used to such accidents a Protego could be cast in a second's notice—not to mention the multiple safety wards in place. But here? She grimaces.
What if she accidentally sets her classmates aflame?
"I'm not great at controlling my magic, sir," she admits a bit sheepishly.
"Ah, yes…the incident at the beginning of term. A curious case—a transfiguration made nearly inextricable from its new form. Miss Lestrange, was it?" Dumbledore massages his chin, brushing into the short beard he sports. "I can understand your resistance to performing spells, but please do not reject your magic. There can be dire consequences."
Irene nods and thinks about Ariana, Aberforth, and Albus. If she had a sister, could she forgive her other sibling if he was responsible for her death?
"Perhaps you'd do better with a tutor then." He considers, clasping his hands together. "I've already assigned the other students that are struggling with one. Would you be comfortable with that?"
She taps her fingers against her lap in thought. It wouldn't be a terrible idea. Like working with the unspeakables, Evan's help had proved irreplaceable. But it hasn't even been a month, there's still time for improvement. And she doesn't want to bother anyone when she could possibly help herself.
"I think I'd like to wait another week or two, sir. See if I can fix the problem myself." Irene smiles.
Dumbledore nods. "I understand, my dear child. But do not be afraid to ask. There is no shame in it." He smiles and stands from his desk. "Now then, I believe lunch will start in another fifteen minutes. If you want to save a spot for your friends, you should hurry on your way."
She bows with a thank you and leaves for the hallway to the Great Hall. It's lunch so there's a chance she'll get a letter from Evan. Ever since the incident with the Slytherins he's been sending more and more books on self-defense magic, and even a few on muggle self-defense. What does he think she needs to be prepared for—a war? She shakes her head and opens the doors to the Great Hall.
Iris's curly hair acts as a beacon while she winds passed the other students crowding in and to the fifth-year Gryffindor. She plops in the empty seat next to her.
"Irene! How'd everything go with that silver fox?" Iris's smile is a mocking smirk.
"Ugh," Irene doesn't even deign her with a retort. "We talked about my terrible performance and possible tutorship in the near future if I continue to fail." She sighs.
"Oh dear." Lillian blinks. "You might be settled with Minerva the spartan."
Irene grimaces. God, she hopes not.
It's only when she's about finished with her meal that the letter comes.
Screech!
Irene groans. When she looks up the glaring rays of the afternoon sun accost her eyes in their offensive brightness. Her hand shrouds her from the light. She would recognize that owl's screech anywhere. The bird swoops forward and lands on Evelyn's plate, spilling porridge all over her robes. Irene winces.
She raises her wand and performs a Scourgify. "Sorry about that."
Evelyn doesn't say anything, just stares at the owl in front of her. Its feathers are raised and enormous mouth open in a display of dominance. It must be Evelyn's hairstyle today. She'd taken to piling it atop her head with loose curls dangling like worms.
"Now Aki, that's no way to act," Irene chides.
Aki ruffles his feathers, menacingly narrowing his eyes at Evelyn before taking measured steps toward Irene.
"That's an owl?" Edmund is looking at it with an expression twisted in both fear and interest.
"Yeah, I think Fontius called him a Pooto. Or maybe it was Potoo? I do remember that Aki's from South America though."
Aki turns his head in that sharp creepy way that owls do and glares at Edmund while holding his foot out for Irene. She sighs and unties the letter attached to his leg. "Oh, does anyone have any owl treats? I left mine in my trunk."
Graham rustles around in his pockets. "Here." He hands Irene a small treat.
She thanks him and feeds Aki, making sure not to get too close to his mouth lest he decide he'd much prefer to be a snapping turtle. "Thanks, boy." Before her hand can pat his head, Aki lunges at her, beak clapping. Irene pulls her hand away. "Okay, okay." The bird puffs out its chest then screeches once before lifting off. Like father, like son.
Irene sighs. It's been three weeks since she sent her letter to Fontius. If anything, this must be regarding her work rather than that awful short story. Irene tries to open the letter.
