Very late - the first time I've ended up posting on Sunday rather than Saturday - but it's here at last. I took quite a bit of time to edit it. The chapter is now about five hundred words longer than it would have been. Please note that the chapter was edited at a time that I probably should have spent sleeping - there may be typos. If so, feel free to let me know so I might correct them.
I've started a Discord. I intend for it to be a small, relaxed server - nothing to fancy or grand. If you have any questions about my writing, want to discuss my work, or simply want to hang out, you're more than welcome to join. The link is in my profile.
Read, review, and feel free to point out any errors/inconsistencies.
The next chapter will be published the coming Saturday.
Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate
The Riddle's Plight
IX. Eyes of Scarlet, Eyes of Ice
It wasn't often that Harry found himself surprised. It used to happen much more often - but that had been more than a year ago, back when he had just been introduced to the Wizarding World. Since then, Harry had done everything in his power to ensure that didn't happen again.
This, however, was unbelievable.
"A cat." Harry repeated faintly, staring at Hermione in disbelief, "You used hair from a cat?"
Hermione nodded, her sobs now even louder. Streaks of tears matted her furry features. The hair looked soft and thick, and all bushy like what it had been before, back when it had only covered the top of her head.
Good thing it was me who found her and not Malfoy.
From beside her, Ronald Weasley gently wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
"It's fine, Hermione." he assured her, patting her back reassuringly, "Pomfrey will sort you out -"
Harry snorted.
"Good luck explaining this."
Ron grimaced. On Hermione's other side, Neville fidgeted nervously with the ends of his robes.
"She d-doesn't ask many questions." he mumbled quietly, "Madam Pomfrey, I mean."
Harry shrugged. His eyes combed over the pudgy Gryffindor. Neville Longbottom was covered from head to toe in Slytherin robes several sizes too big. The fine silk sagged on the sides, and a few extra inches of woven material pooled at his feet. He shuffled uncertainly, not looking Harry in the eye.
Not that he needs to. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he's thinking.
Harry's fingers slipped into the pockets of his robes. They wrapped around something long, thin and cool. Harry toyed with the end of his wand, the ends of his lips curving downwards.
"There's no way Pomfrey won't ask anything." he told the trio. His fingers rose from his pockets, and he pointed at Hermione, "I mean, she's half a bloody cat at this point - and even if she wasn't, Madam Pomfrey would probably still be able to figure out exactly what potion you used -"
"So you know then?" interjected Ron, his eyes narrowed.
Harry nodded irritably.
Because of Emily. Not because of me. I saw it in her notebook after all.
A furry, almost pawed hand pressed against Hermione's eyes as she wiped her tears away. Bright yellow eyes met Harry's. He could feel the uncertainty that swam within them.
"You wouldn't have found that potion in any of our school textbooks." said Hermione, watching him very carefully, "I had to get the recipe from the Restricted Section. You wouldn't be likely to find it anywhere else."
Ron's gaze narrowed further. Harry frowned, his fingers returning to the insides of his pockets.
"You found the recipe in the Restricted Section." Harry corrected slowly, the possible lie slipping smoothly from his lips, "And I didn't make it, I just wanted to know what it was.
"Besides," he added, "The best Potion-Brewers in our year are in Slytherin. I'm bound to pick up a thing or two."
From Daphne. I'm not learning a thing from Malfoy, no matter how good he is.
Harry shifted, tilting his neck to the side. Opposite him, Hermione stumbled slightly. Ron and Neville tightened their grasps around her, holding her up.
"How'd you know we were here, then?" asked Ron suspiciously. From beside him, Neville shuffled uncomfortably. Harry tracked the boy's nervous fiddling, frowning again.
You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Not that I would, anyway.
"You're awfully loud." Harry lied, "It wasn't exactly hard to figure out where you were going. You're lucky most of the school is out."
Ron glared at him. Harry could almost see the gears turning in the boy's head.
"And what about earlier?" asked Ron, "Did you know we were - well, that we were us?"
The ends of Harry's lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
"You mean when you used the Polyjuice Potion to sneak into the Slytherin Common room?" he forced back a smile, "As Crabbe and Goyle, of all people?"
The two people who never say a damn thing. And you tried to interview us, disguised as them.
Ron shifted uncertainly. His eyes flicked to Neville, then back at Harry again.
"Well," he demanded, "Did you?"
Harry shrugged.
