Chapter 14: Monsters in Human Skin
Amedeo taps his foot.
'You've been impossible to get a hold of,' Lestrange nags.
He's pacing back and forth in front of the staircase to the second floor. His obnoxious steps echo in the hall as he lengthens his neck like some sort of bird. He looks ridiculous.
Amedeo sighs as Lestrange continues to harp about some nonsense. If Riddle didn't want Amedeo skulking the castle and monitoring Irene, he'd have said something. Like when Riddle told Amedeo to leave them alone during tutoring. And he did—begrudgingly, though.
This is annoying. Amedeo blows at the hair of his fringe.
What makes Lestrange think he can boss him around now? It never worked when they were kids. It's not going to start working now. Lestrange couldn't command attention if he was in a room with a quiet audience. All threats and no follow-through.
His foot taps again in two successive claps. He's wasting precious time. With Tom taking away hours Amedeo could have spent watching Irene, he doesn't want to dally. His eyes glaze over.
This isn't how he imagined the last month going. He had plans, things he wanted to do. Things that involved Irene. Hiding her knowledge of the Come and Go Room, helping ward off prats from hexing her, and even secretly walking her back to the dorms when her friends were occupied, he's performed above and beyond for her, and nothing has come to fruition. Waiting for the ideal moment might mean waiting forever at this rate.
He'd also missed the spectacle she made in the halls before lunch. Amedeo chews at his lip, breaking from his thoughts. That would have been an excellent chance to sweep in and comfort her. The taste of iron coats his tongue. Now what if he misses something even more important?
'—this has to end! No matter what was said, clearly this isn't just some order for you. You've gone completely round the bend! Obsessed with a muggle-born of all the things.'
'Goodness, Lestrange has no shame,' Amedeo hears the murmur of a passing student.
The group of Hufflepuffs whisper and eye them. He stares at the gathering, and they startle and wander off. It doesn't matter if they go or leave. Amedeo couldn't care less. But it is strange to have such a loud conversation here. The two are out in the open near the staircase in front of the Great Hall. Hardly seems the place for a conceited heir like Lestrange to talk about his gripes.
'If you don't speak with him, I will….'
More students shuffle by whispering and nattering. He tilts his head and glances back at Lestrange. The boy's brow twitches. Lestrange must have heard what they said. However, he continues to nag at Amedeo.
'Someone else needs to be—'
Amedeo cocks his head in the other direction, owlish. 'Why are we having this talk here?'
'Wha-what do you mean?' Lestrange straightens his robes.
'You don't chat about private matters in public. And yet you're doing just that. Right now. It's unusual.'
'It's just that… some things can't wait.' He starts as if he's lost his footing, but then gains speed again. 'And you've made it difficult to track you down. Here and there in the castle, chasing Hill's tail. It's—'
'—An outrage?' Amedeo finishes, mocking Lestrange's body language and gestures. 'Yeah, I don't care. Though, I think it's weird you care so much right now.'
And it's true, this whole situation is odd. One second, he's leaving the Great Hall to follow Irene out the door and another he's being dragged by his collar to the side of the stairs. It's almost as if he's trying to stall Amedeo.
His arms fall to his side, foot stalling its taps.
'Are you wasting my time?'
Lestrange's upper lip curls up. 'What? I'm not—'
He's lying. It only curls when he's lying.
'Have you done something?' his voice takes on a slow, considerate tone. He cocks his head. 'Have you done something to Irene?'
Lestrange swallows, apprehensive.
Amedeo crowds him.
'If she's hurt, I just might slit your throat,' he whispers.
His eyes wildly glint in the light before he pushes Lestrange out of the way to climb the stairs. Familiar with Irene's patterns, Amedeo retraces her regular steps. Up the main staircase, towards the scenic corridors, and up the backend stairs. It's quiet. It's always quiet on this side of the castle. Scenic routes are longer, less traversed as the novelty runs after the second month. He comes to the fourth floor and senses something.
Amedeo doesn't often take the time to think about the why. Because the why isn't important. But it is strange how his skin prickles when he senses her. It's not unlike a magnet, an instinct from deep within him, both pushing and pulling him closer. He follows the draw. The itching beneath his skin grows to a burn.
Now that he thinks about it, Riddle is the only other student to elicit such instinctual reactions from him. Although dissimilar in sensation, Amedeo feels a deep chill that permeates through skin and penetrates bone when around. He wonders if that has anything to do with their souls.
'Probably,' he thinks.
He follows his instincts until he comes to the empty supply hall. A sense of foreboding weighs the atmosphere. Amedeo's hand taps against his leg as he continues. Something's happened. He can sense it in the very air. His feet will him down a tighter corridor. And then he hears it. A faint cry. Muffled. Concealed.
And without doubt Irene. He slips his wand into his palm as a dead end faces him with a single closet door. The hum of magic surrounds the dark brown entrance.
'Deprimo!' Amedeo spells.
The wooden door blasts wood, stone, and dust erupt. 'Ventus,' he chants, clearing the air.
Jars cracked and spilled of their contents scatter across the floor. Noxious, bitter, and acidic smells vent out of the space. It's a tight closet. A Potions' supply room. Amedeo scans and nearly sees red.
Irene sits slumped, injured as a Ravenclaw student looms above.
Is she dead? His toy, broken.
He blasts the girl across the room with a spell.