"Ouch!"
She lets go—a stinging sensation burning at the tips of her finger. The letter flutters onto her lap flipping over to show its back.
"To, Irene," it reads, "read in the privacy of your own room."
"Barmy tosser," she curses under her breath. Stuffing the hexed letter into her pocket, Irene shoves the last bit of soup in her mouth. With her bowl empty, she stands from the bench. "Sorry, have to read this in private." She speeds off to the seventh floor and Gryffindor dorms.
When she's kicked off her shoes and spelled the door closed, Irene hops on her bed digging out the letter. She opens it.
"To Miss Hill,
I am disappointed the value of the story was deaf on your ears. I fear that we may need to place you in modern literature courses to increase your reading comprehension. But I believe we can discuss such matters later.
In regard to the fairytale—which you so inaccurately deemed it—in my opinion the moral of the story wasn't as important as the tale itself. A boy with the power to access another's magic. Marvelous, isn't it? Such an extraordinary power. Although a work of fiction, I believe this is what we were looking for regarding our current research project. Evan has already begun research. Please do discuss this with Galatea. I am sure she would find it absolutely fascinating.
Please do raise you grades,
Flavian Aurelias Dante Fontius
P.S.
If you are seeing this, that means the privacy spell was activated. The hex attached to the envelope is a simple stinging curse. The effects will recede in an hour. I should remind you that our correspondence is to be conducted in private."
Of course, Fontius would do that. She's not even surprised.
Irene reads it one more time and then thinks the letter's three weeks late. A bit strange, that. She folds the letter and then lights it with an Incendio. Fontius had strict orders to destroy any correspondence regarding her abilities, and although she thinks it's a little paranoid, she sets it aflame without question. Maybe someone's intercepting our letters? Ha, sounds like the paranoia is contagious. It burns bright until nothing, but ashes are left. She vanishes the pile and scoots off the bed.
Opening her trunk, she rustles through the various items she's hoarded within the expanse of it. Rough grained wood catches against her oversensitive fingers and she hisses. Irene grips the container carefully and presses the hidden button beneath—her savings bin now a jewelry box. The scorched and chipped jade bracelet she was wearing during the accident sits at the top of the satin-lined box. She pushes it to the side and searches for the necklace.
Knock. Knock.
"Irene? Are you done in there? I forgot my notes." It sounds like Blythe.
"One second." Irene pulls out the gold necklace and shuts her antique lock box. Stowed safely away, she closes her trunk and spells the door open.
Blythe opens the door making a beeline to her desk. After finding her journal, she turns round to face Irene. "Heading to the library?"
"Yeah." Her fingers fumble on the tiny clasp, the burning sensation making her more clumsy than usual. "Do you mind helping me with this?"
Blythe sets her books down, walking over and gesturing for Irene to spin round. She does and Blythe gently grabs the clasps and hooks the necklace.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." Blythe smiles, but then tilts her head looking at the necklace. "Is this from Asia? It looks familiar. I might have seen something similar while I was on vacation in Beijing."
"Oh, I'm not entirely sure where it's from." Irene allows her palms to brush against the delicate metal that weaves across her collar interlaced with gentle jade accents. It cools the burning of her fingers. "It was my mother's. I never got to ask where my father got it." She tugs at her shirt's collar and drops the necklace inside. The cold sensation of it gradually warms to her body's temperature.
"You know, I never got to say this earlier, but I'm sorry for your loss Irene." Blythe gives her an apologetic smile and it's much too knowing, too sympathetic. "I might not understand what exactly you are going through, but I lost my father four years ago. With how Gryffindors are I'm honestly surprised he lived to hit his fifties." She chuckles a little sadly. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here as are a lot of other students. War is never merciful."
Irene smiles back. She's grateful for the support she's found throughout this. Even if it can't heal the wounds, it makes it easier to bear the ache of it.
