Chapter 7: Bonds Wanted and Unwanted
It's not unbelievable but perhaps surprising. The glass container sparkles and disperses the light from the sun. Afternoon sheds its unfettered rays through the arches of the stone logia. Stray beams of lilac and magenta diffuse against the clear crystal, bouncing and glistening off colorful opaque candies. Sea glass is what her mom called it. Irene hopes Iris will like it. Her fingers fiddle over glass. She's nervous.
Having friends is something new, a bit foreign but welcome. The memories of the 'other' her attending movie premiers and events with others are familiar. So, she knows what it's supposed to be like. Yet, she can't stop the nervous flutters of her heart's beats. It's not like with Evan, who's older—more like an elder sibling if anything. Having someone closer in age makes Irene feel all the more inexperienced.
She settles the bottle atop her palm. Hopefully Iris appreciates them.
"Carpe Retractum." The jar of candies is snatched away from her and into the hands of a fellow fifth year. And it's not a surprise that he's a Slytherin.
Irene sometimes regrets making such a public scene against Lestrange.
Davies's face pinches in confusion. "What's this? Glass in a bottle?" He chuckles. "You must be more stupid than rumored." He tosses the container in the air, once, twice.
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. He's at the bottom of their year alongside her. Irene's finger twitches with the need to spell a curse at the git. She props herself off the wall and crosses her arms. "I think the only intelligence that should be under scrutiny is yours. Give it back, Davies." She holds out her hand.
"You could ask nicely, you know." He licks his lips, and something about the action sets her on edge.
"Please, could you return it to me," she manages to say without any irritation, but the monotonous nature of her voice pisses him right off even more.
"Is that the best you can do?" He leers at her, eyes tracing her body, and suddenly the lip licking makes sense.
"Yeah." She grimaces unable to hide the disgust. "So just give it back already,"
"No, I don't think I'll do that, Hill." He throws the jar into the air, higher this time as the sun's light refracts against its spinning colors. But this time, he makes no attempt to catch the bottle.
It hurtles to the floor.
"Immobulus."
The bottle freezes and behind Davies is Iris. "Prat," she hisses. She kicks his ankle before stepping around him to grab the glass container.
"Cow," he grumbles through gritted teeth while clutching his foot.
"Get lost, Davies. Before you get yourself a free trip to the hospital wing." Iris sighs and just shakes her head as he gets up to scurry away. "Goodness, it never ceases to amaze me how persistent these idiots can be." She hands the bottle to Irene.
"Thanks." Irene smiles and Iris returns it. The two begin walking down the corridor. Irene inspects the bottle for any defects while Iris stares out at the courtyard.
If it weren't for her, Irene is sure she would've wound up in the hospital wing a few times herself. Even now, as Iris walks her to the library, she knows that she's there to keep her safe and away from any undesirables that would want to attack her.
"I'm guessing that was the business that had you in the kitchen. So, what are those then, if not glass?" Iris asks.
"Some sea glass candy. The elves let me borrow some sugar, lemon, and corn syrup. Even gave me some edible flowers too. That helped with the color." She hands it to Iris.
She takes it and turns it round in her palm, looking at the collection of pinks and greens in the bottle. "You cook?"
"A little. I had to help my mum around the house and eventually fix meals for myself. But, what about you?"
"Never. My pureblood parents seem to think they're above it." Iris shrugs and holds it out to hand it back.
Irene opens the doors to the castle and shakes her head. With all that Iris has done for her, even in this small gesture she wishes that some of her appreciation can be conveyed. "I made those for you. I'm glad Davies didn't ruin it."
"Oh." She looks a bit taken aback, maybe hesitant, and Irene can't help but think she may have overstepped.
"Sorry, a bit heavy, isn't it?" she splutters. "You don't have to—"
"Relax. I'm thankful, really." Iris brushes her fingers through her mess of curly hair. Her cheeks are a faint dusting of pink. "It's just, you know, I'm a bit blunter than most prefer. I'm shocked you've tolerated me thus far."
Irene only cocks her head. Sure, Iris is prickly like a pin cushion, but she's not a bad person. That's proof enough in the fact she's stuck by her side despite the trouble with the other purebloods.
