Chapter 17: Change is Inevitable
It's frightening. Irene can feel the apprehensive stares, the worried glances from Gryffindor, from the muggle-borns. It places invisible shackles on her. Afraid to set off a chain reaction leading to what, she's not sure. However, everyone's on edge as much as she is. The slightest twitch sets her instincts in flux. This latest incident has opened her view to how many eyes are on her. The Slytherins, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs. From them she senses disgust, apathy, worry, empathy, interest.
She wonders if it was like this before. Or perhaps this is a complication spurred by her vicious assault. Either way, noticing the stares gives her a strange sense of security and anxiety. Maybe if there's a next time, she'll see it coming.
Irene sits in the bright classroom. It's a Friday morning, meaning a double-blocked class of Charms with Professor Voight. He's a lean and tall man in his forties with sandy blonde hair and bright grey eyes. Probably from Germany-based on his accent. Out of all the professors, he's one of Irene's favourites. He's very clear about his expectations and plays no favours, which means she's nothing but a speck on his roster—close to the bottom unfortunately—and she doesn't mind that. It's better than the intense scrutiny of Polaris, and the anxious glances of Merrythought.
The professor takes long steps by his enchanted chalkboard, the stray rays from the windows catch on his skin. The soft and cool colours of green and blue decorate the room, yet at the same time fill it with warmth. On his desk lie only practical artefacts used to explain the various benefits that charms can offer. Yet in the very corner, there's a pot of incense that smells of smoke and spices. It's rare to see a professor with such things unless they're involved in the more spiritual areas of magic.
'Next week we are reviewing the eradication and disillusionment charms for your end-of-term exams. Dismissed,' Professor Voight says.
He turns from the students and begins twirling his wand, weaving spells to both erase and pack his things for lunch.
Irene stands from her seat in the auditorium. Both Iris and Minerva rise and flank her. They've been making faces at each other since the morning, but nevertheless stay stubbornly at her side. Irene glances at them to see the tense lines and narrowed eyes. She grimaces, looking at her other friends. Blythe gives a pinched look of apology before scampering off with Evelyn and Lillian. Traitor. Irene sighs. One by one, she packs her books.
The eyes on her slow her exit. Careless, or perhaps purposeful, comments whisper in the background.
"You think she faked it?" someone says.
"I wouldn't put it past her. She's been commanding attention since the first day of classes," another adds.
"Muggle-borns," they scoff.
Irene hunches in on herself, shoulders narrowing. She knows she shouldn't. She hasn't done anything wrong, but somehow that doesn't stop the flare of embarrassment that floods her. Her fingers take on a laboured pace. She'll be the last one to leave and among the last ones to walk to the Great Hall. No need to drive more attention to her. She stows her notebook in her bag, leather grazing her fingertips. Both Minerva and Iris finish packing before her, but instead of waiting outside, they stand at the end of the stairs locked in a glaring match. A dull throbbing at her forehead almost forces out another sigh. Irene rubs the point between her eyes. Steps and chatter fade as the students begin the trek to lunch. Taking a deep breath, she shrugs her bag over her shoulder and walks down the stairs to the exit. Her two friends trail her like bloody bodyguards, bickering behind.
Outside the doors and into the corridors, someone in Ravenclaw colours stands chattering to another. Irene flinches but keeps moving. Neither Minerva nor Iris has noticed anything. Her skin pales under her robes. And isn't that a shame? She shouldn't feel tense just because the girl in braids wears blue. Plus, she's fairly small. Minerva—based on the stories Irene has heard—could take her. Irene's fists are tense; she tries to will them to relax. When she shakes herself out of it, she almost bumps into someone. Luckily, Iris stops her before the crash, because, well, it's Malfoy.
He turns with either a sneer or just disgust. "Ah, Miss Hill," Malfoy says.
"Oh, uh," Irene says. Her attention flits here and there, never quite settling on the platinum blonde in front of her. The students that loiter in the halls stare from the corner of their eyes. This isn't good. She needs to avoid any more bad blood.
"Excuse me. Malfoy," Irene whispers.
Her feet are fast to step round him.
Abraxas watches as he's told to, as he's been taught to, as the sheepish Asian muggle-born totters foot to foot like a guilty child. He tsks at her behaviour. Improper. Timid. Ignorant. Graceless. No wonder Fawley has taken such an interest in the mannerless mudblood. She seems to embody all that the dim pureblood resists.