"I had a feeling." he admitted indifferently, "Like I said, you're awfully loud. You think awfully loudly as well -"
Harry paused. Scarlet eyes loomed in the darkness, glowing malevolently. An ethereal, detached voice rang in Harry's ears.
" . . . I haven't used it on you before now, if that is what you're wondering - which, of course, it is. You think awfully loudly . . ."
The darkness curved, growing more and more daring with every second that past. The light no longer held it back - tendrils of darkness coalesced into someone tall, thin, and beautiful. Opposite Harry stood a woman with long, perfectly straight black hair, high cheekbones, and blood red eyes.
Her. The real her.
Harry shivered. The clattering of his teeth rang within his skull. His palms felt sweaty, in his breaths were long, laboured, and heavy.
Breathe. She isn't there, she can't be -
Harry closed his eyes. The darkness took over his vision, and for a moment he saw nothing at all. Slowly, he lifted his eyelids again. He turned back to the corner of the room.
The woman with the blood red eyes was gone.
Harry shook his head, turning back to the three Gryffindors. They all stood huddled together, watching him nervously. Harry could feel the touch of fear he saw in their eyes.
"I -" Harry paused, struggling to find words, "I'm not the Heir. Of Slytherin, I mean. I don't know who it is, either. But you should probably worry about getting to Madam Pomfrey before it's too late. I reckon the longer you wait, the more difficult it'll be to turn you right again."
Harry spun around, not waiting for a response. He shoved the swinging wooden door out of the way, and when he heard it slam loudly behind him, he took off.
Corridors blurred past him. Harry couldn't hear the clattering of his feet, nor the whirling of his robes through the air. Only his heartbeat, loud and heavy, rang in his chest like a song on repeat.
Something loomed in the distance. Long wooden planks framed a doorway at the edge of the hall. Harry slowed to a stop, gazing up at the room before him.
Never before had the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom seemed so intimidating.
His fingers reached for the door handle. Harry felt a sliver of magic escape him, and with a soft click, the door slid open. Harry stepped inside, his heart still racing
The room was almost identical to what it had been nearly a year ago. The undersized dragon skeleton still hung from chains near the back, and bright white light bled through the windows on the left-hand side. At the very front of the room sat the same desk Professor Baker had once sat behind.
Only it wasn't Baker. Lilian Baker died before I ever had the chance to meet her.
The rest of the room was covered with portraits. They varied in shapes, sizes, and colours, but every last portrait all depicted the same arrogant wizard.
Harry felt something growl angrily in his chest. He pulled his wand from his robes. It burnt beautifully in his hand, sending a rush of magic through his veins. Harry shivered as it washed over him.
Suddenly, the feeling faded away. Harry glanced around the classroom again, his eyes jumping from one portrait to the next. A cruel, almost vindictive smile stretched across his features.
Get out.
Harry slashed his wand across his chest. The air around him distorted, and all at once, the many portraits crumbled into ash. Harry nodded to himself, his eyes roaming the classroom that was now exactly as it had once been.
Back when everything was better. Back when we used to sit here, or in her office, eating chocolate frogs together. Back when we spent hours here, just talking -
Harry winced. His wand was burning again - only this time it hurt.
Why? What was the point, what was the reason -
Thick, angry magic swirled through his chest, soaring through his veins like molten lava. Harry felt his eyes nearly roll into the back of his skull.
Out. Get out, get out now -
His wand arced upwards, slashing across his chest again. Their was a loud crack, and all the chairs, desks, and targets all crumbled to bits.
Emerald eyes combed over the ruins. Splintered bits of wood stuck out beneath what remained. Harry shifted uncertainly.
Nonverbal magic, I think. And at the age of twelve. Emily will be happy.
His eyes suddenly froze. Harry felt his lips slide into a thin, straight line.
If Snape ever finds out about this, I'm dead.
The hook-nosed Potions Professor swirled within his mind. Harry tossed him aside, gritting his teeth.
She was there fore me. She taught me, she'd been the first to really give a shit -
"But she didn't." Harry murmured, "Not really."
Not when it mattered most.
Harry slumped to the floor, his arms wrapping around his knees. Hot, thick tears swam up to the surface of glassy eyes, but he didn't dare let a single tear slip. He stared at the corner of the room with unseeing eyes, daring her to come back.
She did. Scarlet eyes emerged from the darkness, watching his every move. Harry pushed himself to his feet, edging closer.
"You should've finished me off all those years ago, Voldemort." whispered Harry softly, "You tried, too. But you failed."
Harry hesitated. The bright red eyes bore into his own.
Not real. Remember.
