Venenum
By Koryander.
Remembering that English is not my mother tongue. I apologize in advance for any mistakes in the text, I am trying to do my best, but with your help, the chapter can become even more readable. Please, let me know if there are any mistakes. I thank you.
Chapter 19. Boulengerina - What do you fear?
Part II.
Loving him was like a losing game, she thought. He would never change, he adapted, it's the truth, but he never changed. Still... She closes her eyes, her breathing comes out shaky, and he is panting to the point she watches the movement.
He turns to her, the expression he makes is one of hatred, anger, and agony. His gaze shoots over the magical map he created together with her, the map of the entire wizarding world. He is losing the battle in a very important place, his secret is at stake.
He strides towards it, crossing the map, the spectre of the map shattering before gathering and forming into one again.
His hands held her face, he rested his forehead against hers and looked deep into her eyes. His green gaze is beautiful, but it is wild and desperate.
"Go." He asks, and he commands. "But know that I will avenge you. That is a promise and you, more than anyone, know that I do not make promises lightly. I swear, I will avenge you. I will have you back."
He knows what he is doing, what Dumbledore and Harry Evans - Potter, are making him do. Like in a chess move, he is sacrificing the strongest piece he has, the most skilled and the most feared. His Queen. His Dark Lady. It is a risky move, but he swears, he will get her back.
She tries to smile, to appease the decision he is making and his heart fills with resentment and hatred for his enemies.
The flames of the fireplace were the main source of light in the place and illuminated as much as cast shadows on their faces.
She kisses one of the hands that hold her face, and he sighs. She goes and he stays, staring into the void, before breaking everything he finds in front of him.
oOo
Hermione listens more than she participates. Slughorn talks to his students, asking questions about whether they keep the same dreams and goals they had last year.
When Alphard's voice sounds, it causes Hermione to raise her eyes in his direction. He is diagonal to her left, sitting next to his second cousin, Orion Black.
"I still have the same goals, Professor Slughorn. I will be the best seeker the world has ever seen."
Hermione frowned at hearing his words. Sirius had never even commented on his uncle's wishes about Quiddich and she, for one, could not recall any mention of any Alphard Black being remembered and cheered in the national or international Quidditch world, though she could not say she was a sports aficionado. Does he give up those dreams? It would not be unusual, for how many children or young people to change their minds over the years. She had a different idea of what she would be before she received her letter to Hogwarts.
Slughorn chuckles at Alphard. "Of course you do, my boy. The way you played last year, I'm sure a bright future awaits you. Those hands -" Slughorn pointed to Alphard's hands, who holds them up proudly. "-are gold. House Slytherin will surely be remembered for having housed one of the greatest Quidditch players that could have ever existed. And what about you, my young Orion? Do your tastes resemble those of your cousin?
Orion straightens his glasses with his index finger.
"I'm afraid we're opposites." He says, with seriousness and a surprisingly thick, low voice. "I intend to reach higher levels."
Alphard rolls his eyes and throws an olive lump at Orion's head, who casts a deadly glare at him, but quickly ignores the situation to continue what he was saying.
"The Department of International Cooperation of Magic catches my eye. Recent behaviour shows incompetence in dealing with certain situations."
Diplomat. Orion brings more serious matters to the table. Hermione, like a keen observer, notices that the students spruce up more and look at Slughorn intently, searching for some political position he might have.
"Perhaps we can leave that subject for later, my students? An after-dinner debate? Our minds will be sharper and give you time to think about it."
Hermione raises her gaze and is surprised that the whole time she is being watched by Pearl Lovegood. Hermione cannot say how closely Pearl is related to Xinophilius Lovegood or Luna, she can tell that blood runs thick in the Lovegood family, that or the Lovegood genes are expressive in each generation.
Pearl can be considered beautiful. She has big light blue eyes, almost grey, a platinum hair decorated with a blue ribbon. Her nose was snubbed and she had small ears. Overall, Pearl was thin and small in stature, smaller even than Hermione. Her legs and arms were long, but her torso was small. She had little or no expression at all when looking at Hermione, she blinked infrequently and made low humming sounds. The truth was that Hermione found it strangely intimidating to meet her gaze, though Pearl smiled.
Hermione soon realises that she wasn't just being watched by Pearl, Riddle is also looking at her. Not as strangely brazen as Pearl, but he makes it clear that he was paying attention to her wiles. He is leaning slightly to the left, one arm straight across the table, his index finger making circular motions at the base of the punch glass.
She looks over to Slughorn's side and there was Eugene Runcorn. He was standing with his arms crossed, looking at her as if trying to see through her or silently judging her. He was not aggressive, but somewhat studious. Hermione lowered her gaze quickly.
What's that? She thinks. Hermione feels intimidated, much more so than before.
Then she realises, that, unlike the Slughorn Club participants of her time, these students of now are, in part, more observant, attentive to behaviour and especially to questions of social circles.
"What about you, Miss Granger?" Slughorn's question turns to her and she gets more attention than she wants. Her confidence is fading like dust.
"I...Well, I'm not sure yet." Hermione tells the truth. "I'd like to make a difference, but being the centre of attention is certainly not my ultimate goal."
"You? I find that hard to believe." Tom speaks before Slughorn can speak up.
"I confess I share Tom's thoughts, Mrs Granger. You certainly surprised everyone with your rankings from the last school year."
She smiles softly at Slughorn's words, ignoring Tom's arched eyebrow and questioning look.
"I've always liked Arithmancy, History of Magic, Spells, Potions and Magical Creatures. Several branches, I suppose my indecision lies there."
"Will I perhaps have a historian, researcher or expert sitting here today?" Slughorn laughed. "I have acquaintances who might be interested in whatever direction you might decide, Miss Granger. I see a splendid future and will certainly hear from you."
Little did she know those words would be true. Slughorn would hear a lot about her.
As much as the dinner was particularly interesting and calm, from Hermione's point of view - taking away the nervousness and unease of the feeling of intimidation - she discovered much more about the dreams and promises of each person sitting at that table. Many of them, she realises, will not come true or escape her knowledge and others, well, are just hints of things to come.
However, it is Tom's words that make her shudder.