Chaos is something scarcely brought to the stage, but it occurs naturally when an influential chest piece begins its move. He's seen it with Tom Riddle, with Longbottom, and even Lestrange to a lesser extent. However, usually such chaos is built with intent. A motive, if you will. Yet with Hill it seems to circulate her like the eye of a storm and at its centre she's nothing but oblivious to what she destroys. Speaking against Renee, refusing Cadwallader, occupyingRiddle's attention, expelling Hornby.
He doesn't like that, doesn't like the wild manner in which she's disturbed the castle's equilibrium, hates that her ignorance allows her to do so without knowing what she's destroying.
Hill looks at her feet, murmuring something he barely catches before trying to skirt around him.
Malfoy leans into her ear. "Ignorance doesn't absolve you from liability, Hill. Mind your actions before you stir up enough trouble to ruin us all."
He straightens his robes, not bothering to look at her expression, and turns on his heels for the Great Hall passing by Riddle as he goes.
Discerning one's ability—and in the process, their essence as well—has never been difficult for Tom. People are, after all, keen to show themselves off at every chance. Take Malfoy, for instance. The calm, careful power he holds so loftily. A confidence, entitlement, that's born of privilege. He does not flaunt himself, as he believes there is nothing to prove, yet he rarely rises above what is expected. That's why his reaction to Hill does not surprise Tom.
To live comfortably, to live without struggle, is to live coddled in stagnation. So Malfoy's slip of the tongue at a deviation from his predictable life is expected. The unsettling tides of discord being sewn into Hogwarts is nothing to write off. However, Tom can see how it affects Malfoy to a greater extent. What is unanticipated to him is something of a thorn in his side, something he is unadvised to react to. In the end, Malfoy is a capable peer that will meet expectations, but his potential is limited.
'Are we going to ignore the erumpent in the room?' Rosier asks.
His expression is carefully blank. He's always so eager to stir up trouble. It's a mercy he touched on the topic in the comfort of the Slytherin Common Room.
Malfoy ruffles almost like those gaudy peacocks his family keeps. His platinum hair shines an unflattering green haze over pale strands and even more pale skin.
'I don't see why we should address it when we can do nothing,' Malfoy says.
'A moot point, then?' Nott asks.
'A moot point?' Avery scoffs. 'No. There's plenty to do about the mud'—he glances around, sees the scathing looks from most of the other members—'muggle-borns.'
Isn't that interesting? The slur has not been thrown so easily about under all the tension in Hogwarts. Tom turns the page of his book. He sits at the edge of their group, in the loveseat against the wall. The group is at his side, a collection of conjured stools and throw pillows, keeping them comfortably situated.
'So, what will you add to the conversation, then?' Malfoy asks.
'That this isn't right. That we should not be treated like this. Expulsion, no matter what the professors call Hornby's so-called "leave," is intolerable!' Avery says, restarting in a barely concealed whisper.
The other groups that occupy the common room glance over but are otherwise not privy to his treacherous suggestions. To his side, Lestrange is quiet, unwilling to engage. However, they've clearly been talking if Avery has noticed Hornby's timely absence.
'We could be making a larger deal out of something minor. What if Hornby had a family emergency?' Nott says.
'Shut it, Eldwyn,' Avery glares. 'Just because you've got a pair of rose-tinted glasses doesn't mean the rest of us do.'
Although the conversation sheds light on the positions of his company, Tom finds his ears drifting, only somewhat engaged. Everything has shifted.
There's an unsettling tension weighing the halls of Hogwarts since Wednesday morning. A clash of long-standing beliefs. A muggle-born's sudden hospitalisation and a pureblood's absence subjects of intense speculation. To Slytherins in particular, this moment could represent a massive shift in the operations of the school. A student assaulted, and another on leave? It's obvious to the perceptive. As Avery said, this is expulsion in everything else other than name. The only question is when the professors will announce Hornby's unfortunate transfer.
Tom sighs. Better to watch and wait.
The book that sits to his side glimmers from the charm interwoven in it—gold rippling across the silver thread embroidered on its black leather. The Gift of Fortuna. Written in the 12th century, a first-hand account on unique magics, and the first recording of a phenomenon called Latent Awakening.
'…your suggestion?' drawls Malfoy.
'Well, that's…. I'm not sure. But the Gryffindors are supporting their supposed "victim" so we should do the same.' Avery furrows his brows, glancing nervously to Lestrange.