Iris snorts through her nose. "Yeah, I guess you're not the type to care about that. Anyway thanks, Irene. Mind if I have one right now?"
"Not at all." She hums as Iris twists the cap off and grabs a pink peony glass candy to pop in her mouth.
"Oh, these aren't half bad."
"Yeah, I know." She smiles cockily. "House elves are geniuses. I never considered adding flowers before."
It's only a few more passages until they arrive at the library doors. Iris makes a quick getaway not wanting to meet with Minerva and it's a bit weird how the two avoid each other like the plague. Maybe they have some type of grudge against each other, or even more likely they are just complete and total opposites.
Irene sighs into the table. God, why have you forsaken me? Parchment crunches and her ink bottle gyrates until her frustrated stretching stills. Maybe it's because I'm a witch?
"Are you done, Irene?" Minerva has the audacity to look affronted when she's the one who had spent the last two hours force-feeding Irene information.
"Yes." Irene lowers her head. And she's thankful for Minerva's help, really. If the teachers didn't saddle her with the second-ranked student, she'd be doomed to face their never-ending scrutiny till the end of her three-year enrollment. Still, it sucks to tag on tutoring to her already endless schedule almost two months into the school year. Maybe she should ask Evan to send some Pepper-ups her way.
"You see it now, right? I'm a lost cause, just let me fail. Expulsion would be a mercy at this point." Her twelve-inch parchment for Astronomy on star signs glares at her. It's a horrible thing these wizards and witches have created. Who would have thought to combine astrology and astronomy in one horrible, chaotic class? These people, that's who. And Merlin, it's just as incomprehensive as it sounds. Spiritualism mixed with science?
Kill her now.
"I understand that the more…intuitive areas of Astronomy…and Transfiguration and Charms…and Potions—" Minerva massages the point between her brows, "—do not come naturally to you. But I am apt to believe that is due to your spotty background with theory. It's like you went straight through practical applications and skipped everything else. Godric, what sort of enclave did you grow up in?" She gathers the books they've accumulated from the library shelves and with a flick of her wrist they begin the trip back to their respective homes.
She stares up at Minerva. "One that prioritized survival," she mutters. Irene bets that if she had to deal with daily, deadly explosions at her work she'd prioritize defensive magic over theory. But a small part of Irene wishes she didn't choose short-term memorization over long-term knowledge. "Anyway, tell me flatly, how bad is the damage?"
Minerva sighs and slumps into the seat beside Irene. "Truthfully?"
She nods.
"You aren't nearly as terrible as the teachers warned. Perhaps it's their expectations of someone in your particularsituation that makes them so critical of your performance." She crosses her arms in thought. "With some extra studying over the basics I believe we can change your below average performance in charms and potions to above average in no time. Though I can't say much for Transfiguration or Astronomy. Why don't we just focus on your career goals, that way we can work towards those O.W.L.s? I don't know what occupation you're aiming for."
Her lips form a grimace. Irene doesn't know either. "Maybe curse-breaking?" It's going well for her so far.
Minerva's face twitches. She breathes out, slow and calming. "At least you have the Arithmancy grades to give us a better start."
And with Irene's thoughtless decision, Minerva starts her long-winded speech regarding the difficulties of passing O.W.L.s required of curse-breakers as they leave their sequestered corner.
When Irene threads past the aisle, she catches a glimpse of wavy black hair peeking from behind a book titled, Rare and Riveting Inherited Magicks. She stares at the heading and then turns back to Minerva. She's prattling on about the importance of improving her transfiguration skill, but all Irene can think about is the book Riddle's holding. Bloody Hell. Has he already figured out his parseltongue relation to Salazar Slytherin? She swallows and stumbles alongside Minerva.
What if the Chamber is supposed to open this year? There are only three years left for him to murder a muggle-born student and then his muggle family. God. She wishes her 'other' self was more obsessive over the Harry Potter series rather than fantasy in general.
"—so we'll have to start from Gamps and continue to," Minerva stops walking abruptly.
Irene blinks at her dazedly.
"I think I've cooked your brain, Hill." She sighs and shakes her head. "We can discuss the matter further when we start the next tutoring session." Minerva shakes her head, and they continue onward.
Irene follows, mindlessly.