"I would like to be a teacher. A Master's in my speciality. Maybe even a Minister of Magic." He speaks with ambition and desire and Hermione cannot say with one hundred per cent certainty whether he is lying or not. He seems to feel that his words are selfishly ambitious and to maintain the appearance of humility, Tom softens with the next sentence. "It doesn't hurt to dream big, does it, Professor Slughorn?"
However, no one seemed shocked or merely surprised, on the contrary, perhaps they expected it. That this was his fate. Except, of course, for Hermione herself.
Tom's speech sounds like music to Slughorn's ears, Hermione notices, especially from the smile that opens on the professor's face. She understands then, that Slughorn did hold Tom in high esteem and that he considered him The Golden Boy if it wasn't himself who passed this fame on to the other teachers. She could have sworn that Slughorn, despite having the trait of expecting favours from former pupils in adult life, had a fatherly affection for Tom and wanted the best for him.
It must have been a disappointment for Slughorn, she thinks. The path Tom decided to follow.
To chase away the lump stuck in her throat, she drinks some punch. The fruity drink goes down deliciously cool and she sips it covertly, taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes for a moment, and when her eyes open, her thoughts are determined.
It is at dessert time that the conversation becomes more a debate to the point of discussion than anything else. She crosses her hands politely and watches with keen eyes and a quick mind.
"Magic is magic, Radalphus."
"No, it's not." He replies confidently. "It's not just magic that makes us different from the muggle and the ... -" Lestrange stops, thinking better of the following words he would use. " - muggle-borns."
He says the words as an insult, it makes Hermione's blood fever because it attacks her in a personal way. Because precisely the person who wrote and tortured her skin with a swear word is, not by birth, a Lestrange.
"And what is magic?" She asks, drawing Lestrange's gaze to her. His gaze is heavy and analytical, like an eagle, and he looks frankly surprised, given the fact that this is the first time she has spoken up in this debate. "Define magic and what makes us different?"
"We are different, magic runs in our blood, Miss Granger. Our blood purity has kept us alive, kept our society alive, to let outsiders in would be to exterminate what is left of it. I apologise, Professor Slughorn, but I have never hidden the fact that there are certain Grindelwald raises that I agree with."
With his reply, Lestrange gained 'hm.' of approval from most of those at the table, though Tom himself remained reclusive.
"Strangely enough Grindelwald himself agrees that all magical beings can and should have the right to access that world that belongs to us." She retorted.
"I didn't say I agreed with everything." Lestrange squinted. " Though I do agree with the sovereignty of our species."
"We're not a different species from the muggle-borns, Lestrange."
At her correction, Radalphus locked his jaw.
"Allow me to rephrase: The sovereignty of our category."
Hermione smiles.
"If I cut off your hand, what will I see, Lestrange?"
Radalphus snorts in derision, yet still answers.
"Blood, skin, muscle tissue, veins, bone."
"What colour is the blood?" She asks.
"Is that serious?" He raises an eyebrow. "I thought we were having an adult debate here."
Hermione just inhales, waiting for his response. "Red," Lestrange replies.
"If I cut off the hand of a muggle or a muggleborn, what will I see?" The question is rhetorical. "Isn't it the same colour as our blood? What I mean is that biologically we are the same, we originate from the same ancestors. What I believe separates us is our brains. Although, anatomically, we are the same in that part too. What I am getting at is that our worldview differentiates us. No one knows what Magic is, only that, like the human race, it originated in Africa. My theory is that magic is nothing more than our ability to control matter in a way that is specifically different from that of the muggles, well... scientifically speaking -..."
"Atoms," Tom concluded for her. He was paying attention to what she was saying, a little fascinated.
Hermione looked at him, noting how he seemed to be following her reasoning. "Correct."
"Still, your explanation did not remove my assertion, Miss Granger. On the contrary, it seemed to enhance my words." Lestrange punctuated his words with his index and middle finger against the table.
"Isn't it obvious?" She raised one of her eyebrows. "Every time the wizarding world has decided to go against the muggle world, there have been significant losses, Lestrange, and it hasn't been on their side." Hermione's speech left the table silent. "Every time we've fought against the muggles, we've lost. The Witch Hunt is, perhaps, the pinnacle of defeat. We are, by and large, a small population that seems to get smaller every decade." Her gaze went from Lestrange to Professor Slughorn. "To win in a, supposed, war, we have to be all of us for one goal. This is difficult, because politics is complicated and there will always be opposition, and opposition can be equivalent to or mean division. And division is separation, which results in fewer numbers of witches and wizards behind one goal, Lestrange." She looked at him again.
His jaw was hard with a locked smile that was a not-so-happy expression.
"I never asked, Miss, but you are a descendant of Hector-Granger, correct?"
Hermione's mind briefly surged at the questioning of her descent, it wasn't the first time someone had asked that question, but she never looked deeply into whether or not she was related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, because to her, it didn't matter. Not knowing how to answer, she was saved by the curfew on Professor Slughorn's watch, though everyone at the table seemed to have expected an answer from her, except Alphard of course, who grimaced, knowing just where this conversation was going.
At the sound of the third chime of the clock, all the students stood up at the same time, looking at Slughorn, asking for silent permission to leave.
Saying goodbye, Eugene was the first to the door, opening it and gesturing so that she and Pearl could get through first. Pearl smoothed out the navy blue skirt she was wearing, before walking over. Hermione, even though she wasn't friends with Pearl or Eugene, hoped to make her way with them, given the fact that they will be taking almost the same route to their respective Common Rooms.
"Miss Granger?" Slughorn called out to her and caused everyone to pause for a moment. "Tomorrow, before the first class, I would like a moment of attention."
She paused for a moment. "Hm... Of course, professor." Hermione tried to smile. It was something unexpected. The Slytherin boys looked at each other, Eugene arched one of his eyebrows, but Tom looked from her to Slughorn and lowered his gaze, his fingers working incessantly on the ring, a mania he acquired whenever he was thoughtful.
In the corridor, the group of students were going to go opposite ways. The Slytherins, who were in greater numbers, were heading back to the Common Room, Lestrange paused for a moment, watching Hermione and narrowed his eyes. His jaw locked and a restrained smile indicated some mischievous thought circulating in his little head, which sent a shiver down Hermione's spine.