'But shouldn't the Ravenclaws "rally" then?' Rosier cocks his head.
This book was one of his first reads after he learned his ability to speak to snakes meant more than what Dumbledore let on. His lips twitch. A latent developer. Said to be a child that develops magic well into their formative years. Their powers are unique, abilities ancient in origin.
'Stop being pedantic, Jacques,' Avery snaps, garnering Tom's attention. 'Anyway, we should make a move. Hill isn't even in that bad of shape. Hardly a sympathetic sort,' he whispers.
Malfoy scoffs at the idea. Tom does as well, albeit silently, Avery is hasty as ever and such impatience has likely been flamed by Lestrange.
'You think it was some childish hex that landed Hornby out of the castle?' Rosier asks.
'What else would it be? So what if she's…,' he turns to Tom, his voice in a whisper, 'well-connected? It's about time someone humbled her.'
Tom sighs. Some part of him almost regrets adding Avery to his inner circle. Ability. Potential. Avery lacks such traits in spades. He taps his fingers across his lap. But the object of Avery's ire?
'—What else would it be?' Black sighs, irritated and places his quill down, fully directing his attention to the conversation. 'Perhaps an attempt on a student's life in the walls of Hogwarts? Expulsion at Hogwarts hasn't occurred since Dippet's transition to Headmaster. He doesn't punish students with disciplinary measures unless it's a rather serious offence.'
'If that's true, then it's certainly foolish.' Rosier glances at Tom and back to the group.
'You think it foolish?' Lestrange narrows his eyes at Rosier.
Rosier does nothing but shrug.
'I do,' Malfoy interjects. 'Her expulsion may be for the better of purebloods. How could one be so messy as to attempt something here, of all places? We are two weeks from break. Could she not have waited? A school that has thrown a founder out for having views against mudbloods,' he spits, the word ever so easy to leave his lips. 'How is this surprising?'
Mulciber returns to his studies with a scathing glare at Malfoy, who only looks him over once, a brow raised.
'Perhaps it was to be a message,' Lestrange suggests.
'A laughable one that turned on her,' Black says.
Lestrange tightens his fist, white knuckled.
Tom sees it. He watches the dangerous indignation that builds in Lestrange, but his mind is elsewhere. On the one person that seems to have stolen his attentions. His thumb trails across gold letters. There's so little information needed to posit a theory, yet so much more necessitated to prove it. A smile rises to his lips. What he has gathered throughout the semester is undeniable. Damning.
'Anyway, I think we should all just lie low until the holiday blows by. Have you seen the professors? They all look ill,' Nott says, trying to quell the tension.
'Or maybe this is the right time to do something. The weekend's coming up. That means Hogsmeade and professors with split priorities.' Avery smirks.
'If we are back to the juvenile courtyard bullying, I'll pass.' Rosier rolls his eyes, but there's a glint in them.
'Lestrange?' Avery asks.
Lestrange's brows furrow. 'I have exams to focus on.'
'Actually, I have one last matter.' Malfoy's eyes turn to Tom. 'And what of you, Riddle? I imagine this is quite…complicated for you as someone with such unfortunate status.'
Tom smiles, his face a mask of apathy. Malfoy prods at him, hoping to find something to use and looking at him as a threat, something to be snuffed out.
'I wouldn't say it's complicated….' Tom loftily removes his hand from the tome. 'Foolish arrogance always ends terribly. Better that someone as impulsive as that ruins themselves without dragging another down, wouldn't you say?' He glances to Lestrange with a cutting smile.
Lestrange turns away from him, paling.
'Is that what you think of those like Hornby?' Malfoy asks, but there's another question lying beneath.
Nott tenses. 'Uh, the night feast will end in another hour. Why don't we head to the Great Hall?'
Malfoy stares at him with narrowed eyes. Tom ignores it and plucks his book up to stow it in his bag. The rest of the group begin to pack.
'Did anyone manage to get in the Head Unspeakable's good graces?' Black asks, helping Nott refocus the conversation.
'I'd rather speak with Undersecretary Shafiq if we could choose. Although I asked for pointers on campaigning. He was very…brisk,' Malfoy says as they exit the chamber doors.
'Why was he even here in the first place?' Avery asks.
'I think it had something to do with the dark artefact Merrythought brought in for the seventh years. The Head Unspeakable is a master in cursed items,' Nott says.
