AN: Follow/Fav/Review
He seemed bored, with his chin resting on his clenched fist, as he gazed out the window at the passing fields. Blinking slowly and yawning occasionally, he tried to block out the background noise of youthful chatter. There were still a few hours left before they arrived at Hogwarts.
Early that day, he was taken to platform nine and three-quarters, along with Draco, by his aunt. The mother, always reluctant to let her children go, tells them to have a great year and that she will see again at the end of the term. They nod and agree to always write and to look sharp for the upcoming event, the Yule Ball.
Frankly, Mortimer was more than willing to go home for the holidays and skip the dreadful gathering. Unfortunately, Narcissa disagreed and merely explained it was important he socialize with the other witches and wizards. It will be an activity he will have to get used to if he is to live up to the name. 'Name, schname!' he would eventually mutter under his breath.
But as he sat there, pondering and noticing the subtle changes in Aunt Cissy's voice, he realized what she was trying to do. She wanted him and Draco out of the house and away from Lucius. The family hadn't discussed the Quidditch match or the deadly attack that had followed. Without questioning her motives, Mortimer and Draco packed their things and left without a trace. When they returned to the manor, life resumed its usual course, but it left him feeling more confused than ever. Lucius never mentioned his involvement, and Aunt Cissy continued doing what she always did.
Act as if nothing has happened.
Behind the scenes, however, things were very different. Sneaking off a couple of times with his cousin, they could often hear Narcissa seething through her words as she scolded her husband for acting foolishly. Lucius saw nothing wrong; he just thought it was his duty as a wizard to remind everyone about the filth that poisoned their world, and that the true rulers were still here, watching over them.
Malfoy Manor became tense after that. They were subtle about the quarrel, but Mortimer could see Narcissa's small features turn cold whenever Lucius entered the room, and he, looking away to avoid appearing indifferent towards her.
Yes, Mortimer was on his way to Hogwarts. He would remain there until the following year.
Sighing, he tells himself that this year will be different. After all, everyone at some point has made the same promise. Vowing to accomplish tasks and keep them, only to break those promises later.
And that's what he was doing, or at least, trying to do.
Last year was probably his worst academically and physically. He liked to think the problem began with one class, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Let's also not forget the man who was teaching it, Remus Lupin.
It was that very lesson that almost cost him his magic.
Thanks to that damn Boggart.
He never thought that a creature would be the thing to cause such a heavy chain reaction as it did. Nearly losing his mind because he had been afraid for a very long time. The old woman controlling his very existence, he couldn't outrun the impact she'd have on him. He thought he was over it, but now, with her gone, he realized that she could still hurt him.
There lay another problem; the arrival of Dementors. These horrible creatures made the situation worse by chasing him and wanting to suck the soul right out of his body. On top of everything, he was being stalked by a (at the time) criminal escapee. The infamous Sirius Black. Coming for him to rectify what others wanted to do. And that was to murder him.
A rollercoaster of this and that, eventually, they all found themselves facing the man everyone thought was dead, Peter Pettigrew.
Mortimer should have killed him.
But. . . his eyes were dead set on destroying the older Black, he couldn't care less about that cowardice rat, Pettigrew. He can see now that it was a mistake.
Cracking his neck, Mortimer combed through his hair and continued to gaze out the window. The rain started to pour; in the distance, he saw flashes of lightning followed by the sound of a cracking whip striking the clouds.
"Do you suppose it'll stop before we arrive?" A concerning voice asks.
As raindrops drip down against the glass, Mortimer turns away to face Draco. "What's wrong? Are you afraid of getting your hair wet?"
The blond scowls, but Mortimer could hear him as he silently mumbles. "A little."
Mortimer rolls his eyes and goes back to drizzling screen. Draco and Theo talk begin to talk about this year's exciting event. The Triwizard Tournament was set to take place this year, the first in hundreds of years.
He listens while they talk about the many deaths of those who had entered. Glancing at the rapid bolts of lightning, he hears Theo calling him. "Fancy throwing your name in?"
"I don't think so." He mutters with a droll stare, showing his disinterest for wizarding sports. "I would prefer keeping the role of the background character."
Snorting, Draco elbows him. "Don't be ridiculous. You're a Black."
He blinks again and questions. "What does that even mean?"
"It means you're not allowed to lounge in back while Potter gets all the glory!"
Theo was sitting across the two, he leans forward, curious as his voice was. "You think Potter will put his name inside?"
"Pffft!" Draco spits out, in a very unmannerly Malfoy way. "Of course, he is. Any chance Potter gets to show off, he'll do it - Bet Weasley will enter as well. He's probably doing it for the money, or maybe the poor fool thinks he can bring glory to the family name." He chuckles at the thought. "Who knows? If he actually does wins, he might even afford decent robes."
The doors abruptly open and out came a roaring voice, louder than the thunder striking outside of the train. "Eat dung Malfoy!"
They were confronted by Ron's glowering face; Harry could be seen standing behind him. Instead of jumping back like one would expect when being surprised, Draco proceeded to howl with laughter. Theo didn't laugh but glared at the invasion.
Mortimer wasn't to keen on having visitors. "I don't remember inviting either of you... Get lost Weasley, not in the mood to hear your tantrums - You have Granger for that."
His face couldn't have gotten redder as it did. Had Harry not stopped him, Ron might've thrown himself on top of him. "Shut up! You think your somehow better than all of us!"
"Better than you that's for sure." He airs out, his tone was that of disinterest. "You can't let every single thing get to you. It makes you look weak."
Draco had proceeded to shove him. "Stop trying to help him."