It's not difficult to recognise her. That blonde hair and blue tie. Hornby slams against the opposite wall in a crunch, sliding down the cracked shelves of the closet, bottles crashing and falling at her sides. Amedeo vanishes them without a thought and draws her up by the throat.
'Hornby, you revolting slag,' he growls.
She chokes and gurgles, the sound pleasant to his ears.
This filthy pest beat her, burnt Irene. Red shrinks his vision. His magic builds, sparking a fire in his eyes. He feels Hornby's slowed pulse beneath his fingers that strangle her. Eyes dull and shaded in purple, she looks almost half dead already, barely putting in any resistance. But putrid green steals his attention. It's coming from the girl's chest. A swirl of colour, pale and fading, flowing in a whirl.
Hornby's soul.
He cocks his head. 'Should I just strangle you? Watch the light leave your eyes to match that ghastly, disgusting thing you keep inside you? It would be fitting, would be deserved. And I do like that idea,' he says.
'Ngh,' a voice whimpers, not from before him but behind.
Amedeo's fingers twitch, and he freezes. He turns, face drawing up in alarm.
'Irene?'
Her skin scorched. Burnt to charcoal over her forearm and legs. Not a hint of that pale skin is there, covered with either blistering red or black. She looks almost melded with the floor. Her flesh is littered with wounds. And the stench? It's foul. Sickening burnt tissue wafts about in the small room. Yet in her chest, churns a silver so bright it's nearly blinding.
Amedeo squeezes the thin throat in his palm, the flesh beneath ever so willing to give under his grasp. Salazar, he'll kill her. He'll kill her for this.
'H-help,' Irene pleads in barely a whisper. 'The-the trinket. I don't know if I….'
His eyes dart to the silver bracelet wrapped around her seared wrist. Thick links connect in a chain. Dangling at its end lies a human heart-shaped pendant. A Transfiguration artefact. He'd recognise one anywhere. The Mulcibers keep a few in their vaults.
'Please, don't kill,' Irene wheezes out. 'She c-can't do much, anyway.'
Irene's right. Hornby barely resists him as she's choked. But that matters little to him. Who cares about what she can do? What she has done is what urges him to clutch and crush her throat. Irene's his to hurt, his to have.
Yet, instead, Amedeo lets go, dropping her to the floor. He growls in frustration. This is the chance he's been waiting for. Better not waste it.
Hornby hacks and spits up on the ground. 'Am-Amedeo,' she croaks. 'Let me go, we're both purebloods' she coughs.
He stares at her, unfeeling. The wet sheen of her eyes, ill complexion, and tremble of her lips are only mildly entertaining. She's pleading, asking Amedeo to take her side. He chuckles. A pureblood? A wealthy heir? Yes, he's all above. In the wizarding world, he is an elite. But this isn't a matter of such fickle status, such insignificant meanings. This is transcendent. He sees and has always seen true worth. Lying hidden to the blind, Amedeo is the only one who witnesses truth. He tilts his head, staring at her pitifully.
We do not choose what we are born with, but nevertheless, we are judged.
What's in her chest has already fixed her value.
'Epoximise.' He shoots at the floor beside him. Then grabs a fistful of her hair. He squats and tilts his head. 'You should be grateful Irene wants you alive.' He smiles.
She pales. Fear takes hold.
And with a deafening crack, Amedeo smashes her head into the Epoximised floor. The sound is music to his ears. A fleeting moment of retribution. He appreciates the rush of red that runs from between her hair, then spells her with a Silencio and an Incarcerous.
He moves to Irene, eyes awed.
What's inside her is beautiful. Ethereal. There was no doubt why he felt such a powerful draw to her now. There is no doubt she is a goddess among mortals. He smiles. Irene groans and moans in pain. Not wanting to cause more agony, he reverently removes the cursed item. When his hands graze metal, there's no sting or buzz. This one seems inactive. A fake? Then he spells her with a Vulnera Erado. There's no time to wait, so he shoves the trinket in his pocket and picks Irene off the floor.
His arms loop under her knees and back, cradling her in his arms. His heart is pumping, racing. It's an adrenaline rush like no other. Excitement? No, that's not quite right. His chest is tight and heavy.
Exhilaration.
He's the fated knight in a child's tale. The prince that comes to the rescue. Triumph. Patience paid off.
Amedeo is on cloud nine. His feet urge him out of the room and to the Hospital Wing, chest pounding. He'd wanted some courageous appearance, wanted to feel her soft flesh against his, and now? Now he's made that knight-worthy entrance, forged a path worthy for their beginning. Though Irene's burned and beaten, bloodied and bruised. Her skin is sticky and hard. Her breaths, shallow. But it is of inconsiderable matter. After all, her true beauty still shines as brightly as before.
His eyes can't seem to look away from the silver glow in her chest as he hurries through the empty halls and to the medical ward.
On the second floor, he bumps into someone in his trance.
'Amedeo? What's that —? Wait, is that Hill? What are you doing?' Lestrange hisses.
Amedeo's face twists. Obnoxious yellow. A mockery of gold. It fits Lestrange perfectly. Recoiling from the sight, he blinks and the colours fade. There's still another matter. He hasn't forgotten Lestrange's odd behaviour.
'Don't think you'll get away with this, Lestrange,' he snarls.
Lestrange's wand raises. 'Threatening me, now? Say that again, you lunatic.'
He shuts his mouth, nose wrinkling in anger. There's no time for a duel, not with the precious parcel in his hold. His arms pull Irene in tighter to his chest in a snarl.