Dusk comes to pass and evening ushers in. The halls fill with shadows banished by the barest light that flickers from the sconces hammered to the stone walls. But their light is meager at most and so, like wraiths, the dark trembles and twists in the corners and crevasses of the winding corridors and empty chambers.
Tom walks the silent passageways. There's a certain quiet to the Hogwarts' castle at night. Footsteps and chatter carry in whispers rather than in raucous echoes as if the very walls are urging their occupants to sleep. He prefers this side of the castle; laced with ancient magic, it almost seems to breathe with life.
Coming back year after year is a strange feeling. Tom has never felt strongly but what he does feel carves its mark on him. In the four years here, Hogwarts has become a place to return to, a place to call his home. It's a foreign thing—to belong—to sense that this is where one's meant to be. Tom cannot remember ever having such notions, not in the arms of the nursemaids nor within the walls of the orphanage. He'd always had one foot out the door, and no one had told him to not do so otherwise. But being here, he finds himself fighting tooth and nail just to stay, belong. And along the way, it has made him understand what it means to be powerless, and to have power.
Banished and stripped, every summer he returns to his stagnant life as a muggle removed from all magic. There, there is nothing but war and fear. Palpable in the anxious minds of the weak and feeble that cloud and pollute the air. There, there is nothing but prayers and hope for the helpless. They scramble and hide, cry and wail, sleep in bomb shelters and wait for destruction while death whispers and coos at the faint of heart—ready to reap, ready to take. Nothing but animals with no reign over their own existence.
And Tom, despite all his resistance, feels the desperation, the helplessness. Feels the shadowy corners of his consciousness that tremble in fright with every quake of the ground from the destruction raining over London. He curses his own mortality. He curses his own powerlessness.
This ruin, it's revolting in its destruction of the mind.
His path leads him to a dead end. But yet there's a ringing of something, loud and panicked—human—on the edge of his consciousness. What he thought was a curse as a child has become his greatest weapon. His bleached wand slips down his sleeve. He rolls it twice round, points it, and senses the sting of panic.
"Homenum Revelio," Tom whispers.
An outline forms and eventually color fills where there once was nothing but stone. It's a fourth-year student, short and round, hair curled in obnoxious ringlets. "Catherine Frimley,"his mind supplies. Must be out to meet someone.
Not that Tom cares. Although he savors the anxious panic that all but oozes from the girl. He glances at the student's tie.
"Ten points from Gryffindor for being out passed hours." He sighs in a mockery of disappointment he does not feel. "I expect you can make it back to your dorm without assistance?" He carefully taps his wand against his leg. "If I spot you again, and I will find you if you decide to continue wandering about, it will be double points deducted."
It's a lie of course.
He has no desire to invest time and effort into thwarting some hormonal teenager's advances and could care less if the girl was out and about, as long as she doesn't get in his way. But nevertheless, the girl swallows, pulse heightened and lips quivering.
There's fear there, in the hastened breaths and fidgety hands. He can feel it brush against the back of his mind in anxious shivers. It sends a pang of satisfaction down Tom's spine to know that he's caused it, that he holds such reigns over another. His lip twitches, and he offers his most charming smile.
And at that note, the girl blushes and nods to scurry off back to her dorms. The speed is reminiscent of the other Gryffindor he'd helped little over a month ago. Tom tilts his head, wondering if all Gryffindors are as skittish as colts.
With a pivot of his heels, he makes for the lower chambers. He'll search there before turning in for the night. So far, during his two months of perusing the castle at night he's noticed several differences from the daytime. There are only a few of consequence. One being the shifting staircases, two being the active states of the portraits, and three being the remarkable lack of oversight the teachers have on the prefects. It seems that once lights out is called the teachers care little for what the prefects do, believing they're exemplary examples and will never betray their responsibilities.
Foolish.
But, opportune.
Tom passes the Great Hall and reminds himself to check in with Nott regarding the transfer student. It could very well slip his mind with his interest waning day by day.