She shifted her gaze from Lestrange, who had just turned his back on her, to Tom. His body position was half-turned in her direction. Tom met her gaze and although he was particularly expressive, his eyes were green pools of indecipherable emotion. Hermione, for once, wished she was a Legilimens.
"Good night, Tom." She tried. He delighted in making her uneasy with silence, especially when he scanned her up and down. He huffed, put his hands in his trouser pockets and turned away, joining the others. She had come to this dinner to get closer to Tom, laden with ulterior motives, but it seemed that what she did was sink deeper.
Pearl and Eugene were waiting for her at the top of the stairs, though silent, Pearl cracked a smile.
"I appreciate you waiting for me." Hermione sighs.
"It's not a problem, is it, Eugene?" Pearl's fingers intertwined, her hands in front of her.
"Hm," Eugene confirmed but didn't seem too amused to continue the conversation.
"You know -" Pearl continued. "I am happy for your presence at the Club. I hope you intend to continue with us." Eugene was walking further ahead, letting Hermione and Pearl have their conversation without interrupting. "It was quite enlightening your theories, although I'm not familiar with muggle science."
Eugene cast a glance over his shoulder.
"And I am largely in agreement about your idea that magic is magic. And that all beings deserve respect. Me and Eugene, we sometimes have a tough time at the Club when we try to make a point, don't we, Eugene? All beings are alive in some way, Miss Granger. Even the rocks. I listen, you know? They talk to me."
"Pearl, please don't start." Eugene stopped, catching her attention so she wouldn't continue with the strange reverie.
Their path split here, Eugene and Pearl would go one way and Hermione would go the other. Pearl looked down at being scolded, a little embarrassed. Eugene just sighed and shook his head, solving the puzzle that was the entrance to the Ravenclaw Common Room.
"I know what they say about me, that I'm weird and mad-." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "But I'm not." Pearl declared vehemently.
Hermione, who finds her strange, felt a little guilty right after Pearl's speech. Even though she had not been an active participant in the conversation, she was listening to what Pearl had to say.
"I saw it, you know? You and Alphard. He carried you the whole way from Myrtle Warren's Bathroom to the Gryffindor Tower." Pearl's big blue eyes met Hermione's as she gestured with her fingers as if they were walking. "I told him that people can die from a broken heart, but he didn't believe me. I have an intuition for certain things. Professor Najla thinks I'm good at riddles and intuition." She said, staring into nothingness. She put her index finger under her chin, thoughtfully. "Hm... but I think it's okay!" The change in the tone of her voice and the cheerful expression it assumed on Pearl's face was sudden and left Hermione even more confused. "So is your ancestry, I suppose."
"O- what do you mean?"
"You are a muggle-born, Hermione." She smiled. "Good night!" Pearl turned and held up her skirt so she could up the stairs more quickly to the Common Room.
"Wait! Pearl!" Hermione tried, but Pearl didn't give a second glance.
Hermione's heart dropped to her stomach in one beat. Pearl knew. While Hermione was not ashamed of what and who she was, her parets was information that should remain secretive.
"Hermione?" Ectur rose from his armchair at the exact moment Hermione entered the Commons Room. The Hall was empty, the students practiced in their proper dormitories. The fireplace light was the major source of illumination, although the other lights were also on, but dimly lit for the night. Hermione was still a little bewildered. "Are you okay, did everything go okay?"
"I think so, I don't know..." Hermione sits down on the carpet, a little numb.
"Aren't you supposed to... I don't know... be happy?" Ectur approaches, hiding something behind him, Hermione notices.
Hermione snorts. "It feels like everything I'm doing isn't working out. Everything is falling apart right in front of me." She blurts out but knows he won't understand the weight of her words. Looking at him moving from one leg to the other, she asks. " What is it? What are you hiding?"
She can see the colour appear immediately on his cheeks up to the tip of his ears.
"Heh...Promise you won't laugh?"
She stood silently, waiting for him. The hand he was hiding carried a book. Hermione doesn't quite understand why he would think she would laugh at him because he was reading a book when she had already let it be known that her passion was reading and studying.
"I am not an avid reader - ." Ectur sat down beside her. " I don't spend my hours reading or studying. Nor do I get the best grades; Well, that's not sounding good, I guess - " He scratched the back of his head. " I just have trouble sleeping and sometimes, reading manages to make me sleepy."
Hermione smiled softly. Ectur showed her the cover of the book. The light blue cover made Hermione's eyebrows go up, now she understood why he had asked her not to laugh. After all, it was Swan Lake he was reading.
"It's from Ig."
"Ig?"
"Sort of," Ectur said. He showed the first page of the book, which contained a dedication. "She gave that book to me as a gift. I kind of helped them find each other." Ectur explained. "Mom and Dad were always strict about some situations, so Ig would ask me for help so he could meet Margot. My parents didn't seem to mind seeing me and my brother out together, until... They found out." His voice got sadder at the end.
Take care of Ig for me.
A gift from your friend and sister-in-law,
Margot.
"Margot is the girl Ig is in love with, Hermione. She's a muggle." Ectur tried to analyze Hermione's expression. "Ig was going to burn the book that summer past, but I stopped him. I knew that was not what he wanted to do. He hides it now like some kind of precious possession, he'd kill me if he knew I had the book again."
Hermione ran her finger through the pretty handwriting of the girl she had never met.
"Keep reading, Ectur, I don't want to disturb you."
Ectur smiled serenely and Hermione reciprocated. They read the book together, silently, by the fire.
However, after a good moment, Ig came down the stairs of the men's dormitory with his hair tousled and his sleeping dressing gown open. Ectur, as soon as he realised it was his brother, hid the book under the pillows.
"Ig?" He asked, concerned about his brother's nervous state. "What is it?"
"I-I don't know, brother." Ig squeezed the fabric of his pyjamas, in the centre of his chest, as if he was hot, at the same time, sore. "I don't feel right. It feels like something's wrong."