Harry leaned closer, swallowing his fear.
"It's my turn now." he hissed, a single tear streaking down his cheek, "And I'm going to destroy you. I'm going to rip you from limb to fucking limb -"
Scarlet eyes blinked down at him. Harry grimaced, holding its gaze.
"Make sure you don't fail again, Voldemort."
Because I won't.
-(xXx)-
Harry stared down at the golden plate laid before him, watching as his roast turkey began cutting itself into small, bite-sized pieces.
It was Christmas dinner now. The grounds, covered entirely in pure white snow, glimmered beautifully. All who had stayed back for the Winter Holidays - with the exception of Hermione and Madam Pomfrey - found themselves seated along a single table in the center of the Great Hall.
The festive mood tried and failed to drown out the gloomy mood of the Hogwarts students. On the left side sat Neville and Ron, who both were looking as though they had just been told the worst news they could possibly hear. Malfoy sat across from them. He was glaring daggers at Crabbe and Goyle, who were both happily eating their food, unaware that they had done anything wrong at all.
Harry frowned, his fingers reaching for the utensils by his side.
At least that Ravenclaw girl seems happy.
Luna Lovegood, as she had told him in a strange, dreamy voice, was seated directly to his left. She was cheerfully prodding her pork, whispering just about every curse word Harry had ever heard, and quite a few that he hadn't.
"They're useful, you see." she wisely told him, "Daddy says it helps the dead animals move on to the next life. Nobody likes being cursed at."
Harry nodded, smiling kindly.
She's got a point, I suppose.
Aside from the seven students, a number of Professors remained. Harry recognized most of them. His eyes landed upon a pretty witch with dark skin, rosy cheeks and jet-black hair. Beside her sat another witch - a brunette, one with fairer skin and soft brown eyes. Harry didn't know either of them.
They probably teach electives. I suppose they might be my teachers next year.
Harry raised his fork to his mouth, glancing around. As horrible as it might have sounded, he was almost pleased to note that no Hufflepuffs had remained for Christmas.
They wouldn't be able to stay in the same room as me without loosing it. I can thank Ernie Macmillan for that.
"Something on your mind, Harry?"
Harry turned to his right. Sitting directly beside him was none other than Professor Dumbledore. Adorned in garish Christmas robes coloured a bright red, the man looked all too much like a magical Father Christmas. The long, silvery beard certainly didn't help, either.
"No, sir." muttered Harry quietly, gently prodding his turkey once more. Dumbledore nodded kindly, returning to his food. Harry watched as the man chuckled at something Professor Flitwick said, neatly placing another morsel of meat into his mouth.
He could probably help. He must know what it's like, being who he is.
"Actually, sir," Harry murmured, "I - I - well, there is something on my mind."
Dumbledore swallowed his turkey, gently waving his hand as he lowered it back to his plate. Harry suddenly felt a kind, comforting feeling overcome him. The air around them shimmered for a moment before returning to normal.
A ward. I'll have to remember to look into those.
Dumbledore turned, his entire body facing Harry. A kind, gentle smile was etched upon his features, and he bowed his head ever-so-slightly. Harry shifted uncertainly.
"I've been having these nightmares." he explained quietly, "Only they aren't during the night - not often, anyway. They aren't . . . real. But they happen whenever I remember something about - about -"
"Voldemort." said Dumbledore softly.
Harry nodded. His eyes fell to the floor, and his lips slid into a thin, straight line.
"She was there for me." he whispered sadly.
She was my friend. At least, I thought she was.
Dumbledore frowned. His fingers curled around the end of his long, wispy beard, and he slowly nodded to himself.
"Do you recall our conversation at the end of your previous school year?" he asked at last.
Harry paused.
"About love?"
Dumbledore nodded.
"Emotions, Harry, are, in my humble opinion, a magic of unparalleled strength -"
"I don't love her -" hissed Harry incredulously, his palms balled and his eyes narrowed.
"I did not suggest anything of the sort." said Dumbledore patiently, "Even I, who many might describe as overly optimistic and forgiving, would not expect anything of the sort from you."
Harry nodded, sinking back into his seat. There was a slight pause as Dumbledore waited for him to regain his breath.
"I do, however, expect you to feel." the headmaster said, "What you feel, I do not know; perhaps that feeling is benevolent, perhaps it is . . . less so. But you do feel something - if you did not, you would not be so troubled."
"But I don't want to feel anything." pleaded Harry, "I don't want anything to do with her. She - she . . . I want her gone. Is that - is that bad?"