Her stomach sinks, dread settling in. It's an easy thing to forget this danger that sits on the horizon. Unlike the starvation she faced after her mother's death or the fear of not making rent for the store and apartment, it's not nearly as personal, as eminent. Her 'other' memories from the novel seem so far removed at times, like a picture book she reads occasionally marveling at the parallels it makes to her life. Irene rarely thinks of them unless she's upset with the inconvenience of her current life. And with the currently very alive state of Myrtle Warren, the uproar of Hagrid's weekly detentions, and Tom Riddle's utter normalcy, she's felt safe and secure in her own ignorance.
Irene grimaces. That should probably tell her something about what type of person she is. Stuck in thought, she barrels face first into something hard.
She bounces off and stumbles back, but before she can hit the ground a firm support wraps—wait wraps?—around her waist. Irene blinks up.
The angular face of a man—er boy? Merlin he's huge, not as big as Hagrid but still—is staring back at her with his dark blue eyes and honey colored hair. Bright rouge pinkens the skin across his cheeks. His hand smooths up her waist. The skin on her back breaks into a cold sweat. She pushes away from him.
"Cadwallader." Minerva bows her head in greeting.
"M-Minerva." He mirrors the same action.
Irene smooths out her robes. "Sorry for bumping into you. Um, Cadwallader?"
"Oh, n-no. That was my mistake. I should've said something before ste-stepping in your way." He scratches the side of his head.
"Still as clumsy as ever outside the pitch," Minerva shakes her head.
His face pinches apologetically. "Sorry," he stutters into a bow. "Idris C-Cadwallader." His hand is poised and offered.
"Irene Hill." Irene places hers in his and bites back a face as he kisses her knuckles. "Thank you for catching me." She bows and then steps around him.
Cadwallader blocks her way.
She frowns.
"S-sorry," he quickly says. His shoulders are pointing inward. Timid despite his overwhelming bulk. "It's just, um, I wanted to-well." He glances at Minerva then away. "During the weekend, I know you're busy with your work and all. A-and I don't want to be a bother, but if you have the t-time, I wanted to ask—" his breath catches in the midst of his fumbling, and he swallows before restarting "—would you j-join me at Hogsmeade this weekend?"
That's right, this weekend is the first Hogsmeade trip. And isn't that a mystery. Time seems to pass in—
Irene's brows skyrocket to her hair line. "You're asking me on a date?" she says incredulously. Her brain stops functioning for a second. Thoughts of whatever she was stuck on slip away as she reboots.
Cadwallader winces.
Minerva pinches Irene's elbow with a glare.
"Ow!" Irene frowns, but then sees Cadwallader's downcast face. Huh. She blinks. Oh. "Uh, sorry. I don't have work since it's a holiday—you know Samhain and Halloween and all. I'm just surprised someone asked me to Hogsmeade, honestly. Thought that would never happen to tell you the truth."
Minerva is looking at her like she's some idiot.
Irene ignores that. "We don't really know each other though. Is that alright?"
"I'd be d-delighted to get to know you, Miss Hill." Cadwallader smiles, lips pulled up so high his eyes narrow into half-moons.
And isn't that adorable? "Sure, why not then?" She shrugs. It'll be nice to spend her free time with someone else.
It's at the end of classes when they've filtered out of the Great Hall that Tom heads to the seventh floor. He has a meeting with the Knights of Walpurgis tonight. He casts a wordless and wandless notice-me-not before heading to the corridor with the tapestry. It's eternally empty in this area of the castle. He worries for the curiosity of the other students. Do they not think the castle may hold secrets lost to time?
The door appears just as Tom wanders past the hall. His knights have already prepared the room for him. He makes his appearance, two hands pushing through the iron doors in a grand entrance. They lower their heads not looking up and stand from their chairs waiting for Tom to take his seat.
His robes billow past them as he leisurely settles into his chair. "You may sit," he allows, "we have much to discuss."
And in a single sentence, they all lower themselves around the round table, flanking Tom at his side.