He, of course, ignores him and glances over to the redhead. "I hope your family made it out safely," he says out of concern for Ginny.
"As if you actually care! You probably want us all dead, along every muggleborn."
Mortimer looks down at his neatly trimmed nails. "You? Dead? Nonsense. If you check my list, you won't find Weasley on it, I can tell you that. But if you insist - I think I could squeeze a name or two onto the list... what do you say?"
It grows quiet. Except for the wet drops of harsh summer rain, they all stare at him with the same fearful gaze. Whenever Mortimer speaks, their fear intensifies. Though, it isn't his words that make them wary. It is the sudden changes in his expression that make them believe him. His eyes grow dark, a sort of glow in his pupils, making his stare intense. He speaks as though he has experience in the field. "I'll take that as a no then...," he says.
"Get out," Draco snapped, looking up at them.
When they didn't immediately listen, Theo leaned back. He was never one to meddle with Potter or his friends. "Being the chosen one doesn't give you the right to barge in, much less make demands. Leave us alone."
But Harry steps forward and speaks. "I came here to talk to you, Mortimer." Mortimer continues to look away, barely glancing in his direction.
"Piss off Potter." Draco would grit out. "You and Weasley should go back to your muggle, Granger."
At the mention of her name, Ron was quick on his feet, the impulse to pull out his wand overcoming him. "Say her name one more time, Malfoy, and I swear I'll -"
Clearing his throat, he casually rose from his seat, motioning with his arm, he led Potter right out of the compartment. "Alright, Potter. We can talk."
"You're not seriously going with him, are you?" Draco shouts as Mortimer begins to follow Harry. "Not with him," he bites out, nearly exposing his pristine teeth.
He stopped abruptly, catching the sight of his angry face. "I am," he said.
"Bad idea mate," Theo states, hearing the disapproval in his voice. At the same time, he hears Draco calling him an idiot. "The dumbest idea," pitches the blonde.
Once again, he ignored the warning. "I'll only be gone a moment." He swished his hand at them gently while he turned his eyes on Ron, who still had his wand out. "Put it away, Weasley, before I change my mind about going anywhere with Potter."
"It's okay, Ron," said Harry, breathing hard beside him. Mortimer's voice was now sharp with warning.
Weasley's lips pressed thinly, and he gripped his hands that held the wand. After a few seconds, he put it down, the boiling anger still evident as Harry led Mortimer towards the back of the train. They passed by various students, ignoring the many onlookers who were surprised to see Mortimer with Harry.
Scanning until he found an empty compartment, he was quick to shut the door and cover himself with the velvet curtain. Harry approached Ron not a second later, his tone rather jittery. "I'll meet you and Hermione in a while."
The request couldn't have been worse received; his eyes almost popped out. "But Harry -" Ron argued, he didn't hide his hatred towards Black, making sure he heard him well enough. "I'm telling you; he can't be trusted. He attacked us! Remember? And you saw what he did to Sirius in the forest - had the dementors not shown up, I doubt Sirius would be here right now."
"That could always change," Folding his arms, Mortimer smirked in response. It was always fun to mess with Weasley, only because he seemed to take every word to heart.
"See what I mean?" Ron glares at Mortimer, whose smug smile still hasn't left his face. "He's already fooled Ginny; don't let him fool you too."
"Listen to yourself Weasley." Mortimer scoffs. "You sound ridiculous - But I get it, really, I do."
"Get what?" Ron challenged, his nostrils flaring and his unkempt hair flying while a flash of lightning highlighted the deepening wrinkles on his furrowed brow.
Glancing at Harry and Ron, he took a step towards the window. It was difficult to see through the rain pouring down outside, but by squinting his eyes, he could make out some of the passing landscape. "It's not Harry that you're worried about," he said, "it's your ego that's on the line."
Ron stood by the door of the compartment, hissing, "What's that supposed to mean?"
His back was facing them; he looked far beyond the measly window. "Face it, Weasley," said Black softly. "You just can't stand the thought of being wrong - wrong about me, wrong about Slytherin... or maybe, you're just afraid Potter will leave you in favor of some better friends."
"You're full of it!" Flushed with anger that balloons throughout his body, he raises his voice. "Harry would never be friends with the likes of a Death Eater! Especially one as vile as you."
There was a smudge on the window that Mortimer decided to wipe with his sleeve. "You were wrong about working with Sirius Black and you were wrong about the Quidditch Cup," he said, turning to face the two of them. "But if you're still insisting that I had anything to do with it, then you better have the proof before I punch you stupid." He grimaced, snapping his eyes at Ron. His reaction was at best, timid. "I came here to listen to Potter, not your rambling. You either leave or this conversation is over."
Mortimer looked at Harry. "Well, what's it going to be, Potter?"
A few moments of silence passed, and Harry glanced over at Ron, whose incensed glare seemed to be locked in a battle with Mortimer's cold stare. He felt as though he were being pulled into the middle of it all.
Whatever Potter needed to tell him; it must have been important enough to have Ron kicked right out of the compartment. "I'll be fine, Ron," he said nervously, but determined on privacy. "I'll catch up with you guys soon."
Harry's persistence won out; through sheer determination, Ron finally relented, much to his frustration. He gave Mortimer one last threatening glare before leaving and slamming the door shut.
Mortimer sat near the window, watching as the rain grew heavier. Curious about what the chosen one would say, he waited patiently. "I'm sorry about Ron," said the voice at last.
"Forget it." Another flash of lightning lit up the room as Mortimer sat back and watched the rain pound against the window. "I'll never understand how you could ever be friends with someone like that."
Moving to sit across from him, his voice was slightly bitter as he threw the question back. "Like what?"