Miss Irene Hill has become somewhat of a disappointment. With her dwindling results in classes and failure to perform even the simplest of spells, Tom wonders how she even manages to manipulate her own magic at all. Or perhaps she is incapable, which truly is a marvel of its own—to not have the slightest control after seven or more years of holding it.
It's a pitiful sight to see the teachers struggle to criticize her terrible performance all due in part to her enigmatic position in the Department of Mysteries. For all they know she could be a glorified pencil pusher. But still in its own way it brings a form of dark amusement to him. To think the teachers would bend to a mudblood.
Well, she is decent at Arithmancy and DADA. So perhaps some of the rumors are true and perhaps that's what allows the little respect that is left to last. She could very well be a savant as her mental faculties are lacking in nearly every other department.
But then Tom remembers the incident in the courtyard—the strange pulling sensation he'd felt after touching the transfer student as if her magic had latched onto his.
His fingers twitch. There's a rush of excitement, an intoxicating flush of curiosity. The delectable satisfaction of seeing Renee Lestrange lying there broken in hysterical sobs as her limbs cracked and clicked like the disgusting bug she is, was unparalleled, unforgettable. Looking into her eyes, Tom could sense the guttural terror that tore through her mind, that brought her to her knees, and oh, and how satisfying was that fear.
If he'd stepped in to reap a little petty revenge, well, only Tom would know that.
Lestrange and Carrow, the two trollops. He remembers his first year at Hogwarts in an unforgettable picture book; days and months that served to remind him what it meant to start at the bottom. "Charity case, urchin, bastard, mudblood," they'd called him—the two girls being some of his most staunch castigators. Yet by year three, when his superiority came to surface through his consecutive hold of first-rank student, they'd all but fell at his feet—eyes holding a lustful want that drew nothing but revulsion in Tom.
It reminds him of Wool's.
If Miss Hill is right about one thing, they aren't much different than those loathsome, disgusting muggles.
Tom sighs. He's almost certain that Nott's inquiries into Hill's work will end in disappointment or mild surprise on his end, but it's better to be thorough.
He finishes his rounds and heads for the Slytherin dorms. His hands rest behind his back as his loafers clack against stone, prefect bag glinting in the lowlight of the sconces.
As it's now well into term, it's time to start his gatherings. With the loose guard of the castle at night, Tom knows the ideal times to arrange his knights to meet and just where to hold them. The prophet has given him information regarding the war with Grindelwald but information from the Rosiers would be more reliable.
There's also the matter of his lineage. With access to the library's restricted section, he should be able to locate the magical ancestry he's from. Though he's certain of his wizard ancestry—parseltongue being the uncommon ability it is—there's still the matter of where exactly he is in the line.
And that may decide how easy his gradual takeover of Slytherin house will be.
It's been a long time coming—each step forward made with the cautious planning of weeks to months in the making. Only now can he truly see the progress he's made. His freedom, his followers, and their blind trust. Almost untouchable, almost.
But almost is not enough.
This pittance of reverence from Slytherin, from the professors—to separate him from his lessers—is not enough. To all those outside his loyal followers, he's still the brilliant and talented muggle-born in the house of snakes.
Achievements, ability, power. He has them and will only secure more to his name in the future. Already performing higher than any other student of his age, second in his year cannot come even close to his results.
However, Abraxas Malfoy sits as his equal at the top of Slytherin house.
Wealth, status, lineage. The spoils Malfoy sits atop and will only hoard more as time passes. To the prideful and cunning house of Salazar Slytherin, they carry a weight equal to what Tom holds as his own, as it's not enough alone.
Don't they understand? Don't they see that status and wealth come with power? That prestige is something gained not given? Tom is no muggle-born, no simple mudblood.
He is and will always be more, even if he needs to shed his name to prove so.
Marvolo. The name is unusual, unique and can be nothing other than magical in origin. Tom breathes out and announces the password to the Slytherin common room. His face relaxes into the calm mask he carries as his constant and with an air of control he opens the door.
Tomorrow he will check the library's restricted section for more information on his lineage.
Notes:
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