'He's a few centuries old. He's a master in most things,' Rosier sighs.
'Don't act as if you didn't care. I saw you chatting with him whenever classes were out,' Avery says.
'I'm not so daft as to pass over the opportunity offered. Though Abraxas is not wrong. He is not a patient sort,' Rosier says.
'That's right, you want to work at the Department of Mysteries,' Nott says.
Rosier shrugs. 'Maybe. Or I could just apprentice in another country. Less government interference.'
They chat regarding their apprenticeship offers and applications as they tread the stairs up to the ground level. Tom doesn't add to the conversation unless asked. It's boring really. Almost like clockwork, they begin the same bi-weekly conversation regarding their futures. Not much changes, as expected, and yet no one has tired of this repetition. They head down the last corridor to the double doors.
'Oh, lovely. Seems we have an unwanted guest.' Malfoy rolls his eyes.
It's late in the evening, dinner starting nearly two hours ago. Some students are already taking their leave from the hall. They loiter, simply staying to engage in chat before the Hogsmeade trip tomorrow. Tom watches the surprise visitor make her approach.
He smiles wide and expectant. This can only be regarding one matter. His expectations don't deceive him. Hill's focused eyes are only for him in this moment as they are always so intent on whatever she fixates on. But he sees the tremble of her lip and the stilted stride of her walk. With only a day out of the Hospital Wing, the terrors she faced seem to weigh her. Tom does not meet her halfway. To his side, Mulciber looks ravenous, an unfed dog about to strike. Seems Hill hasn't spoken to him then.
'Riddle,' Hill glances away from him and then almost looks as if she regrets it, but then bows toward Mulciber before turning her eyes back on him. 'Do you have any time?'
'Now, Irene, what did I tell you about calling me Riddle?' he croons mockingly.
She tenses, and Tom smiles. 'Yes. Well, we also had the one conversation, and decided to keep formalities, right?'
He almost laughs at her terribly pinched smile. 'Quite right.' He glances at Rosier. 'I will join you later then.'
Hill breathes out and is quick on her feet to turn and leave the Great Hall's entrance, not even waiting for Tom. When they make for a quieter corridor, Hill is not foolish enough to travel too far from the crowds. She's learned somewhat from theirs and Hornby's encounter.
The light of the candles flicker as they walk. Tom observes McGonagall's scowl and Fawley's usual presence as they lean against the wall. Hill gives the two of them a wide berth, apparently not wishing for her friends to overhear, before stopping to turn to him.
'A rather abnormal deviation from your usual avoidance,' Tom says.
Hill frowns and pushes her chest up. But her eyes and subsequent acrid anxiety give it all away. False bravado. Gryffindors.
'Yeah, don't get used to it,' Hill says.
'So, to what do I owe this pleasure?' Tom smiles.
'Can you drop the mask?' Hill grimaces.
'Oh, come now, are you one to become distracted by such displays? I'm surprised you could hold such attention during our tutoring sessions.'
'Fine. Ignore what I said,' She bites out.
He looks at her, urging her to continue.
She takes one last glance back to McGonagall. 'About Wednesday.'
'Yes. Wednesday.' Tom smiles wider.
Hill bristles. 'I see you already know why I'm here.'
'Well, if you weren't so obvious about it, perhaps I would have been left guessing for another minute or two. But it appears your lying is limited to certain matters.'
She breathes out, closing her eyes and restarts. 'This' — she gestures between the two of them — 'whatever it is, is between us alone. I don't want Minerva involved in whatever you get up to with the other Slytherins or alone.'
'Oh? And why would I do anything to her in the first place?'
He cocks his head, paces about her, eyes not on Hill but on the student that lurks behind. McGonagall stands, eyes narrowed on him, fingers dangerously twitching over her wand, but nonetheless immobile, leashed by whatever lead Hill has consciously or unconsciously placed over her.
'I quite like her, you see.' He stares out in McGonagall's direction. 'She's not hapless like the others. Adequately powerful, and what she doesn't have in agility and power, she makes up for in control and intelligence. Something as simple as misplaced anger can easily be forgiven, as she's quite a valuable addition, wouldn't you say, Hill?'
Tom turns away from McGonagall's reddening face and back to Hill. Her frown has deepened.
'A valuable addition?'
'Yes. You've gained two wonderful pawns, haven't you?'