"Childish," he responded, putting his chin in the palm of his hand, and resting one elbow on the armrest of the chair. "He throws a tantrum when he doesn't get his way. And you make it worse by indulging him." Shifting slightly away from Potter, he focused instead on the rapidly changing slide show of empty grasslands. "And for what? Friendship?" He scowled, clearly irritated by Potter's deluded beliefs. "The minute you do something he doesn't like, the word 'friend' will mean nothing to him – neither will you."
"You don't know that. And you can't exactly blame him for thinking this way. Look at your house, all of them act as of their better than everyone else. They're heads up their rear ends, especially Malfoy's. He goes out of his way to make our lives miserable. Yet, you continue to defend him. We both know he's rotten, just like every other Slytherin."
"So I guess that means I must be one as well." Glancing to his right side, the compartment rocks back and forth for a few seconds. "It's a terrible thing, really..."
"What is?"
"To be constantly overshadowed by our parents," he mumbles, placing a hand on his chest to feel the locket beneath. "At least you have nothing to worry about. You're the Boy Who Lived; you've already accomplished what any wizard has ever dreamed of. Weasley, however..." He almost smirks, but then shakes his head and sighs. "He has to compete with his brothers. From what I hear, they're all successful in their own right. What does he have to show for it? To the rest, he's just the one boy who followed the Chosen One."
Harry gave Mortimer a long, inquisitive glare. "Do you think you're any better? What do you think they say about you?"
A chuckle escapes him briefly. He has yet to tear his eyes away from the rainy view, his hair partially covering one eye. "That's the beauty of being a bastard. They always let you know. I've heard it from both sides too. Wizards that call me an evil spawn. Muggles, the weird kid from up the street."
"You were a weird kid?"
"Every neighborhood has one of those lying about. Unfortunately, that was me - I'm a wizard, so obviously things around me aren't normal."
And that was as far as he was willing to divulge when it came to mentioning his past. "Doesn't matter now," Mortimer whispers, before finally turning his head to face Harry. "You wanted to tell me something?"
Harry nodded nervously and rubbed his forehead. "Do you know about the scar?"
Mortimer studied it from where he was sitting. It was kind of hard to see with Potter's messy hair constantly covering it. "Just from what everyone else has already said. He gave it to you the night your parents were murdered."
His face hardens; Harry sighs as he takes a deep breath, enough to finish what he needs to say. "Yes," he answers, raising his voice to show the severity of the conversation. "Swear you won't tell anyone, not even Draco. What I tell you has to be kept between us. I'm serious."
Reclining back into his chair, Mortimer frowned at Harry. "That's not very fair, is it? Granger and Weasley get to be on it, but my friends are off-limits? How is that any fairer?"
"I haven't told them the truth if that's what you're implying," Harry counters, noting his sudden reaction. He is quick to mention, "Anything that could shed light on you, it's been kept hidden."
"Yeah?" Rasing one of his eyebrows, he challenges Potter. "What truth are we talking about here?"
Harry lowered his voice, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. What he had to say would send instant chills down their spines. "Voldemort being your father. . . The Chamber of Secrets. It was you who commanded the Basilisk and defeated Tom. You saved me and Ginny - I kept my mouth shut. They're under the impression it was me who saved Ron's sister. But that was all you. Just like you said, we aren't enemies. I want to trust you and you should do the same."
"Where are you going with this?"
Mortimer could see that Harry was struggling to put his thoughts into words. It was almost exciting, he thought, wondering what Harry was so nervous about. Finally, Potter bites the bullet and blurts out, "I had a dream. It felt real... Voldemort was in it and... Peter Pettigrew." He glances over at Mortimer cautiously, wanting to gauge his reaction before continuing.
Leaning forward, the mention of Tom and Peter together certainly caught his attention. "Was I in it?"
"No," he said, "but I wouldn't be telling you this if your life weren't in danger."
"I'm always in danger. Don't you know that the population of witches and wizards wants me dead? Come on, Potter," he grins, sitting on the edge of his seat. "You said my life was in danger, tell me more."
The discomforting expression that Harry casted, Mortimer could see that this wasn't the reaction he had expected. Perhaps Potter thought Mortimer would start shaking in his shoes, panic-stricken as he stutters profusely at the horrifying news. Is that what Potter wanted? He thought him cowardly. A long time ago Harry would've been right. Now, it seems as though Mortimer has had enough time to process the return of his father.
Harry took a while to adjust to Mortimer's chipper mood. He continued to hold eye contact. "He knows about you." It was difficult to say it all at once, and his words turned into a jumbled mess. "Pettigrew was telling him all these weird things you've been doing outside of the school. He's been watching you since last year." He let out a heavy breath as he tried to make sense of it all. "I don't understand why... Voldemort wants to use you for something..." He paused when he noticed Mortimer's broadening smile. "Why are you...?"
He's been caught. Swiftly, he glances away, Mortimer presses his lips together, he wants to restrain himself from laughing. "I'm sorry, really, I am. It's just... this seems a little too far-fetched for my taste." He hacks and then clears his throat, getting a hold of himself. "But like you said, Potter, it was a dream."
His expression faltered at Mortimer's response. "You don't believe me," he whispered.
"No. I don't." Given by Potter's dejection stare, Mortimer sighed. "Fine - Suppose I believe you. What then?"
"I don't know. . ." He said truthfully, he was in the middle of processing the image. Most of the focus was shifted towards the pain on his forehead. "I thought maybe you'd have better luck."
It becomes silent inside the compartment. The trickling raindrops and small popping noises as they smack against the glass, they were lost in thought. It didn't matter whether he was after him, Mortimer had thought about the worst cases since the moment Dumbledore planted the idea of his father's return.