"My Lord," Lestrange bows his head in deference. Unlike the rest, Renatus joined them last year. His loyalties are held through merit and ability, proof that Tom's achievements have reaped some success, but as someone that failed to see his value at the beginning he sits in the farthest seat from Tom. "I have secured several books regarding Slytherin's line as you requested." He floats the tomes over to Tom and remains seated at the table. Impatience glints in his eyes. The need to have Tom confirm what they all believe lurks in between Lestrange's words.
Tonight, they've forgone their usual dueling to discuss matters, political and magical in nature. Which means the results of their various investigations should shed light on a few matters. The room has mirrored Tom's desires in the ornate and regal design of a king's war room. Gonfalon flags line the oval shaped chamber while they sit around the table seated in the center. Flames crackle and dance casting the walls and floors in verdant green. Tom's chair shadows the light at the head of the table while his knights look to him for guidance.
"As tasked, I have also ordered the spell books you requested. They will arrive within the next month as delivery will depend on our smuggling routes," he continues. Lestrange must be festering inside restlessly as he now must bow to a mudblood. Tom can only sense faint pulses of impatience—courtesy of the pureblood's experience in the Mind Arts—but it's enough to read through his calm façade.
Perhaps he should put Lestrange in his place before he comes upon any distasteful ideas. Afterall, there is no room for disloyal thoughts among his followers.
"And you Rosier?" Tom asks.
Jacques Rosier waves his wand and several chest pieces positioned on the map at the center of the table shift about. He sits to Tom's right. Where he belongs and where he will stay for as long as he remains the most competent of the group. Even now his mind is quiet. His temperament is even, unchanging, similar to Tom in ways that almost make them inhuman.
"Grindelwald has gained control over the Ministry in Greece. Newly appointed Undersecretary Alecto Hasapis was captured by the press wearing this watch since attending the Swiss' Commonwealth of Ministries Convention in early spring."
He slides a photograph to Tom. A tan, brown-haired man stands atop a platform waving to his supporters as he campaigns. On his wrist sits a metal watch of sophisticated design. The Dark Lord's forces grow more powerful with every tick of time passing. It places quite the damper on Tom's future plans. His hand taps in trills across the old wooden table.
"We believe it's the work of a renowned horologist, Aeon Hahn, who resides in Germany. Grindelwald has been caught frequenting his place of business. Upon further investigation into bank records and past movements, we believe the current Minister of the Greece is a figurehead."
Tom slides the photo back to Rosier. The only equal to Grindelwald regrettably is Dumbledore, and the cowardly lion sees it fit to stay hidden away in the safety of Hogwarts. "Avery?" He allows himself to rest onto his palm, his other hand still rapping against the table.
"Unlike his elder cousin, courtship with Orion Black has been fruitful." Dominicus Avery says.
Tom easily feels the tense anxiety that lingers under Avery's thin Occlumency. If he must be honest, Avery is the least magically impressive member out of his five knights. He's only talented at being brutish. Only fit to be a bully before Tom offered purpose to him. As the least difficult to subdue, simple power had shown Avery that any further 'attempts' against Tom would end with a more permanent solution to their disagreements.
"He's expressed interest in joining our 'dueling club.' As for Abraxas, I advise waiting until the results concerning your lineage are within your grasp. Malfoys are foolishly prideful and it is in my current belief that he finds his own name to be the crux of pow—"
"Oscausi," Tom hisses.
The violet spell rolls over Avery—his mouth no longer there, only skin in its place.
"If you cannot mind your own words then perhaps silence would be more fitting, Avery." Tom's eyes narrow dangerously. "You shall postpone any additional recruitment conversations regarding the knights until further order."
Avery lowers his head.
"Now Nott." His frigid tone cools into one of indifference. "What can you tell me of the transfer student?"
All knights swiftly shift their attention away from Avery, not wishing to invoke further anger from Tom. However, Amedeo Mulciber is staring at Nott with an intensity he's only seen in flashes. Tom refrains from focusing his attention on the mind of a madman.
Nott—the meek thing he is—withdraws documents from his pouch, alongside a roll of parchment. His fear is always so terribly palpable in the air. A sour note that only befits inferior men. "Irene On Hill, muggle-born witch born in Pennyfields, London to an unnamed Asian migrant worker and a muggle named Grace Elizabeth Hill." He gathers them and presents them to Tom with a bow. "I…I admit it was difficult to acquire any information regarding Hill. Muggle educational records, coven registration information, and even medical records were partially found or not at all."