Hermione and Ectur got up immediately. They had spent much of the night trying to calm Ignatius down, not knowing what made him like this. He had said that he woke up from a nightmare with flashes, not understanding what it was, but that it made him like this. Hermione gave him a cup of tea and said that it would be all right, that it was just a bad dream.
Margot fled the city of London with her parents and younger brother to a small coastal village. Margot's story is just one among many similar ones, where families fled the big cities out of fear.
Margot, her mother and her father died that night in a bombing. Her brother was found three days later in the rubble. Orphaned and hard of hearing. Ig would never know what happened.
oOo
Death has been with him since birth. It never leaves him alone and from a young age it robs him of chances, opportunities, and paths he could have followed. A different life.
So he uses it as a shield and directs it towards others. He bends the rules and does the unthinkable, the unforgivable. The dance with Death will be eternal. The game of cat and mouse will never end. Ah, love, however, is the opposite. Avoids it with ardour. For many years he could not say he loved or was loved, nor that his path was crossed many times with the fallacies of what that 'feeling' is.
There is nothing for him about it. She told him there was still goodness in him, he laughed at her and now what he wants most is to say it to her face:
See? Didn't I tell you?
Because there is nothing left. Because it was stolen from him once more. Because the remnant of goodness, of something good, is in a coffin seven feet from the earth, on this cliff, on this island. Nowhere.
He guards her final resting place like a guardian, dressed in black in mourning. Dressed in black like Death. The sea breeze, the sound of water lapping against rocks, the sun between the clouds; he closes his eyes and inhales the sea air, saline, freedom. He gives it to her. The weed beneath his shoe is green, beneath him she rests, as in a peaceful sleep, in the glass coffin, the magic placed keeping her perfect lest the rot consumes her cold, morbid flesh, lest it steals the beauty she possesses. Even now, he circumvents Death's rules. There is no end to that. But if he will be eternal, so will she.
He didn't quite know what he was thinking when he did that spell, or maybe he doesn't want to admit it out loud, but one day, maybe, he'll dig down and pull her out of the darkness of the earth, climb up the coffin and admire her beauty once more. Maybe he'll lie down on the grass beside her and talk, make plans, and speak what's on his mind like they did when lying down. She'd be still, eyes closed, he'd imagine she's just caught up on sleep, he'd reach out to her hair and feel the coldness of the glass and that would wake him from the illusion.
She doesn't sing loudly. She doesn't have an extremely good voice for it, but she makes sweet soft, low sounds that are good to his ears. Sounds that remain in his ears, that suit that place.
He smiles at the memory.
It's the good smile, is what she would say.
It's the last good smile he gives.
He partially turns his face to acknowledge the person who came for him.
Her fingers rattled against the wood of Professor Slughorn's office door. The door opens and Hermione sees a contented Slughorn chatting with Tom Riddle, equally entranced in conversation. What the hell is that? She wonders. They both turn to greet her.
"Miss Granger, come, come. Come in, please." Slughorn gestures for her to come forward.
She takes a few steps, closing the door as she enters. Tom makes a small gesture with his head to greet her, stepping back a little and looking at the books on Slughorn's bookshelf with disguised interest.
"Good morning, Professor Slughorn," Hermione replied. Tom's presence made her curious as much as suspicious. "Have I done something, Professor? Something that has displeased you?" She asked, trying to find answers to Slughorn's invitation and Tom's presence, casting a glance over her shoulder just to find out the position Tom was in. He was now standing still, his hands behind his back and looking down.
"Of course not!" Slughorn quickly shrugs off her suspicions. "You have been extremely brilliant. I must express that I am proud to teach for you." Slughorn places his hand on her shoulder. "The reason I called you, was extremely academic. You see, Miss Granger, I know how to recognise the good, great and best students and I see in you as one of the best, there is a glow for knowledge that I admire."
While it was good for her ego to be recognised as one of the top students, again, Hermione wasn't quite sure where this conversation was heading.
"I was certainly impressed with your willingness to debate yesterday. I must say that your theories caught my attention and from all that I have seen of you in potions class, with your experiments, I extend an invitation -" Slughorn continued.
"Ahn... What do you mean?" She cast another glance over her shoulder at Tom, then refocused on Slughorn.
"A study group, Hermione," Tom explained, intervening momentarily, but managed to make Slughorn smile at the interruption.
"Yes, a slightly more selective group than yesterday. Our dear Tom, had the brilliant idea of inviting you and I must say, I agree with him completely."
"This is a group to enhance our studies." Tom's steps were becoming closer. "Professor Slughorn helps us, he even permits us to use his personal office and potions bench. By the way, thank you for your kindness again, Professor Slughorn." Tom stopped beside her, her eyes instantly going to him, meeting his gaze in equal measure. He blinks, expectantly and invitingly.
So that's how the Deathly Hallows started, Hermione thinks. Right under Slughorn's nose. Tom had the professor, The Potions Master, Headmaster of House Sonserina, right in his hand.
Right in front of her, as if something or someone is listening to her prayers, there is the chance to get close to Tom, to get what she so desperately wants. However, it doesn't make her any calmer, on the contrary, more than ever she will have to be cautious, skilful and be able to use all the tricks she knows.
"I-I appreciate the invitation." She replies and for a fleeting moment, she can see Tom narrowing his eyes thinking she will decline. "I'm glad I could be a part of it and make the most of our school interests. It's wonderful to know that I've been well-noticed for my abilities."
"It's wonderful to welcome you too, Miss Granger." Tom crosses his arms. "Didn't I say, Professor Slughorn? It's a shame she's been selected for Gryffindor. I still think the Sorting Hat got it wrong for the first time."
Tom's words make Slughorn laugh, both of them having a private joke about Gryffindor House, something that makes Hermione's hair stand up like a scarry cat, but when they both turn to her, she smiles.
"Perhaps, my dear student. Although, I believe the Hat would not put three brilliant minds in one place at the same time." Slughorn says, self-involved.
The chimes of the clock cut off the subject.
"Well, Professor, I think we have to go, don't we, Miss Granger?" Tom speaks and Hermione confirms. " We have to get to our first class of the day and Professor Merrythought doesn't like delays very much." Tom straightens the satchel he wears. "Shall we go, Hermione?"