None of it made sense. How was Potter able to see Voldemort? Mortimer's dreams were different from his; the last thing he saw was a giant bear, covered in blood, running and leaping towards him. Any distinction Mortimer could find was with the bear's own two eyes, which were glowing red - it was dangerous and untamed. He was thankful when it stopped. But what did it have to do with Potter? How did he fit into any of it? Was it the scar?
Mortimer wanted to know more—to see it for himself. He asked silently, "Could you show me?"
"What?" He answered back, his hair becoming wild.
Mortimer wanted to get inside his mind. He wanted to see the conversation in full. He wanted Voldemort dead.
But unfortunately, asking Potter to willingly let him perform Legilimency on him would no doubt add weight to Ron's paranoia. But there were other ways. "If I were to ask you," he says, glancing to the side. "Can you remember the dream? Everything you witnessed...will you be able to recall it?"
For a moment, Harry doesn't answer. His nervous posture and the wrinkles on his forehead that expose his lightning bolt scar. "Yeah... Yes," he says, looking at Mortimer but still nodding. "Is there a way to see other people's dreams?" Harry asks in disbelief.
They were both new to the world of wizardry, though it seemed that Potter was far less educated in the feats of magic than Mortimer. At any rate, maybe he could use it to his advantage. After all, it was for a good cause. "There are two ways," Mortimer smiled softly. "One would be Legilimency..."
Arching his neck slightly, his face appeared lost at the term. "Legilimency? What's that?"
He almost laughed again, so he decided to inhale a small breath of air. "Entering a person's mind, traveling across paths of memories, breaking walls and seeing the darkest regions of a human thought...it sounds like an adventure."
"That sounds horrible," he said, as a loud bang moved across the sky, catching his attention and nearly causing him to jump out of his seat.
"Only if the person resists. It can also be a beautiful thing. You can feel what they feel - if you trust someone enough, it can form a strong bond between you and the other person."
His teeth were visible when he suddenly growls out at the suggestion. "Are you asking if you can perform... Legilimency on me?"
"No," Mortimer assured him, his tone tender. "I'm not sure I could. Besides, it's just as dangerous for the caster. If done incorrectly, you essentially become a vegetable."
"Oh... Is there a way to fight it off?"
"Occlumency, it creates 'shields' to ward off anyone who might want to take a peek."
"You seem to know a lot about this stuff..."
"It only makes sense that I do. It would be like me moving to Russia and expect everyone to speak English. I made it my mission to learn as much as possible, at least then I'd be prepared. I came here around the same time as you did, and I'm surprised to find out you haven't been told any of this."
Harry rolls his eyes and snorts. "It's not like I have anyone to turn to, all my relatives are nonmagical."
"That's no excuse, look at Granger. She appears to know more than you and Weasley and her family holds no magical roots." Mortimer sighs back, he was getting off topic. "But as I was saying... another way to view that dream of yours would be for you to provide me a memory."
Once again, Potter stuck out as lost. Was he speaking another language? Mortimer wanted to thump that head of his. He shouldn't judge him. And yet, it was hard not to ridicule him for his lack of knowledge. How did Potter ever survive?
Biting his tongue, Mortimer explains how memories work. As wizards, they were able to extract memories from their own minds. To view them, a simple Pensieve would do the trick. Sounds easy enough, issue is where in the world was he going to find one.
Maybe Draco could help him... Lucius? How was he going to explain that he got a hold of Potter's memories. Surely, they'd be upset, the idea of Draco working with Potter, it made for a bizarre painting.
Harry was hesitant, given by his clammy hands, Mortimer could practically see them glistening. He was staring at him, again. The lack of sentences, Harry didn't instantly shut down the idea, so there was still hope.
Mortimer didn't want to give him the chance to deny him. "You don't have to say anything right now - Think about it, that's all I ask."
To this, Harry agrees with a sole nod.
A few minutes pass and somehow Harry has yet to move from his seat. Mortimer thought as soon as Harry got it out of chest, he'd be eager to join his friends. When he didn't, he was left puzzled.
"They killed someone..." Harry said quietly, he evades from looking at Mortimer further.
"Who?"
"I don't remember his name, but he was a muggle. I saw him coming up the stairs, he heard them talking about plotting a murder, that's when Voldemort. . ." He stops midway, relieving the horrifying scene and the fear the man felt before the lights were quickly cut off.
"Relax Potter, I think I get it." Scratching the back of his neck, Mortimer pursed his lips. "So you really think, he's coming after me... What about you? Aren't you his nemesis?"
"The thing is... he said he needed you in order to get me..." His frowns, massaging his forehead. There was headache creeping up on him. "But I can't figure out why."
"There's a connection then," Eyes gazing up to the gray sky, Mortimer sounded calm enough, but was twisting one of his fingers. "It doesn't matter, not right now."
"He'll come after you."
"Then let him." He expression turns dark as his voice becomes quiet. The snakelike ray of lightening complementing the features perfectly, but the only problem was the lack of emotion he was showing. It wasn't good or bad, but the seriousness of his tone tells Harry, he meant it.
"So that's it? You're not going to do anything?"
"Would you prefer I join him instead?"
"N-No!"
"Glad we're on the same page then..." Mortimer goes on to say, he smiles to himself and then darts his eyes in the direction of Harry. "You're right though, we aren't enemies." Turning down the corners of his mouth. "I only want to be left alone."
He mulled Harry's words over as he sat there. He was uncertain to a degree; he was already aware that Tom was still alive, but he didn't think Tom knew about him. Thanks to Pettigrew, Mortimer was now on his mind, and he was coming for him.