Dumbledore sat silently in his seat, his sorrowful eyes glancing off at nothing in particular. The table around them continued on as though nothing were happening. Only Snape, who sat opposite Harry, seemed to notice anything at all. Harry watched as he looked away, turning to talk to Professor McGonagall about something Harry couldn't hear. For the first time, Harry silently thanked the Potions Professor.
"No, Harry, it is not." said Dumbledore quietly, "It is only natural. I, in my youth, once found myself where you now stand. I felt exactly the same."
Harry frowned.
"You did?" he asked curiously.
Dumbledore nodded.
"He was a dear friend of mine. We were foolish in our youth - we chased what could not be chased, hoping to master what could not be mastered. Eventually, we clashed. My sister, Ariana, died in the conflict that ensued."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"As am I, Harry, as am I." Dumbledore paused, his wizened hands shaking slightly as he lowered them to the table's surface, "To this day, I do not know who cast the spell that took her from us. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps it was my younger brother, Aberforth. A part of me fears that it was me.
"After that, he and I were no longer friends." said Dumbledore, "We met again, many years later, and fought once more. I eventually prevailed."
"And what happened to him?"
"He was imprisoned." explained Dumbledore, his eyes dull, "I have not seen him since."
"Why not?"
"Because he means something." said Dumbledore simply, "That sort of magic lingers, Harry, for far longer than even the effects of the most powerful spells either of us will ever cast.
"You must come to terms with what you feel, Harry." implored the headmaster, "Whether those thoughts are cruel or kind - truly coming to terms with them is essential. I myself have not yet managed such a feat - I do not wish such a fate upon you."
"I think I have." Harry whispered, "Come to terms with it, I mean. I feel . . . determined. I know what I want to do now."
And I'll win. She won't take from me anymore. Not now, not ever again.
Dumbledore smiled softly, a faint twinkle returning to his blue eyes.
"That is good to hear, Harry." he said kindly, "It is well worth having to repair the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, I think."
Harry grinned sheepishly. The headmaster chuckled, lowering his half-moon spectacles to the brim of his nose.
"I am pleased to hear how you are handling the events of last year." Dumbledore told him, "The steps you are now beginning to take are ones I myself never took. I have no doubt you will be all the better for it."
With that, Professor Dumbledore waved his hand gently before him. The air shimmered once more, and Harry vaguely felt the wards fade into nothingness.
The remainder of Christmas dinner went by rather smoothly. A rather strange woman with spectacles that magnified her eyes (Professor Trelawney, if Harry remembered correctly) had predicted his death no less than seven times, but Harry had gotten used to it by now. Each prediction, Harry noted, was more bizarre than the last.
I'm not going to get mauled by a dragon, and I'm not stupid enough to be anywhere near one dementor, let alone a hundred.
Luna, however, seemed to find them fascinating. She hung on to Professor Trelawney's every word, occasionally adding strange comments of her own.
At long last, the food disappeared. The students and staff all stood from the table, making their way back to their respective rooms, all thoroughly filled. Harry turned to Dumbledore.
"Professor, could I ask you something?"
"You already have." said Dumbledore sagely, "I shall, however, answer another question of your choosing, unless I should have a good reason not to."
"Er - right. If it isn't too personal, sir - who was the man you were talking about?"
Dumbledore turned to him, a sad, sorrowful smile etched upon his features once more.
"Grindelwald, Harry. Gellert Grindelwald."
Harry froze, his eyes wide with shock.
-(xXx)-
"Is everything alright? You seem upset."
Harry stared at the diary, slowly rolling across his bed to pick it up.
It was New Year's Eve tonight. Up until a year ago, it was a day of little importance to him. He'd never been allowed to celebrate, after all - the Dursleys firmly believed that mixing him with fireworks would lead to disastrous results.
They probably thought I'd burn the house down.
That was alright with Harry. It hadn't ever seemed that big of a deal - just one day turning to the next. It had been happening for far, far longer than he had lived, and would continue to happen for a long, long time after he was gone.
But tonight was more than just New Year's Eve. Tonight was a night that would haunt Harry for a long, long time. Tonight was a night that, until half a dozen months ago, he might treasure.
Tonight, Lady Voldemort is born.
Harry scowled, picking up the diary and hopping off his bed. He sat firmly upon the floor, his back pressed against his bunk as he looked out his window. The eerie green light of the Great Lake highlighted his features as he absentmindedly held out a hand. A thin feather quill zoomed into it, and he began to write.