'Ha. A blood traitor, is that what you've become? I'd never thought I'd see the Mulcibers sink so low. Maybe this is why your family didn't make the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Too busy fucking half-breeds.'
To infuriated to stay, Amedeo steps round.
Lestrange grabs him by the elbow. Mouth to his ear, he whispers, 'Really, she's too much skin and bones, hardly has any softness a woman needs to provide for a man. Are you sure you won't regret this? I mean, since you're throwing away your future, it should at least provide adequate company at night.'
His fingers twitch. Amedeo wants nothing more than to slit his—
'Lestrange. Mulciber. It's almost passed hours,' Riddle says.
His feet are light as he steps down the hall to them. Turning his attention to what lies in Amedeo's arm's Tom furrows his brows.
'What's going on? Is that Hill?'
'She needs the medical wing.' Amedeo bares his teeth at Lestrange.
Without skipping a beat, Riddle takes control. 'Lestrange, leave.'
Lestrange glares but ultimately obeys, lumbering off down the halls.
'Explain.' Tom stares at the burnt body of Irene. There's nothing in the expression that Amedeo can read.
'Lestrange distracted me after dinner. That weasel. So, I retraced Irene's steps. There was a scream when I arrived on the fourth floor. Hornby, the Bitch, attacked her. Likely threatened to transfigure her. That Cow's still stuck to the floor of the west end supply closet.'
Amedeo wonders if he can get away with murder. Renatus is the Lestrange heir, but it's not like they can't have another.
Riddle hums. 'I see. Take Hill to the Hospital Wing. I'll grab the headmaster.' He walks up to Amedeo's shoulder. 'There will be no brash actions, Amedeo. Also….' He stares at Hill with sharp eyes. 'I expect a thorough explanation tomorrow.'
'Tom. Are you sure our Hornby attacked Miss Hill? Mr Mulciber isn't the most present of students.'
Professor Polaris walks ahead of him. His long star print robes billow behind. The crack of lightning flashes across their skin as they hurry down the stairs and to the fourth-floor supply chambers.
After running into Mulciber carrying a burnt Hill, Tom had left for the Headmaster's office to inform Dippet of the situation, which had enacted a chain of events leading to Dippet gathering both Professors Merrythought and Dumbledore while Tom was sent to gather Polaris and Hornby.
The Professor, having no time to change after Tom had woken him, is clad in sleepwear.
'Though Amedeo is absent-minded, I doubt he'd have lied about who had left Miss Hill in that state,' Tom says.
It's rare to have such incidents amongst the Ravenclaws. They usually refrain from political activities. But Hill seems to bring out the worst in people, and Hornby has a fair amount of ambition despite her Ravenclaw colours.
Arriving on the fourth-floor, Polaris casts a spell. The professor's wand shimmers a bright blue. He flattens his palm, and the wand turns. Like the needle of a compass, they head in the direction it points. Through wide corridors and a series of turns, they stumble upon an almost imperceptible mark on the floor.
It's faint and streaked like paint. Blood.
As they arrive in a narrow corridor, what has transpired comes to the surface. It's an open and shut scene. A destroyed closet as the end of the hall. Tom taps his fingers against his thigh. What horrors was Hill subjected to before Mulciber had found her? She'd left the dining hall a little before him. That gives more than a few hours of time for the abduction to take place.
'Please stay here while I check on Miss Hornby,' the Professor says, looking a tad greyer than before.
Tom nods and waits until Polaris is in the closet. Rummaging into his pocket, the wand nips at his fingers. He sneers and tosses it against the wall. It rolls and settles.
He turns and then surveys the area. Attached to one passage, this hall offers a path to the seventh floor. With a brief investigation, Tom concludes Hornby spelled Hill with a body-binding curse of sorts, then dragged her to the supply room.
Then how did Mulciber hear her scream? Without her wand, she'd have to use accidental magic or whatever that power is that hides beneath her skin. Then why did she let it get as far as fourth-degree burns? More of that emotional drivel, perhaps.
Foolish. He scoffs.
Tom leisurely walks back to the scene. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Hill's always been careless around the pompous and powerful, not recognising her actions have consequences. However, perhaps now she will learn. With this attack, she may come to understand the value of her power and the necessity of holding it over others.
He stares at her larch wand. Someone who needs courage.
Someone who needs direction. His decision has been made.
Bending forward, Tom plucks it off the ground.
'Is that Miss Hill's wand?' asks Professor Polaris.
Tom turns, twirling it and feigning surprise. 'I believe so.'
Between them stands Hornby. Her face and neck are a bruising of purple and black. Evidence of strangulation and a beating. Polaris's hand lies on her shoulder in a vise.
'I will take Miss Hornby back to the Ravenclaw tower for further treatment, as I do not believe Miss Hill would enjoy sharing the same room with her assaulter.' Polaris exhales with a grave sigh. 'I ask you to take these to the headmaster. They will confirm Mr Mulciber's story.' He presents the two wands to Tom.
There's nothing further to discuss as Polaris nods and leaves for the Ravenclaw tower. Tom stashes his growing collection of wands in his pockets and heads for the entrance to the Hospital Wing.
It's twelve in the morning when the Patronus arrives. Both Flavian and Evan have been working late into the night on magical devices in case of emergency. Silver wisps of light dance about. The bear lumbers about the room, its white tuft below its chest different from its ethereal blue fur.