Mortimer slipped his hand over his chest, where the locket lay safely hidden beneath his shirt. An object as valuable as this needed protection at all costs. Strangely, it often seemed to whisper to him.
Just thinking about what Tom would say to him, what he'd do... It made him clench his teeth. The returning hatred for his father filled him, and he couldn't stand it. There was resentment in those dark eyes of his, not only towards his father, but also his mother. Nothing would please him more than to have both of them gone, exact a sort of revenge. He meant what he said when he told Dumbledore he had no intention to fight for Potter or Tom. He'd let them kill each other before ever picking up his wand.
It was only fair he returns the favor. Thoughts of an old life instantly trickle down his spine. It makes him feel dirty just having to relive it over and over again, the way Nana would shove her long-edged fingers through his hair. The soft gesture turns cold after that.
Mortimer's current worry was ensuring that Draco and Aunt Cissy remained unharmed. If Voldemort ever found out Mortimer had grown attached to the Malfoys, he'd use it against him, dangling their lives in front of his face. To be fair, Mortimer would do it too, had the roles been reversed.
He understands because it's all part of the game.
And much to his irritation, both sides were nudging him towards the board.
He didn't like it.
Placing the palm of his hand over his heart, he smiled at its warmth. He would wait. Wait for someone to throw the first punch. He refused to be the instigator; if a war was to potentially break out, it'd be smart to have a plan of sorts. In any given situation, whether the good or bad reigned supreme, at least Mortimer could rest knowing he made it out alive.
Suddenly, the compartment door slid open, revealing the figure of a tall blonde who stood there, ecstatic as she squealed out loud.
Lavender Brown.
Both Harry and Mortimer let out a groan of nausea.
Slowly, his head turns back towards the window. The rain is still pouring, but not as brutally as it had been before. "Brown," he grimaces at the annoying little minx, refusing to give her a second glance.
"I should go," Harry said, getting uncomfortable. Suddenly, he stood up from his seat. "I'll see you around then." He murmured as he made a break for it, sliding past Lavender and exiting the compartment.
It was just now him and Brown.
She had grown an inch over the summer. The clothes she wore were in the softer shades of blue, bringing out her bright blue eyes. Her hair was neatly tied back, but she had left a few strands hanging loose. "Oh, Morty," she said. "Of course I'll sit with you. You never have to ask."
"I wasn't -"
The strange magic she possessed as before he could blink, he could hear the girl rushing in. In a just mere seconds, she came face to face.
A soft finger is placed on his lips. "I know we left things rather sour - You said some things... And I might've been too rash in my actions." Mortimer heard the quickness of her breath as her skin becomes flushed. "But that's all in the past and look -" Removing her hand away, she takes a step back and airs out. "I've been keeping fit. What do you think? Impressed?"
Impressed? No he wasn't feeling impressed at all. In fact, he wasn't sure what to feel at this scary moment. He tries to convince himself that it was his imagination running wild. For lack of a better word, he had to admit he was freaked out. He was left wondering what exactly she was thinking as she stands there with a solid smile. "I'm out." He muttered sheepishly, trying to get rid of this horrifying sensation crawling down his spine.
He was about to move and ready to leave. But he was then stopped when he felt the floor vibrating. The train began to move, causing a big jolt. He was slightly thrown off balance; almost tripping from the force of it.
Lavender, unwilling to let it pass, grabbed him so that he wouldn't fall over. She squealed happily, pushing him back down onto the seat.
He didn't fear death. But there was something eerie about this girl. No matter how many times he pushed her away, yelled, insulted or did anything else he could think of, she always came back.
"Isn't this wonderful?" Exclaiming, she sits right beside the fearful Black boy. "Just you, me and the hours we get to spend it together."
"Where's Padma? Parvati?" Attempting to move her hands away from his own, he asks. "Anyone?"
"I told them to scurry off. I wanted to have you all to myself!" She bubbles out while giggling to herself. "I knew it would happen of course."
"You did?"
"Yes!" Bobbing her head, she eagerly reaches for his left arm, tightly hugging him. "Before coming to king's cross, I checked my little tea cup. The leaves showed me the cutest thing. A snake! I immediately thought of you - Who else could it be? Professor Trelawney always said I had the talent for telling such things. It's one of the reasons I couldn't wait to arrive. And just look at you!" She shrills in his ear. "You've gotten handsome - well, you've always been handsome - Oh and your hair..." Uncomfortably, she starts petting it as her eyes widen. "I like it better this way. I mean the whole shaved look last year was fine, but this is way better - So soft. . ."
"Go away."
"There's no one here, you don't have to pretend." Snuggling his arm tighter she sighs. "Not while you're with me."
At that point, he was ready to shove her back and demand she leave him alone, for good. But his brain wouldn't let him. He'd like to think it was the gentleman in him that refused to raise a hand against a girl.
Mortimer flopped back onto the seat, playing dead wouldn't do him any good. Lavender has him where she wanted, and he was forced to endure it. It was becoming a habit, one where he hopes Lavender will someday give up. Calling her all sorts of names and telling her awful things only encourages her, he thought maybe if he sits it out, she'll eventually let go of him and move on.
She never did leave and for the rest of the trip, her arms will remain there. By the end, his arm had become limp as noodle from the blonde's tough brace.
Arriving at the castle, they were carried on by the thestrials, their skinless boney faces and invisible to the common eye, Mortimer says very little.
The rain had settled down, but it was still dousing the children as they ran all the way to the castle. Many pitter-patter footsteps huddled together on the cobbled floor; their shoes and the ends of their robes were wet. Some shivered while others shook violently, like dogs trying to dry themselves.