'Is that what you think they are?' She stares at him incredulously.
'Yes. It's much easier to find someone well worth your time if you measure them.'
'What about what's important? Friendship, trust, kindness, love?'
Tom's nose rises in disgust. 'Why can't one find that in someone of adequate standard?'
Hill splutters unattractively, her face reddening. 'Are you telling me, everyone who flocks about you is simply some number? You measure them on a ledger of sorts? If someone doesn't meet standards, they don't matter?'
'It's efficient. Surrounding yourself with the best will only further your ability. Though, I admit I quite enjoy Rosier's company.'
Her nose rises in disgust. 'Alright, you know what? Fine, Riddle, have your weird qualifications. All I want to know is that Minerva's excluded from whatever blacklist you have.'
'If you wish it, then perhaps I'll consider it.'
She narrows her eyes. 'How…generous of you.'
Apprehension colours the air. Tom revels in the fear he holds over her. But more than that, he finally sees Hill for what she is. Every piece of the puzzle has come together. In this empty corridor, under the light of the evening's darkening, he holds the answers he has desperately sought. The thin, small girl in front of him, with hair as black as the mind inside her, and eyes a void as vast as the power she holds, is a rarity. A Latent Awakener. Holder of Ancient Magic. One blessed by Fortuna. Months spent investigating her, placing his plans on hold, have not been fruitless.
'You'll find I am quite generous with those I like, Hill.' Tom smiles, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. 'As someone as uniquely talented as you are, would you not deserve such grace?'
Steps echo from down the hall. McGonagall approaches like a stalking cat. His attention flickers back to Hill one last time.
'Do keep that in mind. I wouldn't want our relationship to sour,' he says low, eyes on McGonagall in threat.
Hill stiffens and looks at him with horror.
'Alright, it's been five minutes. We have somewhere else to be, Irene.' McGonagall never takes her eyes off him.
'Till next time then, Hill,' Tom says, then steps to McGonagall's side, placing a hand on her shoulder. 'No harsh feelings, right Minerva?'
He hears the squeal of her jaw, tightly set. 'Yes. I…apologise for taking things too far the other afternoon.' Her head lowers in a stiff nod.
'As long as you understand,' he says. And then, without waiting for her response, he walks towards the stairs.
He has other matters to attend to tonight. Tom will admit this whole matter with McGonagall has become an area of morbid amusement. Who knew McGonagall could be so volatile? Or perhaps it's Tom that makes her so. Either way, he can use Hill's vulnerability against her. Her resentment over her power renders her a non-threat. And she seems to care so desperately for those close to her. He can use that as leverage. Letting her scramble and worry over something will weaken her defences. His fingers trill against his thigh. She can wait now that her secret is tightly held in his grasp. It's only a matter of time before she falls into it as well. And if she doesn't willingly submit?
Well, there are always other options.
For now, dinner, and the research projects due next week for final projects are of concern. Tom leisurely walks to the Great Hall. Once he's done with the meal and work, there's a meeting, after all. He breezes through the meal, his menial tasks, thoughts occupied with other matters. Before he knows it, the Knight's meeting approaches.
The Come and Go Room is dark tonight. A collection of practice dolls, brown wood carved in a humanoid shape, are spaced out about the room bordered in mirrors. At the moment, the chamber has prepared for their monthly practice of spells struck from the Hogwarts's curriculum. Scant light from floating candles illuminates the space. Awkwardly corralled in the corner, lies several chaises and a low table at the centre.
Discussions regarding Grindelwald have been relatively short this evening. It seems there's a rather interesting shift at the moment—no push for territory. A lull of sorts. Which can only mean that either side must be working to expand their resources and influence in some other manner. Greece's Undersecretary, Germany's Minister, and Croatia's DMLE Head have been caught meeting with various overseas diplomats. Perhaps they are moving towards a final push.
'Now then,' Tom steps round the furniture, gesturing for the gathering to stand.
He flicks his wand to rid them of the tables and chairs as the group vacates the area. This month's spell selection has been altered to match the particular demands of the Knights in this moment.
'As we've been under intense scrutiny as of late, there has been a minor deviation in our routine. Jacques?' He turns to Rosier, who takes up his wand and nods his head.
His shoes tap against the quartz floor till he comes square with a practice doll. He flourishes his wrist in a transfiguration spell. The statuette warps and twists, its image settling in the form of a cat.
'Depletus,' Rosier spells casually.