And this certainly isn't a good sign. Just four days prior, Irene had sent that ominous letter late in the evening and now Galatea has sent a Patronus. Flavian drops everything he's doing, only a second behind Evan, who's already approaching the moon bear.
'Miss Hill is in the Hospital Wing. She asked me to call for Evan before she passed out. There's been an incident with another student. The guardians are needed for mediation. Come at once.'
Perhaps if Flavian did not know Galatea, he might have missed it, but the quiver of her voice is there, unmistakable. He breathes out. The ghost-like bear dissolves with a shimmer.
Admittedly, Flavian is a touch relieved that it was another student that construed this rather than a Dark Lord. Though with Irene in the medical ward, when the girl hadn't bothered with medical treatment even after she collapsed at work, this spells nothing good.
In a blink, Evan has his wand in his hand and floo powder in the other.
Fontius blocks Evan before he can rush through the fire like a madman. 'I will go to Hogwarts. Instead, you must go to Miss Macmillan. Inform her we need her sooner than planned.'
Evan opens his mouth in rebuttal.
'I give my word that I will handle this incident. No assailant will go unpunished. However, Miss Irene is in increased danger. We need Macmillan.'
His resistance is soon quelled. Again, this is why Flavian finds Evan tolerable. Despite his age, he's pragmatic.
Flavian pulls the portkey out of his inner pocket and hands it to Evan. 'This will take you to Rome.'
Evan snatches it up. 'I might resign if Irene is unhappy with you.'
He glares and steps away, activating the portkey in the middle of their research room. The crack of the device reverberates in the narrow chamber. Papers and lighter trinkets kick up in the windstorm left in Evan's absence. Flavian sighs and flicks his wand. The room rights itself.
Perhaps he was wrong about the level of pragmatism.
Grabbing a handful of floo powder, he steps through the hearth and shouts, 'Hogwarts!'
Flavian is not a young man. His age has been of little consequence since his accident nearly one-hundred and seventy years ago. And throughout this lengthy life of his, he's spent many a year in the Department of Mysteries. That is not without gruesome horrors.
He's seen every abomination that the depraved populace can imagine. Lethifold research on live subjects? Human experimentation on core limitations? Soul manipulation and mutilation? Practical applications of Dementors? In his earlier years, it was all legal. Ethical legislation is something that appeared during his young adult decades. Even now, centuries from the moral precedent, there are still ways to avoid prosecution. And Magic kind? They will always push the boundaries of natural law.
So, it should not be as disturbing as it is to see Irene covered in burns. It should not be as stomach turning as it is to hear that another child has done this to her.
And yet it is.
So perhaps Flavian had snapped at the head mediwitch for something inconsequential, and perhaps it was an emotional faux pas. But one cannot be rational at all times.
'A child! A child acquired a class XXXX level dark artefact?'
Flavian paces back and forth, never taking his eyes off the guardian of one Olive Hornby, Sir Rudolf Hornby.
Only minutes earlier, he had burst through the doors to Armando's office, enraged and apoplectic. Answers. He needed answers as to why the aurors weren't called, as to why the crime scene was compromised before investigation. And now he knows. This isn't some petty squabble between children. It's erupted fear in the minds of the educators, adults. The brutality, callous planning. This is nothing short of an attempt on another student's life. Although not unheard of between children, the more conspiratorial part of Flavian wonders if a child is truly capable of this.
Armando, the two qualifying guardians, and the Vice Headmaster occupy the headmaster's office. It is as he remembers from his last visit. There's none of the whimsy of magic apparent. Dark shelves and grey walls, and behind them, just past the window, rages a blizzard. Lightning sparks in the distance while the rumble of thunder trails behind. It illuminates the empty lacquered desk. Armando's life of little material seems to have taken on an entirely distinct level of minimalization, almost utilitarian. However, literature is ever present on the shelves that line the walls.
Why Armando chose education rather than research, Flavian will never understand. He held such promise as an unspeakable.
'Yes. Although we aren't sure just how at the moment. Though I remind you, the artefact was defective.' Armando sighs as if this was something so simple as a child hexing another.
'Olive's always been a quiet girl. But too curious to keep her hands away from fascinating items. Perhaps another student had it in their possession,' Hornby says.
Flavian's eye twitches.
'So that's the full story? This,' — he gestures rudely to Hornby — 'spawn of his kidnapped Irene, tortured her, then planned to use a dark artefact to transfigure her?'
'Again, there is no proof the object was ever active. I must ask you for peace, Flavian.' Armando raises his hands as if that can physically settle him.
'Flavian? We are no longer colleagues, Dippet. I am here strictly as the guardian of a student who has been injured in a violent assault.' He takes his seat in the chair adjacent to Hornby.
Armando raises his brows, then coughs to clear his throat. 'My apologies, Fontius. And yes, that is what we have gathered from the students involved and the wand we examined. Though we haven't checked the students' memories, as we need permission from the guardians as per policy.'
'I'm sure Olive didn't mean to take it this far. She's always been such a well-behaved child. Perhaps it was the potion she was under,' Hornby says.
'Yes, of course it was. I imagine "homicidal behaviour" is a common side effect of the Exstimulo Potion,' Flavian says.
'Really? You think so?'
Flavian's brow twitches. 'No, I don't,' he seethes. 'Now then.' His attention returns to Armando. He watches him closely. 'What are you going to do about Miss Hornby? Expulsion, I'd expect no less and a trip to the Department of Magical Enforcement.'