Mortimer, along with the rest of the children, headed towards the Great Hall. The heavily lit candles floating up the ceiling welcomed the newcomers, all of whom headed to their respective tables. He waved once he spotted Tracey and Daphne; Theo was already there, sitting as he gave Mortimer a questioning look. As if to say, "What took you so long?" Crabbe and Goyle were sitting near the middle of the table, meaning Draco was right where he should be. Pansy Parkinson was on his other side, talking to the blonde.
He felt as though all eyes were on him as he traveled down the Slytherin table. A small glance at the Ravenclaw table revealed his peculiar little blonde friend, Luna Lovegood. If circumstances were different, he would have gone up to her and greeted her. With Draco's hawk-like stare, he knew that wasn't possible.
Even so, Luna had beamed at the sight of him and didn't hide the fact she was waving at the Slytherin boy. Others glanced over and looked at her as if she'd suddenly gone daft. Luna paid them no mind and continued to wave. Further up at the table, he saw Terry Boot's seething glare. It was safe to assume Boot had grown to despise Black; their first interaction hadn't been the best, and it had only gotten worse over time.
Mortimer rolls his eyes and ignores it.
Close by the ravenclaw table, he peers over to Ginny, a quick wave, she swerves her head and begins to talk to Fred.
Seeing everyone back here again, he felt rather relieved to be away. It quickly drew him away from the worries that bounced around in his head. But again, that could always change in a matter of days, considering things don't usually go as planned.
Sitting right across from Draco, they all sat there and waited for the welcoming feast to begin. Before any of that could commence, the Sorting Hat began its annual welcoming song. The first years gave the hat curious glances and good-humored laughs.
Once the old, rugged hat finishes its charming, yet questionable harmonizing, everyone claps, and the ceremonial sorting of the newcomers begins.
Shortly afterwards, the belly filling feast opens up with the abrupt appearance of various foods. He craves very little but serves himself a small plate of mashed potatoes with a roasted chicken leg.
He feels a strange itch in his head, curiously he glances at the other tables. Many of the girls were looking at him as his head had been set on fire. He pats his head just make sure that wasn't the case. Some of them notice him staring right back that they instantly peer away, some giggled, whilst others blushed abundantly, shying away from the response.
Did the twins do something to his face? Had he suddenly gone bald? Touching his face, he made sure he hadn't grown a third eye. All he felt was the smoothness of his pale skin and a few bumps coming from the developing zits that were taking form. When he found nothing wrong, he slowly went back to his meal. The feeling returned, and four other Hufflepuff girls were whispering and staring right at him; they weren't even trying to hide it. Soon as they started to giggle, he became increasingly annoyed.
Frowning, Mortimer tries to differ with Draco. "Is there something wrong with my face?"
Draco was in the middle of talking to Crabbe and Goyle about the spectacular seats they were given at the quidditch cup. He stops to look at Mortimer and directly tells him. "No. But you should really do something about that zit on the side of your face. Do you even moisturize?"
"Why do I even bother. . ." Mortimer sighs out heavily and pokes his food.
"You can't be this dense, Black." Syltherin housemate, Daphne Greengrass mockingly speaks up. "Surely, someone of your superior intelligence could see what they're up to."
Grasping his spoon, he arrows his eyes at the smirking blonde. "Is there something you wish to say, Greengrass?"
No matter how upset he appeared, Daphne remained unruffled by his expression. She simply shook her head and returned to her plate.
Her friend sitting next to her, Tracey Davis, would eventually answer for her. Her good nature, she put it in the simplest of terms. "What Daphne's really saying is that over the summer, you've grown very ..." Her cheeks turning pink just by saying, "attractive."
This causes Mortimer to raise an eyebrow, he was taken aback that he had to crane his head to meet the other gazes that were uncomfortably watching him. "Wha...?"
Quickly, Tracey bobs her head, her voice rushed as she specifies. "Th-This isn't me saying it!" She points at the other Houses' tables. "I heard them talking on our way to the castle, honest!"
He echoed dumbly, "About me?" Tracey could be telling him all of this and he would still have a hard time understanding her implications.
Daphne glowers, slams her utensils down. "Yes, Black, they were talking about you. In fact-" She grabs a nearby napkin and wipes the corner of her mouth. "I'd say you rank pretty high up there as one of the cutest boys in our year. Next to Blaise, of course."
"A load of crock!" Draco shouted from his seat. For some odd reason, he was reacting much more than Mortimer, who was all but frowning in confusion. "He's so not the most sought after."
The response was taken lightly, and for once, Mortimer voluntarily agreed with the blonde. Snap! He kept his eyes on his plate, nudging and squishing the food around on it. He was unfamiliar with these sorts of things; he wasn't sure how he was supposed to act. Should he say thank you? No, that sounded weird.
As Daphne and Draco go back and forth on the standards for what makes someone attractive, Mortimer turns to Theo. "Hey Theo, am I pretty?"
Bursting into a small fit of laughter, he covered his mouth for a moment before speaking. "Yes, Mortimer. You are absolutely beautiful."
It didn't make him feel any better.
The attention of every student is caught once Albus Dumbledore rises from his seat. "Alright students!" he says. "I ask for your attention one last time - A few announcements to make -"
This year's bulletin contained no surprises; as always, students were advised to avoid the treacherous outskirts of the forest. The headmaster also issued a list of prohibited items, courtesy of the caretaker, Mr. Flich. Most of what was said flew over his head.
That is until the words 'canceled' and 'Quidditch Cup' were mentioned. There was an assortment of gasps, Draco was making noises of protest. "They didn't have to cancel it! We can still play!"