"Tonight's the night." he wrote softly, his quill just barely touching the page, "Voldemort was born tonight."
Harry closed his eyes, sinking against his four-poster. He felt the quill fall from his grasp and he let the diary drop into his lap. A long, sorrowful, breath escaped his mouth, and he opened his eyes once more.
"Dumbledore was right." he murmured aloud, "She did mean something."
She was my first friend. My mentor, too. The person I'd turn to whenever something went wrong.
But she was something different now. Something dark, twisted, and vile -
I won't make the same mistake Dumbledore made. I'll kill her. She'll be gone, and I'll be free.
Harry straightened up, returning his gaze to the diary that sat in his lap. He picked it up, silently summoning the battered quill back into his hand.
"You've never spoken much about her." Emily had written, "You're more than free to do so, if you'd like."
Harry frowned, searching for something to write.
"She was my friend." Harry wrote after a few moments, "My first. Our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher as well. She used to teach me outside of class. She meant a lot to me. She still does."
Harry watched as his words sunk into the diary. They were replaced almost at once.
"Even now?" asked Emily, her words thick and stiff, "She isn't still your friend, is she?"
"No." Harry scrawled back, "No, she isn't."
"Your enemy, then?"
"She's more than that." Harry explained, "I wouldn't admit it at first, but she is. What exactly she is, I'm not sure - but she represents everything I've got to overcome.
"And I will." he promised, "I'm going to fight her, I'm going to kill her. I won't make the same mistake Dumbledore made. I won't let her haunt me for the rest of my life."
Harry paused, breathing heavily as he waited for Emily to respond. After a long, silent moment, she did.
"Are you sure that's what you want?" she asked, her words long and thin, "I doubt anyone has more faith in you than I, but this is something else entirely. This isn't a school duel, Harry, nor a corridor fight - this is something far beyond anything you could comprehend."
"I know." Harry grimaced, dipping his quill in ink, "I know. But I'll get stronger, more powerful. I'm going to fight her, as equals - and I'll surpass her. I'm going to win, because losing isn't an option."
His words sank deep within the diary. Harry waited for Emily to scold him, to warn him of his foolishness or perhaps to reprimand his lack of thinking. But after what felt like for ever, a short line of neatly-written text appeared.
"I have faith in you, Harry. If anyone can do it, I know it's you."
Harry smiled.
"Thanks, Emily." Harry stood up, yawning, "I'd better get going now. We're staying in the Great Hall late tonight, to countdown the New Year."
Dumbledore's idea, definitely. He probably got it from those muggle tv shows.
Harry slid the diary shut, tossing it onto his bed as he changed into a new set of robes. He reached for his wand, tucking it into his robes before turning to examine his reflection in the mirror. An emerald-eyed bespectacled boy stared back at him.
Four others stood behind him.
A man whom Harry looked quite a lot like stood off to one side, a beautiful woman with crimson hair standing to his right. Their features were blurred. It had been a year since Harry had last seen them; it was becoming harder to remember now.
The woman with the curly black hair was fading, too. She stood off to the other side, giggling madly as she smiled at Harry. There was a sort of insane mirth shining in her eyes, one that perfectly matched her cackling voice.
The girl that stood by his side, however, was perfectly clear.
Not that I'm surprised. I don't think I'll ever forget her, not until the day I die.
Her long black hair was perfectly straight. It neatly framed her face, a stark contrast to her soft, pale skin. She had perfectly white teeth and curved eyebrows. Hazel eyes sat above high cheekbones, watching Harry with a fondness that seemed reserved just for him.
Just like in the mirror -
"Ouch!"
Harry jumped, clamping a hand to his forehead. Pain flared through his scar. Harry turned around, and his eyes landed upon the diary. He slowly slid it open. Emily's familiar writing covered the aged yellow pages.
"Harry, what's the date?"
"December thirty-first." Harry wrote slowly, confused, "Why does it matter?"
But the girl did not respond. Harry stood in silence, his eyes glued to the diary. The sudden flare of his scar was gone now, replaced by a constant, weak burn that seemed unwilling to fade. After what felt like forever, inky black words appeared upon yellowing pages.
"I'm also born on December thirty-first." wrote Emily hesitantly, "New Year's Eve."
Harry froze. An unpleasant, uncomfortable feeling grew in his chest.
It's not her fault.
Harry took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He gently pulled off his robes, tossing them aside and locking the door of his dorm. Sitting before his window once more, Harry summoned the quill back into his hands.
"Then happy birthday, Emily."