Leaving the room, Hermione walks up the Dungeon stairs, heading for the North Tower. She had promised herself that she would never set foot in the Dungeons again, but it seems it was a promise in vain, these days she comes here more than her views in the library.
"Well, what was that?" She asks for an explanation. Tom laughs at her.
"That what?" He stops and arches one of his eyebrows at her, Hermione gestures her gaze and arms around as if exemplifying the situation. "It's an invitation."
She looks sceptical.
"You're quite suspicious, aren't you?" He places his hand on her shoulder, his thumb accidentally touching the metal of the necklace. Static passes through the two of them, both of them jumping and pulling away more out of surprise than any kind of pain.
They face each other, Tom's hand still extended in the air. He takes a few steps to the side, their eyes never leaving her form, studying her for every inch.
"It's an energy. A kind of magnetic field that's attractive and reactionary. Not painful, it's like something's missing..." His hand goes up, his index and middle finger intertwining with a rebellious lock of her leonine hair. Just like in the Tower of Owls, they stop and look at each other, the morning light seeping through the window panes, touching her face, giving the hue of a pinkish peach to her skin, highlighting the tiny freckles decorating part of her cheeks and the tip of her nose, her gaze becoming caramelized like honey. She stares at him like a doe and he can see the bit of fear in that look.
Tom knows, she lies to him. Sweet lies. Half-truths. He knows because he's told so many he's become an expert at spotting them. She thinks she can play him, but little does she know it was him who was inviting her into the trap. He wants to unravel her, to know why she is so harried, why so suspicious, and what she is hiding.
While it irritates him that she thinks she has the power to manipulate, he is also strangely captivated by the challenge. She is intelligent and skilled, he cannot deny that. And, it would be a waste of such intelligence and skill to fall into sameness. She would be such a good weapon if used correctly, he thinks.
He has spent the night thinking of how to turn the game in his favour and to do so, it is necessary to isolate her, to cut the ties that bind her to others. In due time, in the fragility in which she finds herself, he will introduce her to the Diary.
If the blood that runs in your veins is of pure ancestry...
They heard someone knocking something over and the two turned to see who was watching them. Both Hermione and Tom, half-closed their eyes to the empty corridor to their right. Tom took a step forward, ready to investigate the intruder, but Hermione soon walked back, willing herself to run away from the situation. Noticing her evasion, Tom turns back so he can follow her steps.
When they get close to the door of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, they can hear teacher Merrythought's voice and some students laughing.
Opening the door slowly, they secretly enter the room quietly, the prefossor and students distracted by the conversation.
"Ah! There you are!" Professor Merrythought exclaims. "Come on, come closer, Mr Black."
"Why me?" Alphard asks.
"Don't be silly, come on." She slips her arm over Alphard's shoulders, almost dragging him along, positioning him in front of the sealed trunk.
"I think that's so unfair, you know? Every time it's something terrifying, you call me first. I still have nightmares from my first experience with it. Is the lady in love with me?" it is said as a joke, drawing laughter from the class, including a soft chuckle from Hermione herself, who hides it well through a pacifying touch with her index and middle finger on her lips.
Despite wanting to look angry, Professor Merrythough laughs, though she pulls the hood of Alphard's uniform down over his face and leans against her desk. Alphard makes sure to get his vision back quickly when he hears the tap -tap of Professor Merrythought's boot's beak against the wood of the trunk.
The trunk opens so fast that it almost topples backwards, Alphard is already in a fighting stance. The dark mass in the trunk, emitting a kind of white noise of its being, seemed to think, undecided as to what form to take when a nest of rat came out of the darkness.
"Oh, shit-" Was all that could hear from Alphard. "Riddikulus!" He shouted, before it spoke thinner than Fat Woman's chant, after all, if there was one animal he hated, it was rats. The monstrous rat, abnormally large and the size of a six-foot human being, soon turned into a small, fluffy rabbit.
"Congratulations Mr Black, you certainly did better than last time." Professor Merrythought praised. "If I remember correctly, you left here running and screaming down the Castle corridors."
"It's not fair. Everyone's talked about it for days." Said Alphard, he didn't seem to have an iota of shame about his faults. But he had learned that the best way to come out on top of a situation was to either take it in good humour or not make such a big deal of it, otherwise, no one would let go.
He turned to go back to the Slytherin House queue, making faces as Professor Merrythought spoke, making the class laugh, but received a slight spell on the buttocks, given by the teacher.
"I saw that." She condemned him.
Alphard raised his hands in surrender, smiling and giving a wink to his teacher, who rolled her eyes. Professor Merrythought was practically fifty-five years old by now, and even though Alphard wasn't the best student in the class, he was the kind of student who would leave memories.
Professor Merrythought was taking as her teaching basis, to observe how fast the students became in doing spells they had already learned, before teaching the new Defence spells. Because, from sixth grade onwards, the contents became more serious and it was, for her, necessary for the students' minds to be sharp.
"You know what to do." She commanded the class, who happily pushed themselves to make an Indian line, much happier and more confident than the first time they had attempted the Riddikulus spell.
Hermione made little or no point of being first, second or third she was content to be almost one of the last. Her mind was very much focused on Tom, who left an unrecognisable feeling in the pit of her stomach. His words, so analytical, so sure, a quick learner and observer, that's what he is.
"Are you afraid?" His voice is very close, but it is low and for her ears only. He is behind me. She shakes her head, denying it. It's easier to make the gesture because her voice needs a moment to make its appearance. "Look at that silly fears. Spiders, mice, clowns, crows, the dark, cats… and so on. Childishness, it feels like I'm stuck in third grade."
All the fears mentioned, some continued, others modified, but all overcome in some way, the laughter of joy. They take a step forward, but close to the Boggart.
Tom wants to change, he feels a constant need to evolve and experience things he's never done before. One of the few things he can say he loves, or rather feels appreciation for, is Hogwarts, yet at the same time he feels trapped by the norms, morals and ethics and has to constantly maintain his role as a good boy.
"It's normal to be afraid of something, Tom. It's natural. Everyone has." She replies and can feel his smile stretching across his face. "Let me see, you're not afraid of anything?" Hermione says with irony. At her core, she is so curious to know what the Dark Lord fears. An answer, a weapon to be used against him. Just like that.