"Yes..." Dumbledore said in rather disappointed tone. "Unfortunately, the inter-house quidditch cup will not be taking place this year." He puts his hands together, nodding, he goes on. "Due to October's event, that will continue throughout the year, our professor's time and energy can simply not be spent on such affairs - But..." Contrary to what he said, he lifts a finger to silence some of the moaning children. "I am positively sure that you will enjoy the months to come. Allow me to proudly introduce this year, at Hogwarts, we will -"
A loud thunderous roar echoed from the endless storm outside. The great hall's doors opened, revealing a man wrapped in a dark cloak standing before them. With a tall staff in hand, he casually yet slowly paced through the hall, limping and clunking down with each step as he made his way towards the staff table.
With every footstep the man took, a loud flash of lightening expanded over the room. It was like world was telling everyone that this man is, not only dangerous, but one not to be trifled with. They all believed it too.
No one made a sound until the man pulled his hood down to reveal his face. Someone in the room had let out an audible gasp.
Ugly, he was, as the entirety of the stranger's face was covered in deep scars, most of which, had aged horribly. There were missing pieces of his skin from old injuries that even frightened some of the staff members. Wearing the marks of previous battles, it was clear that this man has seen war and beyond.
However, it wasn't just his chipped face they noticed, but also the rather large eye that seemed to have a mind of its own as it wandered off in different directions. The normal-looking one went over towards Dumbledore as he reached out to shake his hand and mumble something unintelligible.
"Right. . ." Dumbledore speaks loudly and brightly. "May I introduce our newest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Mr. Moody." He claps while wearing a toothy smile.
Though his claps were the only thing making any noise inside the great hall, the half-giant, Hagrid, soon joined him. They were the only ones; the rest remained silent; professors included. His appearance baffled them into stillness and fascination. Ignoring the stares, Moody made his way to take his seat. Serving himself a large plate of meats, he began to eat as if he hadn't eaten in days.
They were put off by his animalistic mannerisms and increasingly unsettled when he took out a flask from his hip belt, chugged it down, and let it dribble down the corners of his mouth.
Dumbledore clears his throat to try and un-ring the bell Moody had set off. "As I was saying..." He cheers on. "Hogwarts has been given the honor of hosting this year's event. An event that has been held for nearly a century! The Triwizard Tournament!"
The quiet great hall becomes not so quiet.
Dumbledore would go on to explain the history of the competition for those who were unfamiliar. Everyone whispered and shared glances as he went on to mention the horrible deaths it had caused over the course of the event. Everyone showed interest and were excited to meet the other schools that will be competing.
Many of the students from his own table conveyed their eager thoughts. Some had even volunteered to sign up for the deadly contest, as the old man went on to announce that the winner would receive a cash prize of a thousand galleons, along with the school's glory.
Practically everyone wanted to enter right then and there.
However, all hope was crushed when the headmaster brought up the devastating news. Only those aged seventeen and above will be allowed to enter; anyone younger will obviously be denied. The champions will be named on Halloween night, and they are expected to act accordingly once the other schools - Beauxbatons and Drumstrang - arrive in October.
And with that, the headmaster dismissed the students, and everyone soon forgot about Moody, who was still chomping down on his over-sized sausage.
"Can you believe this?" Draco groaned, breathing hard as his nose wrinkled. "No qudditch this year! I had father buy me a new helmet and uniform and now I'll never get to use it."
Following his fellow slytherins down the flight of stairs and right into the dungeons. "I thought you'd be more upset to find out you won't be able to enter. Glory, riches and whatnot." Said Mortimer.
"Who cares about that?" Draco scoffs. "I'm a Malfoy, my name is already famous. And riches? I have enough of that back in my vault." His tone was low and filled with a disappointment. "I've been training the whole summer. I wanted to do better than last year. I wanted to win against -" He stops himself and sighs again.
"Say no more." The two of them continue to walk along.
Not far from them Theo trails from behind and chuckles. "Wonder who'll be chosen from our school. You think it'll be one from our house?"
"It might be rigged." Mortimer tosses, taking out his mirror he looks at his reflection to make sure his eyes were kept in check. "I wouldn't be too surprised if they choose a gryffindor."
Draco nods. "The old fool has the power to do so, and we all know how much he favors those lot."
Drawing close to the slytherin common room, someone from a distance begins calling out Mortimer's name. "Black! Where you at, Black!"
Turning his head over to where the voice was shouting, an older boy by the name of Joshua Wumble - This year's slytherin prefect - came to him with a message. "Headmaster Dumbledore wants you in his office."
The three of them, Mortimer, Draco and Theo, gave curious glances. "Ain't it a bit late for that?" Said Draco.
"Yeah, couldn't this have waited until the morning?" Theo adds, standing close to the grumbling frog statue.
The prefect shrugs and chunters in the middle of the corridor. "What are you, his secretary? Buzz off, the two of you." He expels, waving his right hand at them, he looks back at Mortimer. "You. In his office. The password is Toffee Twee."
"What do suppose he wants?" Draco asks cautiously, almost in a worried tone.
Mortimer watches as the prefect walks away, he's been quiet thus far. "Progress report?"
Theo was skeptical and tilts his head. "Even so, wouldn't that fall over to Professor Snape?"
While he didn't say it out loud, Mortimer was sure as why the old man wanted to see him. The mention of Snape, the potion master had no doubt reported to him as what he's been doing over the summer. He was too nosy for his own good and Mortimer wasn't going to stand for it.