'That's-what! You can't just,' Hornby splutters.
'About that, there has been a complication.' Armando rubs the point between his eyes.
'What could be more complex than expulsion?' Flavian raises an unimpressed brow.
'It's regarding Miss Hornby. The mediwitch has finished her assessment and the results are troubling. Miss Hill may have used a curse in retaliation.' Armando says.
'What's happened to my daughter?' Hornby asks.
Flavian's lip twitches, face urging him to smile. He can only hope Hill permanently marred the little monster.
'Now, please calm down, Hornby.' Armando raises his hands once more in surrender. 'Your daughter is alive and well.'
The disappointment is difficult to quash.
Armando continues, 'however, we've found something. A blockage of sorts. She's unable to use magic. We believe it to be temporary, operating identical to a curse. It might have been accidental magic, as Miss Hill didn't have her wand on her during the incident. However, we cannot be sure…the more powerful students are often capable of performing intentional magic without a wand. Regardless, we are transferring Miss Hornby to St. Mungo's later tonight. They've sent for an expert on the matter.'
Accidental magic? Flavian's brows rise. No. If it's Irene, there is more to this. Armando is correct. Though likely an accident, this was a reaction by her Ancient Magic. Which means the artefact was undoubtedly active. And….
'The concern is that the only magic that can do something so…taboo are illegal and rare dark curses. And if Miss Hill is found to have used such a spell, well, I don't believe I have to explain that to you, Fontius.'
Oh dear, this complicates matters. Not whatever drivel Armando is on about, but about the complication of adding the aurors in the mix. Emerson's in trustworthy. But the others? Flavian isn't so sure. A simple pensieve could solve this matter—the memory of the attack and Irene's justified curse-less self-defence—but does he trust the auror's to hold it in evidence? He taps his fingers against his thigh.
'Due to this, I believe we should decide whether to move forward with or without the interference of the aurors.' Armando rubs his beard.
'As long as it is acknowledged that Irene is the victim, I do not mind moving forward without the aurors.'
Flavian sighs. He'd much prefer the punishment written into Wizengamot Law, but he'll take the safest option for Irene's future. If need be, he is not above using darker magic to inflict punishment of his own choosing.
'A victim? Did you not hear my daughter cannot use magic?'
'I did, in fact. However, as she would be subjected to much worse if tried in court, I consider it a mercy. A dementor's kiss is still on the table if you'd prefer to bring this to the aurors and prove your daughter a victim.' Flavian shakes his head.
Hornby splutters. 'And what of your child? She's used a taboo spell! Do not think that I am unfamiliar with the severity of such magic. Perhaps we should bring this to the court.'
And Flavian sees red. His eyes flash as he turns to Hornby in a snarl.
'If you do, the only one regretting anything will be you!' he spits.
'Unlike your flimsy excuses for your daughter, I know what sort of child I've taken under my wing, and she is not the sort to attack without provocation. She is not the sort to strike in cold blood or attempt murder. I promise you, the only reason Irene sustained any injuries is due in part to her horrible, insufferable, contemptible need to protect those around her. And for some foolish reason your sad excuse for a daughter was included in that list.'
How Flavian wishes she had a more callous conscience. How he wishes she'd done more than just stop that bloody prat's magic, because it seems like in this very room the only ones who care for her justice are him alone. As he rises to his feet, he wonders if Evan has met Miss MacMillan. Perhaps matters were always moving towards this. A powerful muggle-born can't help but draw attention. His contingency plan is rising to the forefront as the best option.
Armando opens his mouth to mediate.
However, for the first time Albus turns from the window, stepping forward to speak.
'Fontius, there is no doubt Miss Hornby was the assailant in this situation. I am familiar with Miss Hill as her Head of House. She is not a violent child, nor a resentful one. The witness explained the scene to us, and Professor Polaris confirmed Miss Hornby's guilt.'
He turns to Hornby.
'I am sorry you have found yourself in this terrible situation. It is hard to acknowledge the mistakes and cruelty of the ones we love, but to be blind from the truth is a mistake to all involved. I am pained for your daughter's future; however, what Fontius said is no simple slight. If the aurors were to be called, possession of a dark artefact with intent to use—if it is authentic—is a rather serious offence,' Dumbledore says.
Hornby deflates in his seat. His wilful ignorance seems to withdraw, leaving him a defeated husk.
'I don't know where everything went so wrong. My little girl used to be so hopeful, so bright,' he breaks. His mouth quivers, and he closes his eyes in a long breath. 'We will accept any punishment given.'
There's a sad sigh as Armando slumps into his palm. He massages his temples in thought as the guardians sit. The clouds behind rumble but shed no lightning. Grey darkened skies are quiet, as if waiting in bated breaths.
'Then we shall move on to discuss expulsion for Miss Hornby,' Armando says.
'Dippet, I am glad you've changed your mind. Thank you, Albus.' He bows.
The storm has passed. Starlight shines down upon them through the clouds and window. Flavian stands, smoothing his robes as winter dry fingers catch on soft silk. He leaves the office, robes billowing behind. However, he can't shake the feeling there's something wrong. Armando said they were unfinished with the investigation. The wand and the artefact, if not a possession of the Hornbys. Then how had she obtained such tools?
Perhaps this isn't some child's cruelty but an adult's. His shoes clack down the hall.