"No, I don't." He is confident, so confident. She almost answers, but her attention goes to Ectur, who is staring at his fear. His mother. She watches his hand shake before he casts the spell.
"So he's still afraid of mummy, it seems that hasn't changed."
"It's not funny, Tom." Hermione cuts the sentence off before he can continue to disturb Ectur's fears.
"What do you think, hm? Why is he so afraid of his mother?" he whispers, close to her ear. She can feel his head above her shoulder, and through the field of vision, she catches a glimpse of the movement of his eyelashes. Hermione is about to rebut, when he says, "Take one more step, we're almost there, Hermione."
Ectur walks past her, the glint in his eye at the sight, she can feel the fleeting touch of his fingers on her hand as he passes to join the others who have already passed the test. The line moves quickly, the students getting Merrythought's approval.
"Your taste in freckled redheads, it's questionable. I expected more from you."
"Why are you like this?" She asks, it's an honest question. Perhaps inappropriate for the moment. She has seen something rare, he was once a quiet, perhaps gentle child. A naive baby, Hermione cannot understand where he has changed. She turns to him. "Don't talk about him." To her it's like, Don't talk about the Weasleys, don't talk about Ronald, don't talk about Harry, about Neville, about Luna, about Minerva McGonagall, don't talk about everyone else. Don't talk about my parents.
Tom doesn't respond to her.
"It's your turn." That's all he says.
She turns around and finds herself at the front of the queue, Professor Merrythought gesturing for her to come closer. Hermione takes a step, watching the bouncy stuffed monkey that was left by the last student before her. She faces the Boggart, until that instant moment, she wasn't afraid, but the bouncing monkey stops with his back turned to her, his head turning unnaturally by one hundred and eighty degrees to face her. The plush's red eyes stare into her soul, fixed.
The truth is that I was undecided, there were many fears within one person, and it was an endless feast for the Boggart.
With a snap, the non-being transformed. A black hole, making click sounds like the Time,-turner the screams. Mione! She heard someone shout her name, the sound of glass falling in sequence. The battle at the Ministry. The sound of spells being cast, growls from Fenrir Greyback, The Fall of Hogwarts.
Mione, Hermione, MIONE!
Everything stopped suddenly, silent for a second before a laugh, soft, ironic, melodious, endorsed by madness.
Hermione let out a sigh, freezing in place like a deer, her pupils increasing in size as her eyes burned with unshed tears and her body turned icy and pale.
"I see you, filthy little girl." She sings, the exaggerated laughter echoing.
From the dark form, hands with black painted nails emerged, paving the way to make herself present. Her long, dark hair waved over her face, her black dress with a corset, lush, and beautiful. The years in Azkaban never took away from Bellatrix Lestrange's beauty.
It was a predatory, wild, untamed, uncontrollable beauty and Hermione knew what it meant, being sucked into her fear, which was many, many traumas, but encased in the personification of Bellatrix.
She took a step back, and the Boggart, Bellatrix, took a step to catch her. Although Hermione understood it was a non-being, she couldn't connect to make her brain work in that sense, she was just afraid.
"I'll make you scream, your friends won't save you this time."
She remembers being trapped in the Crucio curse, screaming, her mind begging for help, and her body aching. She was close to breaking if was not for Dobby, Ron and Harry.
Hermione shivered, from head to toe. Dobby was dead.
"You won't make it, you'll be stuck here. I'll make everyone see who you are, I'll kill you. Crucio"
Bellatrix moves forward so fast, Hermione bumps into Tom, who puts his hands on both her arms, before putting his body in front of hers, stopping the Boggart, who just as he's standing in front of someone else, transforms. Turning back into the dark hole, but unlike Hermione, while the non-being decided what to turn into, the transformation for Tom was...nothing. It had no sound, no movement, it wasn't an animal or a person, it wasn't an object, it was nothingness.
Tom had no fears.
Confronted with a person who had no fears, the Boggart squawked, shrill and high-pitched in frustration. Revealing, perhaps, its true voice, before running to the bottom of the trunk and locking itself in.
If there was laughter before, now everyone was petrified by this horror show that was the last moments. Most of the students were frightened by Hermione's fear that had said a forbidden curse, by Tom's lack of fear, and by the true voice a Boggart had, since there are few if any accounts of the true form.
Hermione was still frozen in place, paralysed as she was confronted by her fears, fears that were far worse than Professor Mcgonagall giving her a bad mark. Real fears that would haunt her for the rest of her life. She stares into nothingness as she is forced to confront the concept, a silent sigh coming from her lips.
"Hermione." It is Bilius who approaches her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She startles and although it is Bilius who is closest to her, her focus goes to Tom, who is staring at her with big, green eyes.
It's not just him, she realizes. It's the whole students. Everyone whispering. It's horrible and she feels pathetic. She does what she does best recently, she runs. Leaving class without looking back.
Idiot, fool, dumb, dumb, dumb! Hermione curses herself, using the heels of her hands against her eyes, the fingers of her hand at the front roots of her hair. She doesn't know if she's cursing herself because she froze in front of Bellatrix Lestrange, because she didn't fight back, because she's in the mood to cry, or because the words of non-being and the memories have affected her strongly. Cowardly, she runs, she wants to hide, because, in her ears, she can hear everyone else calling her name as if she had abandoned them, she can hear the broken glass falling as well as the structure of Hogwarts suffering from the attacks of Voldemort's army, she can smell the rain as she can also smell the food her mother used to prepare when she was at home.
It is painful.
All she knows is that she kneels against one of the benches in the hallway and hides her face in the nest of her arms. She feels useless, the great and clever Hermione Granger, is here. Where has the brightest girl gone?
A short time later she hears:
"I found you."
She lifts her gaze and finds Ectur standing a few feet away from her, his breathing quickening, holding his Gryffindor robe in one hand and his satchel in the other. He approaches her as if she were a wounded animal. Cautious and sympathetic.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks. Hermione lowers her gaze and denies it with her head. She feels him sitting down next to her. Silence is everything. "It's not my mother I'm afraid of." He says after a while. Ectur looks to the wall, specifically to nowhere. "It is of what she represents. Of the control, she has over my future. People don't understand if I don't explain."