Green magic hits the cat. It howls, screeches, writhes as red tears shed from its eyes until it stills. A mess of fur matted by body fluid sags into the tiled ground. The group stares and whispers.
'Perfect,' Tom says, his robes billowing past his members to stand at Rosier's side.
Hand outstretched, he turns his palm up to present his wand.
'We will be learning a purification spell.' He twirls his wand in a long, swooping shape. 'Proluo,' he says. The white spell rolls over Rosier's wand like liquid, before settling and sinking into the wood. 'As you can see, it is a light-based charm used to "wash." However, there is another use. If the intent is proper, it will remove evidence of anything ill-intentioned.'
'Priori Incantatem.'
Rosier's wand lights up. Spell patterns flow out of it in an abstract rendition of their forms, yet the most recent spell is absent.
'We all know of the Exculptus spell, but as it is darker magic, the one who casts it still leaves a trail. This spell, Proluo, can double as a simple cleansing spell. Therefore, it is used for refreshing fabrics. It should supply an adequate excuse if you engage in anything untoward.'
The knights look excited. Nott in particular looks awed. However, Mulciber's eyes are trained on Lestrange, who wears an impassive expression. His Occlumency barriers are raised in an almost sharp resistance tonight. Tom turns and raises a hand for them to begin their spell casting.
Dull grey and yellow shoot from his followers' wands as they test the spell. Tom waits and supplies help to those that need it alongside Rosier. One by one they grow used to the charm. Tom wastes not a moment to move onto the next. A blood curse. Incredibly difficult to master. A spell that, if used properly, can persist generations past the victim, if the caster is magically powerful, or precise enough. He himself has been practicing this for nearly three months. However, he had focused on the wordless incantation, as the spell itself is quite long.
Transfigured animals are supplied by the room as they continue their practice. It's a mess, but an expected one. Rosier opts to Scourgify the gore and Tom continues to supply advice. It's gruesome, possibly sadistic, all things hated by ethical teachings. But nonetheless it is magic. And knowledge is power. Why should they limit themselves when so much sits outside the lines?
At the end of their sessions, Tom demands their attention once more.
'I have another announcement.' He glances at Orion Black. 'As you know, the season of rebirth, Imbolc will greet us in the new year. Starting in January, we shall hold our annual tournament. I offer a chance for you to change your rankings at the table. At the tourney's end, I have an announcement to make. We will draw lots at the start of next semester to arrange the matches.'
The knights turn to each other with assessing eyes. 'Now then, until next week. Renatus, we have something to discuss.'
Tom is always the last to arrive and the first to leave during these meetings. However, today he has a few matters to discuss, and like a fly caught in a web, Lestrange stays. He makes no resistance to Tom's order.
'Ri—My Lord,' he bows his head, but his body betrays him in its stiff lines. It appears the comment in the common room has lingered in his mind.
'Renatus, you seem distracted lately. Perhaps I can be of assistance.' Tom says.
Something loosens in his posture. He looks up imploringly, not finding any of the sharp knowing that Tom displayed earlier.
'Yes. I…admit the castle's recent uproar has taken over my thoughts.'
His expression is humble; however, his eyes are sharp.
Not as sharp as Tom's.
Lestrange's lips twitch in the need to smile at the easily predicted shift in topic or perhaps sneer at the blatant self-serving behaviour.
'Speak your mind,' Tom says.
'Are we not making a statement this year?' Lestrange asks.
Life is a balancing act, a game, a set of conditions and loopholes. Tom has sat on the fringes enough times to understand its intricacies.
'There are matters with the muggle-born students. I believe now would be an apt time to make our mark,' Lestrange continues.
Tom quirks a brow, feigning interest. 'And why would you say that?'
'We are divided. The purebloods who resist this unwelcome change are looking for a leader. I am afraid they will land their sights on Malfoy, who is…well. I find his passivity unfitting for such a position.' His lips twitch and quiver in excitement.
Desires. Manipulations. Some are so greedy to claw at their wants, they forget to watch as well.
'Ah yes, that would be unfortunate. Yet, at the moment, I am blind. To move, I must know the field. You understand, do you not, Renatus?'
It's an ask for assistance—what appears weak, naïve—and something he does not require.
Tom has always been a dark horse, someone hidden in the shadows waiting and watching. Seeing all sides has given him advantages, has allowed him to amass power through careful steps. However, such gradual progress can evade the attentions of the less perceptive.