The Hogwarts castle is everything and nothing of what he recalls. Whimsical nostalgia only whispers while memories of his childhood here are faint. Years passed, mistakes made, and regrets linger. Age should be a representation of contentment, the last journey of freedom from suffering. Yet Flavian only finds himself holding onto the past, hoping to find penance through the goodness he adds to the world. Time weighs on him. He wonders if Galatea would welcome a chat after this or if she would cast him away like one of those boggarts she keeps locked up. Sentimentality is universal to old age, perhaps.
Flavian continues down the multitude of stairs to the Hospital Wing. Entering the final corridor, he hears the door to the chamber open and shut with a soft click.
A boy Irene's age steps out. Familiar colours adorn his uniform, a prefect pin glints on his chest. This late at night, students should be in their beds. He looks at Flavian, appraising him, albeit subtly. However, he would never miss the subtle eye movement disguised as a casual fix of his clothing. Flavian flashes a knowing smile. If this child is not to be out at this hour, he certainly isn't behaving in such a way to indicate that.
Sharp and cunning. Eyes that dictate intelligence. The boy raises his finger to his lips with a smirk.
Flavian shakes his head, but nods, keeping the child's secret. A little of the whimsy of Hogwarts returns. Sneaking out of the dorms for a late-night liaison certainly was not beyond him. The green of the student's robes catches the blue starlight from the windows.
Passing the boy, Flavian thinks back fondly on his time in Slytherin.
[Earlier]
Outside, a storm rages. Snow whirls in the black of night—white spattering against the tall windows of the Hospital Tower. There are no stars in the sky, no clouds to be seen, just the violent tempest of winter howling and raging against glass.
Tom stares out the window, sitting in the rickety chair that's placed beside the only other occupant of the chamber. Beside him, the unwitting form of Hill lies on her bed, amongst the empty cots and wire rimmed partitions. She's asleep. And by the looks of it, peacefully at rest—limbs spread in all directions.
Tom's fingers find the juncture of Hill's neck and collar. Above him the floating lanterns glow a gentle auburn. She's at his mercy here in the vacant Hospital Wing. A danger no longer. He allows his thumb to smooth across her throat. If he so wished, he could place his hands around her thin neck and….
Snap.
But nothing sounds. Tom doesn't strike. He allows his thumb to return to its former position. A simple twist. That's all it would take. That's all it would take to rid himself of this monstrous witch, and certainly, it would free him of the morning's mistake. However, magic has always been enticing, wondrous, covetous.
With barely a brush, Tom wipes stray strands from her shoulder. Hair darker than the skies above lies scattered about her face and neck, while red and black burns peek out from cloth bandages. He moves to finger the neckline of her hospital gown.
He lifts the stripped cotton fabric. The scarred mass of tissue that caught his eye only snakes further across Hill's shoulder. From the looks of it, it's an older wound, not from the day's burns but before. Scars that the average potion cannot remove are rare, and usually inflicted by certain magical fires. Tom drops the material, withdrawing his hand.
It's a frustrating mess.
He isn't quite sure what to do with Hill. The incident in the corridor was unforeseen. To be invulnerable to Legilimency is something he's never heard of. There are Occlumens, yes. But this is something different. Whatever Hill is, is curious and new.
It wasn't just invulnerability. Hill's magic sucks any power that comes into contact with it. Some blasted insatiable black hole. Her magic's nature is separate from her peers. So, what does that make her?
Tom rubs a tired hand against his temples. She's invaluable, worth far more than anything he's laid eyes upon. And yet, she's also a double-edged sword. A danger to anything she finds disagreeable, and from the start, she's never trusted Tom. He leans into his knees—elbows propping up his head. What is she but a threat that's left to grow without guidance?
Perhaps he should get rid of her. Perhaps he should remove the memory of today. His magic is weak, but a memory charm shouldn't be too taxing.
But no.
There are other matters to sort before attempting to wipe evidence of the day's concern.
Tom scans over Hill once more. Her breathing has changed, and once again, that familiar bitter apprehension colours the air. Leaning back in his chair, Tom crosses his legs.
'You'd do well to keep your emotions in check if you wish to hide, Hill,' he says boorish.
Hill groans and moans as she pushes herself upright against her pillows. 'I thought I was "Irene" not Hill.' she says in a mockery of his own words. Her eyes are stuck on the window to the far end.
He grits his teeth, but there's a zip of a thrill that shoots down his back. Resistance. Wit? Who would have thought her capable of such provocation? It's something new, untraversed, evidence that he had missed whoever Hill really is.
'Shall we go back to our earlier facades, Irene?'
She grimaces. 'No. No, that's alright.'
Hill makes no attempts to speak, staring out at the dark night. The bitter note in the air sours, and it's so utterly familiar that Tom wonders if she'd always seen through him. If so, what had she been thinking during their lessons? It's an idle thought, but then he remembers that he'll never know her mind. He rubs his temples again.
'Tell me, what happened to that other girl? I think her name was Hornby, but everything is a bit hazy.'
'She's still alive, if that's what you're wondering.'
His nose wrinkles in disgust. Is she relieved that her would be killer isn't dead? The severity of what has transpired must have not sunk in.
'That's…good.' Hill nods, but the horrible amalgamation of feeling tells Tom it isn't so simple. 'It is,' she says again to convince herself.
With a groan, she turns to him. 'So, is this the part where you slit my throat and disappear into the night?'