The persistent burning of his scar faded at once.
-(xXx)-
Splotch.
Mounds of snow covered the earth, disturbed only by the storm that raged violently through the Austrian Alps. It was a very lonely place; the mountains, buried beneath the ice, hid no one and nothing. A dreary, cold feeling of cruel emptiness enveloped everything, allowing little else to exist.
Splotch.
Icy water droplets splashed against the window pane, slowly trickling down towards the surface far below. A trail of frost was all they left behind, and as they left, the emptiness returned once more.
But as one droplet fell to the earth, two more took its place upon the window pane.
It hadn't always been like this. There had been a time, nearly fifty years ago, when the Austrian Alps were calmer. There had been wind and snow back then, too - but none so violent as the storm that raged today.
But that mattered little. The storm was here now.
And it'll keep growing until the both of us are gone from this world.
A lone, old man sat in the top-most cell of the highest tower. He had sunken features and a skull-like face, his frail figure wrinkled and emaciated. The cell he sat within was as dull as the fortress that imprisoned him; only a hard bed and a thin blanket kept him company, as well as the ancient platter that was filled thrice a day.
The man sat with his back pressed against his bed, his eyes shut and his body relaxed. He listened carefully to the rough pattering of the rain drops.
Splotch.
Splotch.
Splotch.
Slowly, the man opened his eyes. Orbs of ice graced the cell, shining with unfathomable power - power that had not been used in decades.
Power that won't ever be used again.
He had known it for decades now - he had even seen it during his final fight. His life had quite literally flashed before his eyes. He hadn't liked what he had seen, but even he knew better than to fight against it.
Fate, after all, was something not even he could tamper with.
He could have escaped, had he truly wanted to. He was so much more than everyone else - he could not, would not be held back by something as trivial as a wand.
I built the prison, too. It would be so easy to escape -
It was something he knew very well, and he was all but certain that Albus had guessed it, too. But he had not escaped, for his visions had never shown him indulging in the freedom he so dearly sought.
And if they do not show it, then it is not to be.
After a few years of disappointment, he had resigned himself to a life that would likely be filled with boredom and sorrow. After all, he had reasoned, there was very little anyone could accomplish locked away in the smallest cell of the highest tower of Nurmengard.
Even me.
But now, almost half a century later, he found himself disagreeing with his former self. Life was far from dull - not even the dreary prison he himself had built could convince him otherwise.
His visions - the power he had so dearly cherished in his youth - had grown stronger. They hadn't been frequent at the start - only a few graced him every month, leaving him yearning for more. But as the days turned to months and the months to years, his control strengthened to a degree he never would have thought possible.
And as his visions grew more and more frequent, the story slowly began to unfold.
He had once stood at center stage. With every step he took, those around him were cast further into the shadows. He had been the star of the play, he had been the one whom the story revolved around.
But now his time was up. He had been thrown off the stage and into the audience, and for years, he had hated it.
But I see clearly now . . .
It was nice to finally sit back and watch the story from afar. For so long, he had been the one writing it; now it was being read aloud to him, like a story read by a mother to a young, curious mind.
And just as he had when he was a young boy, Gellert Grindelwald took in every single word.
A rough, coarse chuckle broke free from the man's mouth. It echoed through the room, bouncing upon the small glass pane and escaping through the bar's of Grindelwald's cell.
"I told you." he whispered, a cruel, mirthful gleam shining in his eyes, "I told you so, oh yes I did."
The man slowly rose, stumbling slightly as he steadied himself upon his bed. He made his way across the cell, moving to peer through the frosted glass pane.
"You couldn't escape fate eleven years ago, Riddle." muttered Grindelwald, his eyes latched upon the droplets on the glass, "What makes you think you can now?"
Two droplets of water fell upon the window pane, freezing almost instantly. Grindelwald slowly raised an aged hand to the window. He tapped it, and the droplets unfroze, sliding to the bottom of the pane. As they collided with one another, they combined, becoming one.
"Emily Marvolo Riddle." Gellert murmured, leaning closer, "Harry James Potter. Interesting . . . but who comes out on top?"
Silence rang through the cell, purged only by the roaring of the storm outside. Shaking his head, Grindelwald tapped his finger against the window pane.
Nothing happened.
Grindelwald tapped again, harder this time. The large water droplet stayed stubbornly still. A cold breeze flew from the never-ending storm, and the droplet froze, turning to ice.
Thin, cracked lips curved into a smile as Grindelwald laughed along with the storm.