'Yes. Of course,' Lestrange says. 'And you would not be opposed to this falling back on Hill?' He tests with a loathsome glint in his eyes.
'Perhaps. Tell me, what do you know of the attack? If I could hear testimony regarding the incident, I could be convinced,' Tom prods.
'That's….'
'I understand you hold disdain for Hornby. However, her family is a close ally of yours. No doubt they have heard of the event. It would do well to shed some light on her…status. As I've come to know you've been keeping such information away from me.'
Lestrange swallows and checks the room to see all knights have vacated. There's no Avery. Only Tom, Mulciber, and he are left in the chamber.
'Yes. It is as you say. Hornby was presented as one of our own. However, she is a half-blood. I believe her lesser traits have affected her.' His fist tightens. 'Her grievance with Hill was nothing more than the usual barbarism of those with that disgusting blood. She flaunted and messily handled her attempt on Hill. Not one pureblood would have the unfounded arrogance to do such a thing.'
'Hmm. I see.' Tom taps his finger against his chin.
Lestrange watches him and his lips twitch in a smile.
'Though I must say, as the prefect on scene, I was privy to some information. Miss Hornby acquired several useful tools, it seems. A human transfiguration bracelet and second wand. I did not believe the Hornbys to be such a resourceful family.'
He watches the bob of Lestrange's Adam's apple and the shift in his eyes. 'My father may have supported her in this act. She has been persistent regarding her ire towards Hill. There was no stopping her behaviour. If my family was involved, it was only to facilitate the disagreement to keep things quick and clean.'
'Oh? To facilitate an act of barbarism, then? A dark artefact from the Lestranges, as well as an unregistered wand, impressive gifts to quell a bastardchild. Or perhaps there's another reason?' He cocks his head.
'I admit your sister's shift in temperament has not escaped my attention.' Tom smiles with all his teeth.
From the look in Lestrange's eyes, he knows he's been caught.
'I have been informed by Amedeo of your unusual behaviour prior to the incident. It is hard to believe that you or your twin were ignorant of Hornby's intentions,' he continues. 'Tell me, did your sister beg to have your father assist her? Did she whine and protest like a child to get what she wanted? Or perchance did you step forward, let unfounded arrogance drive you to promise your father you would keep your name out of the cleanup, fallout? In the end, was the ire at a mudblood stomping on your name worth the strike to your pride?' He laughs mockingly.
'Arrogance ends terribly. So, is that what this attempt was, Lestrange? Do you wish for me to clean up your mess? Help your father look at you with something other than disdain?'
Lestrange lowers his head. 'N-no. I have overstepped. I—'
In a flash, Tom's hand swipes the air in a silent curse. Lestrange's mouth closes, words sealed. No more manipulations. No more excuses.
'Would you prefer to drag me down alongside you?'
He does not give Lestrange the opportunity to respond. Instead, he allows his wand to slide into his palm. Tom fingers the bleached wood casually, mind whirring on what to do of Lestrange. He watches the impatient twitch of Mulciber's hands as well. Envious. How he must wish to be the hand that strikes. Tom points his wand, eyes on Mulciber rather than Lestrange. This should serve as a lesson for both.
'Crucio,' Tom spells.
In a splash of green, power floods his veins, elation coursing through his head. It's addicting, dark magic, with an excitement that never quite satisfies with each use. He can see why many wizards fall prey to its thrall. Tom feels a heady flush rise on the back of his neck, not sure if it's from the sight of Lestrange convulsing on the floor, the snarl that makes it to Mulciber's teeth, or the force of this magic. He waits a minute, then releases the spell, lifting the silencing curse as well.
'I'll remind you, since you seem to be so terribly forgetful. What did I say about Miss Hill?' Tom asks, barely hiding the lightheaded flush that's stolen his breath.
'That…' Lestrange pants. 'That she was powerful?' Lestrange bites his tongue in his haste.
'That she was to be watched, and only watched. It seems you needed reminding. Overstepping has landed you here. I do not give second chances, Lestrange. I will not be manipulated by such poorly executed attempts. Do not forget, I have offered you a position in the Knights and can take it away if I deem so.'
Tom looks down at the waste that Lestrange sits in, his robes wet from his own mess. He tosses him a potion, not willing to step closer.
'Consider this a mercy. The sight of your quaking limbs is an eyesore.'