There's something eerily withdrawn in the tone and air about her. She truly believes him capable of such an act. He rolls his eyes.
'Don't be so dramatic. Why would I endanger my future with something so uninspiring as your death?'
And it's true. He might contemplate killing her, but until he has the full picture, he is a slave to this powerful mystery.
His words choke out a laugh from her. It's spontaneous and loud, strangely uninhibited. Something in her untwists in relief. Tom furrows his brows.
'You know, in the last three or four times I've woken, I haven't felt this much relief until now.' She shakes her head, holding her side as if she can suppress whatever pain she's in.
'Is that so?'
He drums his fingers. Attacked by a student, hearing her attempted murderer is still up and about, and Tom's temporary pledge is what relieves her? He wasn't mistaken about how deep-seated Hill's mistrust of him is. 'But how far-reaching is it?' is the question in need of an answer. How deep have the roots of discord grown?
Can simple Obliviation remove such misgivings?
Or is another method in need of order?
Tom leans in to whisper in her ear, 'do you often worry about my reaction to you, Irene?'
She shivers but does not back away. That same shot of excitement trembles through his spine. 'What does that matter?' she replies petulantly.
He runs his fingers through her hair. Her eyes track the movement warily.
'I find it curious why you would be so acutely aware of me. I don't remember doing anything to offend you.'
'Have you already forgotten what happened in Gregory the Smarmy's Corridor?'
'No, not at all. It was an…enlightening experience. However, we both know this "issue" of yours predates today.'
'Yeah, well, maybe you're not as charming as you think.' Her arms twitch with the need to cross them and she winces in pain.
'Perhaps.' He twirls her hair around his finger, humming. 'Or perhaps it's something else. I'd like to be on more agreeable terms.'
'Not going to happen. Even if what happened in the corridor didn't come to pass, I still wouldn't have fully trusted you.'
'That's rather unfortunate.' And there it is, the answer to what he's been wondering about.
'Anyway, if you're not here to finish the job Hornby started. What brings you to the Hospital Wing in the middle of the night?'
Irene watches his fingers, throat bobbing. A tingle of fear trickles from her.
'Tell me, do I frighten you?' Tom asks.
She looks away, but the tensing of her muscles supplies the answer.
'If you'd like, I can promise to not harm a hair on your head.' He smiles.
'What? Why would you do that?'
'For your trust, of course.'
'That's….' Her hands fist, brows in a knot. Tom wonders if she's considering the offer. 'Why my trust?'
'Our tutoring sessions could be the start.'
'The start?' Confused eyes meet his own. 'I've already been excused from lessons.'
'Oh, but we work so well together, Irene. Why end it? Four weeks. Four weeks is the sum total of our time together and look how beautifully you've progressed. Your spells in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts were flawlessly executed this week and with such excellent control. Think about what more I could offer if you'd only allow me?'
The cogs seem to whir in Hill's head. She knows what he says is true.
'You're terrified, aren't you? Of that power that sits beneath your chest. Of that insatiable chasm that lingers. I can help you,' Tom coaxes, brushing his lips across the tips of her locks.
Her breath catches, face flushing to a dark rouge. 'I-I…'
She bites her lip and closes her eyes. When she breathes out, she meets him head on.
'If you think trust is something to be traded, bargained for, you're sorely mistaken.'
It's not a good sign. It seems she won't be easily swayed. The thought of memory charms resurfaces, offering a fresh start. He allows her black hair to unwind. As of now, the distaste and suspicion bid farewell to his courtship of her to his side.
'Everything can be bargained for with enough time,' he says in a grim promise.
'See. That line of thinking is exactly what makes you suspicious,' she says.
He laughs. Not because of her outright dismissal, but because, before her refusal, there was hesitation. Enough shown that he'll use whatever methods it takes to sink his claws into her. He won't rip the memory of today's incident from her. No. He's learned enough. Obliviation will only prolong this cycle of distrust. It would be better to sway her with the truth, anyway, play into her weaknesses, and build a line of trust through what all Gryffindors appreciate: honesty.
'You wound me,' Tom says.
Her strands slip from his hand as she turns away from him, dark eyes leaving his own. 'I'd prefer if you'd drop the act, Riddle.'
'So be it, Hill.' Tom smiles, baring his teeth.
A terribly long path lies ahead. Yet, a part of him finds this better, more entertaining. A game of cat and mouse. But not one without patience. He won't make the same mistake twice. And this time there's nothing to hide.
Tom reaches into his pocket and plucks out her wand. It snaps at him again. He tosses it on her lap. 'You'll need this, come classes. Madam Weber informed me you'll be out by Thursday.'
'Oh.' She picks it up and twirls it in her fingers. 'Thank you.' With a smile hesitantly stretched across her face, she looks at Tom. 'Uh, so um….' She opens her mouth and closes it, unbecomingly.
He raises an unimpressed brow.
'That's-uh,' she stammers. 'Were you the one who carried me out of the closet?' she rushes out.
He can't help his look of disgust.
Hill catches it. 'Never mind. Ignore what I said.' She turns away.
His lip twitches. Perhaps he can have a little fun with this. He schools his expression. Siccing Mulciber on her might help relieve some of his stress.
'Amedeo Mulciber would be your knight in shining armour. Do thank him when you are discharged.'
Not willing to waste anymore of his time, he stands.
'Wait, just, uh, before you go. Can you tell me if it's always been this way at Hogwarts?' Hill asks.