With a flick of his wrist, Tom sends a vanishing spell at Nott's chair. As his knight tumbles to the ground, he quickly prostrates himself.
Tom rises from his chair. "You disappoint me, Nott. Unable to find information on a mere mudblood." There is no wild fury, or rising anger, just cold judgement that reflects in his voice. Yet all the same, Nott shivers, trembles in front of his Lord. Tom smiles disarmingly whilst his arms gesture grandly to his table of followers. "Let us see how you've failed me. As you will be my first subject, hope that your mind will remain in one piece."
In a flash his yew wand is brandished at Nott. "Legilimens."
It's a heady rush of power—his mind forcing itself upon another. He feels Nott's fearful submission, his trembling consciousness and revels in the power he holds. But he has no desire to stay in another's head for long. Tom rips through the unimportant memories that surround him. There is no mercy or gentle touch as he rakes across Nott's thoughts, pulling and tearing at his mind for the information he desires.
When he withdraws, Nott is left limbs quaking on the stone floor. But his eyes are clear and filled with reverence.
But Tom, Tom is unable to dwell on the sight—his mind left in a new more intriguing puzzle. Irene Hill. He feels his lips curve into a smile.
He looks back at his follower and with a calculated gentleness, holds Nott's chin to tilt it up. "I have made a mistake, Nott. You have not failed your Lord," he coos. "Sit, rest. Allow me to relay what a service you have been to me."
He offers his hand, but his knight dares not to place any burden on his lord, placing his hand onto Tom's palm but bearing all weight onto unsteady feet. He bows once more, maintaining his lowered head until his shaky legs guide him to his chair.
"It appears the transfer student is of value to us. Nott, although persistent, was not able to gather all the pieces to Irene Hill's past; however, we must not let this opportunity slip us by." Tom sweeps his robes back towards the head of the table but makes no move to sit. "Mulciber, you will be tasked with watching Miss Hill. I trust that you can gather a thorough dossier on our little mudblood. Rosier, if you could gather residential information on every enclave and coven within British borders. Nott…"
The conversation he overheard between Hill and McGonagall may be more than just a passing fancy of Hill's. "Check the Ministry for any newly contracted curse-breakers."
"My Lord, if I may," Lestrange lowers his head. "Why use such resources on such an…inadequate mudblood as Hill?" His arrogance knows no bounds.
"I do not appreciate such questioning, Lestrange." Tom smiles in a baring of teeth. "However, I can…understand your particular resistance to such attentions on her. Miss Hillis a special case." He places his hands behind his back, watching the other's expression carefully. It's not familial love that brings such disdain in Lestrange's eyes and mind, but the resentment of his family's name being besmirched by a mudblood. Tom casually tosses the parchment of Miss Hill's medical records to him. "This is the reason your squib of a sister was nearly transfigured into a bug."
Lestrange unfurls the scroll, head lowered. "A red-level core," he breathes. "But that would mean—"
"She's the most powerful witch at Hogwarts," Nott remarks, unable to tame the swell of pride he's brimming with from Tom's praise. "Her performance in class is likely a result of her poor control and resistance to using such volatile and dangerous magic."
Power.
Power is intoxicating, alluring, and maddening. Not a single person in the room is resistant to its temptation. So, Tom doesn't overlook the manner in which Mulciber's fingers twitch upon hearing Nott's words, instead quietly observing the treacherous desire that burns in the back of Mulciber's mind—simple infatuation growing to unnatural obsession.
"Hold her down!" Gwen shouts.
Lillian's hands on Irene's shoulders are gripping her with such inhuman strength Irene's starting to wonder if she's actually a Gryffindor beater rather than seeker. Lillian presses down trying to keep her in the torture chair she's been subjected to for the last two and a half hours.
"I'm trying," Lillian says through gritted teeth. "But Godric, she's stronger than she looks."
Irene bucks and writhes. The conjured ropes are loosening. With every twist she can feel her arms pressing farther away from her body. Freedom. She's so close she can sense it.
Gwen holds some strange contraption in her hand, standing only centimeters away from her. It's golden and speckled in small runes. Another one? Irene struggles against her bindings.