Hermione looks out of the corner of her eyes. His expression is a kind of guilt and sorrow. She can't say she understands his feeling because her parents are good, no, great parents. Who have always tried to be as supportive as possible for her.
She places a hand on Ectur's forearm, to signal empathy.
"...I froze because I couldn't focus on something good and fun so I could do the spell - " Hermione thinks she should say something since he found himself opening up and confessing to her. "- but every word said reminded me of worse things. It was pathetic." She craned her head, looking at the bench in front of her. "It seems the only one who isn't afraid of something is Riddle."
Ectur frowns, turning his face towards her. "What are you talking about, Hermione? Of course, he has a fear. His fear is strange. In the third year, Riddle saw his corpse, half freshly dead, half decomposing and bloated. It was horrible. It was weird."
At Ectur's words, Hermione lifts her gaze.
"What?"
"Well, yeah. That was it. In the third year, when it was Riddle's turn, he saw his lifeless, putrid body. Shocking, to say the least. It was the only time I ever saw him flinch during a spell."
This makes Hermione analyse; being afraid of death, is...well, basically, normal. But it's not something you're constantly thinking about on a day-to-day basis. You don't wake up on a Sunday day thinking you're going to die crossing the street or taking a shower, nor does it even stop you from living life routinely.
But as she thinks more carefully, she can see the reason, the irrational fear that controlled Tom to the point where he created Horcruxes. Is that why?
The dark cloak of Death is upon him long before he is aware, he should not make it the guide to life and yet he did.
Ectur seems to think her silence is some kind of dread - though not entirely wrong - with a mild questioning expression, his features are slightly reminiscent of Ron, and Hermione goes forward without a second thought, hugging him. The movement seems to catch him off guard, as he takes a moment to reciprocate. Feeling safe, she closes her eyes momentarily, savouring and enjoying the comfort, but when she opens them again, she sees him: Tom. Standing, a few feet away, staring at her and Ectur.
Hardly any situations take him by surprise, when they do, Tom tends to keep his expressions neutral. He controls as much as he can to not show anything, something that can sometimes be difficult. When he said he had no fears, he wasn't lying. If he was once afraid of death, there's nothing to be afraid of anymore, not when he can't die - at least not in a conventional way. - All the other factors can be controlled, remedied and masterfully overcome.
However, what he saw in the classroom did not make him afraid, but surprised, when yet another piece of connection about Hermione Granger made sense.
A witch, he remembers her voice.
Would you kill her if you had the chance? He asked.
He would have gloated at everyone's expressions, had he not been involved in the situation himself. Tom had made a gesture to hold her, but she had moved, turned her back and run as if her robes were on fire. It didn't take long for Prewett to follow her, the knight in shining armour, Tom rolled his eyes.
Now he was here, watching her throw herself into the red-haired freckled man's arms like a lover. Watching the scene, made his stomach turn and unconscious clench his hands into fists. He gritted his teeth when he saw her revelling in the embrace, but especially when he saw Prewett tightening his arms around her body, reciprocating.
Then she opens her eyes and looks directly at him, staring. Mysteriously, her brown eyes paralyzed him for a moment. Luring, insinuating, probably taunting him, as if to say: see me with another.
Tom clenches his jaw.
He wants to curse her, Prewett, both. His fingers twitch, eager to lower his wand from its holster.
He turns and walks away, with quick steps, angry looks and disgust, he doesn't want to analyse these emotions deeply, especially the reason behind them.
oOo
Someone had broken in, stolen her jewellery, and denigrated her final rest. He is furious. How dare they? He thinks.
The sight of the island disgusts and infuriates him in equal measure, as well as awakening anguish in his chest. A feeling he does not want to feel.
The island, once a paradise, is now a port island, with metallic sounds, cement, smoke, and the smell of gas. He stares at it, not understanding.
How long has he stopped coming, that he has now turned...that?
He searches for the cliff, the cliff where she should be. The advance of the sea caused coastal erosion, but it wasn't only that, the muggles also have their big part. Although the part where she was buried became a kind of ecological reserve, it doesn't do much. The cliff collapsed suddenly last night, large amounts of earth and rock falling away and taking with them, her coffin, into the deep and almost eternal darkness of the sea.
When she looked at the sea and the sun on afternoons on the beach, was it her destiny that she saw? He wonders.
Nowhere, no longer exists.
Under the eyelids of his closed eyes, he feels the sunlight diminishing, the sky darkening, the wind getting stronger, and the clouds darkening. Which is the beginning of a storm. Which is the beginning of chaos.
He looks at the landscape that has become dark, the sea seems infinite and turbulent. His face is expressionless, somehow even strangely angelic.
The muggle world knows the Death Eaters. The muggle world knows the Dark Lord.
He's more withdrawn these last few weeks, much, much more attentive. His eyes trained on her behaviour. She's showing off, flirting, brazenly. He thinks, no, he's sure. Tom crosses his arms, if he ever thought she was different, to him, she is no longer. He can see through her actions, she is no different to other girls, all she wants is to climb the social ladder, get married and have a 'comfortable life'.
Well, Ectur Prewett is an idiot, because he falls for her charms with ease, following her wherever she goes like a lost puppy. It irritates him more than he wants to admit. Tom has never paid attention to Prewett before, the world could end and have a long list of names, he would frown and wonder: Who is this? But that's not the case anymore.
From where he is, on the second-floor balcony of Hogwarts, he can see Prewett and her. He watched them talking, and though he couldn't hear what they were saying from there, it was all smiles and laughter. He frowned to himself, unsure of the feeling that was morphing at the base of his skull. A headache? No, that was too nauseating to be a headache.
Not wanting to watch the scene anymore, he turns away, his ears picking up a giggle coming from Granger.
His thoughts don't quiet down, not for a moment, all the voices are background noise in his mind. Tom enjoys the Divination class, Professor Najla is explanatory but not tiresome, however, even though he enjoys the class, he cannot say he is entirely concentrated. Working in automatic mode, Tom still manages to be faster than his classmates. The crystal ball in front of him is hazy. He is obsessed with the future, prophecies and all the mistakes he can avoid.