She shifts uneasily on the wire cot she lays in. It squeals and squeaks under her weight.
'Yes.'
Tom stares blankly at her. As foolish and blind that Hill is, this weakness is what grates. She's nauseatingly optimistic and hesitant. Why someone with this much power would behave so meekly is beyond him. But he can fix that in time, can mould her into a figure that would befit such power.
'So, the muggle-borns, they are all subjected to this?' Her eyes drop, emotions welling to the surface.
'And what made you think any different?' he scoffs, dropping the act like she'd wanted. It's refreshing to throw away pleasantries and facades. 'Your weekly bout of hexes not enough to drive the point?'
'What about the professors? Surely, they'd do something to stop it.'
'Oh yes, of course. Intermediary sessions to "talk" out our feelings have been so terribly helpful. You think they care for all students equally? Do you think they are above the prejudice that the children carry?' he drawls. 'Why would they waste the time on such childish squabbles?'
'Childish?' She blinks. Her face reddens. 'How is this childish? She nearly killed me! That's attempted murder, not some mild stinging hex!'
So, she does understand the severity of the situation. Tom barks out a laugh, sharp and cold.
'Yes. And the other Slytherins mutilatedmy owl first year. I woke up to blood pooling at the foot of my bed.'
He had spared no tears for the animal. However, the sight of the butchered bird had rankled at him. It was his. And they'd taken something from him soboldly. Tom's hand tightens into a fist. He'd never forget such a thing, never let it go. But either way, it served as a lesson. Hold what's yours tight to your chest and return what is given twice-fold over. He meets Hill's eyes, daring her to look away.
'If it is between students, it's a juvenile concern. So if they escalate, well, that was just a one-off incident. When there are ruling dark lords and prolific serial killers, who has the time to mitigate such petty problems? Don't tell me your Gryffindors coddled you, kept you safe in some bubble?'
Her face pales with something Tom doesn't recognise nor cares to think of. 'They tortured your pet, and nothing was done?'
Empathy? 'For Merlin's sake.' He drags a hand down his face. 'Something had to be…rectified of course, but the professors only saw it fit to place the student in remedial classes. I took matters into my own hand.'
'I'm sorry,' she whispers.
'Oh?' Tom chuckles. 'This is astonishing. Absolutely fascinatinghow… empathetic you are.' He shakes his head, allowing the mirth to run its course. 'I don't need an apology—your pity. That little stone in the way taught me a lesson. Something you would do well to learn quickly.'
He takes a step in closer, leaning over her, hand braced on the wireframe of her bed. The storm has passed and the windows of the medical ward fill with the stars of the night sky. Moonlight cascades across what must be a sneer on his face. Beneath him, Hill is anxious yet resolute in the light.
Tom reaches a hand towards her, feeling the unblemished skin of her cheek. It's sickeningly pliant just like her.
'This…softness'—his expression twists with disgust at the word as he scratches a nail along the edge of her cheekbone, rubbing tender flesh red—'of yours is nothing but weakness. You've left yourself open to cruelty, to others like me. Each kind gesture, every choice to hide behind Fawley, makes the sort of statement that the muggle-borns all seem to ooze in their very behaviour. "I'm helpless, a lost cause. Torment me, terrorise me."'
'You can't help yourself, can you? If you believe the incident with Hornby or the death of my owl was an irregularity, think again. Prior to you, that Myrtle girl was the target of Hornby's ire. There have been those before and those that will succumb to the same in the future. Let's just hope you have enough luck to survive the next two years.'
He withdraws.
But Hill grabs his tie, pulling him in. Her expression, fierce, and burning.
'So what?' she hisses. 'I should lash out? Push them around to prove who's the greater threat? I won't. Because why should one or two arseholes turn me bitter and vindictive?'
'You think of me, vengeful, filled with hate?' He smiles, cold and cutting.
'That's…. No, I don't.' Irene reels back. Her hold on his tie loosens. 'Surely, it hasn't been easy for you, Tom.'
Tom smiles. Her guilt is otherworldly, a weakness left to be exploited. Though he'd rather force it out of her.
'Trying to sympathise now, are we? Why don't you be honest, Hill,' he coaxes. 'It's fine if you think me a monster. Perhaps that's the closest anyone's come to the truth. But I digress. So why don't I tell you? It's not just one or two students. Don't fool yourself, darling.'
'It's a culture, a belief-system, ingrained for years, centuries. Muggle-borns are twenty-five per cent of wizarding society. Only forty years ago, segregation was legal, and we were barred from employment at the Ministry. And what do you think has happened since? Suddenly administration has flooded with mudbloods? That legislation has removed the separatism, discrimination, engrained in society? If you believe such fairytales, I can't help but think you daft.'
He grabs Hill's hand, still loosely cupping his tie.
'It hasn't changed. We may go to school, have a career at the Ministry, hold hope that things will get better, but those in power will always implement their beliefs into practice. And those wishing to rise in the ranks will always turn a blind eye. They will always keep people like us from achieving what we deserve. We will always be their lessers because of our numbers, our blood. And I refuse to be at the bottom,' he hisses.
'So, you should open your eyes to reality, Hill. That target on your back has only grown after today. The purebloods won't forget this. There's not a thing you can change about who you are, but perhaps your power can change how you're treated. My offer always stands.'
Tom pries Hill's hand off his tie and pulls away. Straightening his robes, he turns and leaves the moonlit Hospital Wing.