"Now Hill, there's no need to resist. You've done such a great job so far. Just a little more and you'll be perfect. So don't struggle. We're doing this for you after all." Gwen smiles.
Irene breaks free. The ropes burst into light—the conjuration unable to withstand her force. She presses to her feet, pushing Lillian off her. In the corner of her eye, stands the brown dorm room door. It's only a few meters away. She just needs to get there.
Gwen widens her stance, blocking the exit.
They stare at each other locked in a stalemate.
"Give it up, Gwen. You've already had your fun. Now let me go," she hisses. "And Lillian, don't even think about it," she glares back at the slowly approaching Lillian.
The three glance at each other, and Irene is sure something passed between her two treacherous roommates.
Knock. Knock.
Their attention splits. Irene flicks a door opening spell at the door before they can stop it. It opens with a slam.
Standing in the entryway is Blythe accompanied by Minerva. Surprised, they stare at the group. Moments pass whilst they stand in silence. Irene is the first to break the trance and uses the moment of weakness to speed to the safety of Blythe's side.
"Why do I sense tension?" Blythe asks as she walks to her trunk.
Both Irene and Gwen try to speak at the same time.
"She's trying to torture—"
"She won't sit still—"
They lock eyes in a glaring match.
"One at a time, please." Minerva looks entirely unimpressed as usual.
Irene and Gwen meet in another staring match.
"They're the ones who so rudely held me captive—"
"You can't blame us! She's always dressed so—"
"—If you can't communicate in a civilized manner, I'm afraid I'll have to treat you like toddlers." Her face is a chastising glare. "Gw—"
"I wouldn't trust Minerva's judgement if I were you." The rustle of robes brings forth another visitor. This time it's Iris. "She's always biased when it comes to romance. Such rose-colored glasses for someone so terribly bitter."
"Hmph." Minerva turns the other way as if hoping Iris will disappear from ignoring her. "Says the one who becomes nothing but an ogling oaf the moment you spot Longbottom. The vast contrast between personalities is positively disgusting, Fawley."
"Yes. Yes. Tell me more about how I have multifaceted emotions like a normal person unlike someone who only ever shows any when you're beating another player senseless in quidditch." Iris rolls her eyes.
"I suppose any amount of diligence would make a person droll to you," Minerva clips.
Both Gwen and Iris swallow thickly under the tension.
Blythe sighs. "Speaking of which, don't we have something to do before heading to the pitch?" She pats Irene's shoulders with a lipped, soundless, "sorry about them," and a subtle nod to Gwen and Lillian. "I'll just grab my gear so we can go."
"Irene," Iris says sharply. "We should also hurry along unless you plan on walking alone to Hogsmeade." She twirls round and makes for the exit to the stairs.
Without an utterance of complaint Irene gives her begrudging thanks to both Lillian and Gwen before grabbing her hat and running off after Iris.
When the two make it out of the common room and start their descent to the entrance to the castle, Irene steps a little closer to Iris. Her loose hair—still unmade from earlier's dispute—flutters about her face. With a gentle brush she threads it behind her ear and fixes the beret to angle it back down.
"So, what was that about earlier? I know you've never been a fan of Minerva, but I don't think I've ever seen you start a fight with someone who didn't deserve it." Irene thinks back to the Hufflepuff bigot who'd been foolish enough to approach her with Iris by her side. They'd earned a curse or two both verbally and physically. Her brows knit.
Maybe the two have some sort of unfortunate past.
When she looks at Iris, her face is doing some intense contorting and Irene can't understand what emotion that's supposed to show. "Uh, if you'd rather not talk about it that's alright."
"It's nothing really. An old story. We've just hated each other's guts since second year and that's all that's important." Iris frowns and hastens her steps.
Irene drops the subject and hurries to catch up.
Extra:
Irene: Yeah, I'm a certified savant. Totally stupid as all muggle-borns are.
Laxley: What's a savant?
Tom: ….
Nott: But she's stupid strong, My Lord.
Irene: No. No, I'm really not. See look at me fail all my classes.
Tom: ?
Nott: Check these reports I have.
Tom: Oho?
Irene: :(
Tom: :)