Narrowing his eyes to mist in the crystal ball, he tries to see something, just an insight. There is a movement, the mist is undoing and creating shape, and something will appear...
"You forgot your books in Arithmancy class."
Tom blinks, lifting his gaze to her, the tormentor. She makes a confused, innocent expression at his silence.
"Why are you here?" he asks, she hadn't signed up to take Divination classes. She had some kind of disdain for the subject.
"The books, Tom." He gestures. " Professor Finley asked me to give them to you." Hermione turns to Professor Najla and Tom watches the movement of her hair half pinned-half loose. "Thank you, professor, sorry to interrupt your class." She uses politeness to say goodbye.
Motioning to go, he notices that she's without her Gryffindor robe, so that her Hogwarts female uniform is more visible, it's not uncommon for girls to wear like that, but it draws his attention to her, the pleated skirt and pantyhose. The whole ensemble, to be honest.
When he turns his attention back to the crystal ball, he is mesmerised, through the reflecting glass he can see that his eyes are wildly open to the image he sees: blood dripping, he and she standing by a fireplace, someone hooded, she crying and staggering to help someone - he behind her, a dead lioness with a snake sticking out of her mouth.
He stands up, shivering - it's not fear. Attracting everyone's attention, Professor Najla narrows her eyes.
"Mr Riddle?" She's much more sensitive.
Making a gesture with his head, he sits down. The students slowly return to their respective crystal balls.
"Are you okay?" Pearl asks, he just nods 'yes'.
His nights were becoming long and headache-ridden, sitting in the armchair facing the fireplace in the Slytherin Common Room, Tom watches the fire dance incessantly. He taps his index finger against the arm of the armchair, rhythmically.
In the fire, he imagines what he saw.
His peace disturbed, is Araminta, coming down the stairs in her long satin nightgown and dressing gown. Tom arches an eyebrow.
"Still awake?" Her voice is soft, lyrical even, deceptively gentle. Araminta is as fierce and sadistic as Lestrange.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Black?" He asks. Araminta's real surname is Crouch, although she prefers to use her mother's surname and to stroke her ego, Tom often uses it when addressing her.
" I'm not here to disturb you, it's just that, company." She leans on the arm of the sofa she sits on. "We can keep each other company." She smiles.
Tom looks her up and down in disbelief, however, he comments nothing. Turning back to watching the flames. Slowly he can sense that she is uncomfortable with the silence, that she wants something, biting her lower lip, undecided about how to approach him.
"Tom - ?" She tries.
"Go to sleep, Araminta. I want to be alone." He orders, not giving a second glance and cutting off her sentence before she finishes.
She gets up and stands for a while thinking he will change his mind, but when he says nothing, she gives up. She's lucky, he could be in a worse mood. He could do things to her of which she would regret coming to him, or maybe not, maybe she would like it and come crawling back for more. Who knows?
Araminta's second intentions are clear to him as the sun is to day and the moon is to night, but not to her second intentions that call him. It happened again, he masturbated thinking of Granger, mixing his darker side. He imagined himself fucking her after killing Prewett. Bizarre, fuck, he doesn't care.
He leans back, resting his head against the backrest, and he thinks of the island. He thinks of her and all the strange moments they spent together. He thinks about the magical static in the locket she wears, he thinks about what he saw in the crystal ball.
That's enough. He gives up, stands up, and makes a decision. The route he takes is hidden and avoids the main means of circulation, especially when Mr Pringle may be making the dawn rounds, although Tom has no fear of confronting him.
But it is in the place of his ancestry that he is comfortable. The Basilisk sleeps in the resting place, trapped in eternal sleep until awakened by Tom's call. Even though he misses the huge snake, that is not why he has come to the Chamber, but for the Diary. As he feels the diary in his hands, the bond with the Horcrux practically sings. He opens the pages but writes nothing, propping the journal against the study table, he raises his left hand and holds his wand with his right hand. Aiming the tip of the wand at the flesh of his palm, Tom performs a cutting spell. The flesh slowly opens up, red contrasting with the paleness of his skin. The dermis and epidermis are bruised, blood comes to the surface, the liquid noise is audible to the eerie silence, and the blood drips. The pages of the diary drink from the blood of their creator.
So be it.
Let the Diary poison, corrupt and consume the mind of whoever it is at the behest of its creator.
May the Diary rule Hermione Granger's mind.
For fate is yet another link closing in the chain.
—
Boulengerina also known as Water Cobras, is the nineteenth most venomous snake in the world.
Author's note:
0.0. - I know it took me a while to post this new chapter, but it was for a good reason. Well, I had to adapt these last months to work and the beginning of my master's degree, all together and still maintain a stable social life. It's much harder than they say, it's not easy to do all that and stay sane, but... that's not all. Venenum already has seven more chapters on standby, they need to be edited and I during this time that I was away, with the day to day tribulations, I tried to write continuously, not to lose the idea. We are reaching a point in the story where the puzzle will start to fit together and their relationship will change, besides that, I had to do some research and physics studies about time travel theories and the consequences. Trying to make it as cultured as possible within my intelligence, as I don't have a degree in physics, and a fantasy story. The theory about what Magic is within the Harry Potter universe in this chapter, is mine.
The original author, J.K. Rowling, never explained in the books what magic is in the Harry Potter universe, and how it works, I just put what I think and how I think magic would work if it were real.
0.1 - Well, it's more reflective to say: I received a "critique" or "advice", whatever you want, about the story. It's not the first criticism I've received, I'm very open to it, except of course when there are offenses, but this one caught my attention. Look, in no way it was offensive, but I'll make it clear here, I don't intend to leave trigger warnings in the chapters. All warnings have been placed in the first chapter of the story, in addition to the main page itself. This is a story for those over the age of eighteen and who need to have a little bit of stomach. I warned that there are no heroes here, just stories and different points of view.
0.2 - Question for readers: Do you understand when the point of view changes from one character to the other? This is a story written in third person, however, sometimes there may be interpretation difficulties on your part and that will be entirely my fault. So I'm asking this sincere question about you guys understanding, because otherwise I'll have to upgrade the writing.
0.3 - Did you like the chapter?