The last time they spoke was in last year's term. After the whole werewolf/Sirius/Pettigrew-is-alive, attack, Mortimer had made a declaration of his own defense. Determined to show the old man that he was no longer going to sit by at let everyone push him around, feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to cut it. He was done being nice, done with everyone belittling him at every turn. All because he was some old hag's spawn. Yes, he remembers this very well and he was going to keep that promise.
This might've been worrisome for Dumbledore, as he knew not what Mortimer had intend to do. What the plan, or his role was in this so-called war he had predicted. He wants to keep it that way, the old man should learn to mind his own business.
"Well, you heard what Wumble said." Mortimer smirks at them, their uptight spines, they seem conflicted at his decision. Unconsciously rubbing the middle of his chest. "Buzz off."
Going back in the opposite direction, he climbed the stairs and swiftly wasted no time in reaching the headmaster's office. Passing and ignoring the yawning portraits, he was lucky enough to avoid Peeves. The poltergeist was currently stuffing balls of toilet paper into the helmets of the armored knights standing guard; not wanting to fall victim, he sped along further down the corridor.
Stepping in front of the guarding statue, it asks for the password. "Toffee Twee."
The golden staircase swerves down to open its entrance and not a moment sooner, Mortimer heads up to the office where the headmaster sat. Not much had changed since he was last here. The office was still a mess and just as daffy as it was. There were several envelopes flying across the ceiling. Books were stacking up on each other. A tall broom stick was sweeping the carpet near the fireplace and a nearby quill was writing down a checklist.
"Spring cleaning?" Mortimer says, rising a brow, he peers at the seat; a pillow was adjusting itself.
"You could say that." Dumbledore chuckles. "Best to get it out of the way. We wouldn't want the other headmasters to see such messes - Not the best representation of our school, don't you think?"
"Probably not."
"Take a seat, my boy," said Dumbledore kindly. "It's been a while since we last spoke - how was your summer?" He organized himself behind his desk, his glimmering eyes mirroring Mortimer's as he watched him.
The old man already knew the answer, Mortimer was sure of it. He didn't understand the need to tiptoe around the conversation. Why not just spit out what was really on his mind? "Didn't you read Professor Snape's report? I'm sure he wrote about it." Planting himself in the chair, he sighs.
"Quite," he bobs his head. "There is only so much you can write on paper. There wasn't much room for spare details. However, now that you're here, I'm positive you alone can fill in the rest. By the way... how are your eyes? Any changes?"
Slowly he starts to rub one of his eyes. "No. And I'm no closer as to figuring out why." He said, and his expression hardened for a moment.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, slightly leaning forward in his desk. "And your dreams? The last time we spoke, you mentioned some disturbing imagery."
Luckily, the old man couldn't see Mortimer clutching the armrests at the present moment, staring up at his face. "They're gone. I'm not exactly sure when it started. Frankly I was relieved when it stopped that I didn't think to question it." He averts the sights of the curious man. "Any luck on your end? " he asks with a bit of hope.
"I've checked several libraries and asked a couple of associates during the summer." He answers, looking over the boy, Mortimer listens with extremity. "Aside from trying to put this event together - Which is very time consuming, If I may add - I've managed to dig up a scroll."
As he explains himself further, Dumbledore uses the opportunity to get up from his high-up chair and walks towards the right side of the room. There was a tall glass cabinet. Currently it was being cleaned by an enchanted little squeegee. A small motion of his liver spotted hand, he dismisses it from its duty and opens it.
Mortimer perches up and watches him search through the crowded cupboard. He was eager to know what he's found.
With gentleness in mind, Dumbledore retrieves a well-preserved scroll. It was tied around with the piles of fibers of threads. There were splotches of imprinted dust and small cuts right near the edges. A mismatch of different shades, the brindled scroll showed signs of weather damage and indications of endowment. Using his two hands, the headmaster returns to his desk before gently setting it back down.
"It is quite the treasure." Clapping his hands together, he turns to Mortimer, who was observing the scroll with keen interest. "Do you wish to see what's inside?"
Feverishly Mortimer shakes his head while his eyes stayed at the ancient parchment.
Reaching into his overly long sleeve, Dumbledore took out his wand and flicked it right onto the scroll. It opened to reveal scribbles. The author had been conducting some sort of research. On the left side of the parchment were pictures of ingredients and vials of colored potions and unidentifiable objects.
"What's all this?" Skidding his chair closer to his desk, he leans to get a good look.
The old man tilts his head. "Were you not listening? It's a scroll."
He rolled his eyes. "I know what it is - I mean what's this -" Pointing at the small paragraphs, he raises a brow. "A jar of Leeches, The wing of a Thestral, the tear of a Banshee?" He read out loud in disbelief. "The scales of a Basilisk? What's it supposed to mean?"
For a moment, Dumbledore says nothing but merely raised one wrinkled finger and places it on top of the down right corner of the scroll. "Look at the entry."
He does, at which point, he gasps.
Gormlaith Gaunt.
Mortimer snaps his head up at simply glares at the headmaster. "I don't understand. . ." A name that was as old as the chain around his neck, he couldn't believe it. "What was she trying to do?" He sits up and starts reading further, maybe there was something here that would explain it better.
Dumbledore could see what he was trying to do. Alas, the attempt was useless as he had already gone through it; many times in fact. "She doesn't specify. I can only assume she was trying to create some sort of dark concoction. Perhaps a poison to ward off invaders? There were rumors that the village where she resided had once been attacked by an angry mob of Muggles, due to word spreading of witchcraft being practiced."
"How can you be sure it's dark? For all you know, this could be a healing potion or a regrow of a body part..."
"A possibility..." Pursing his lips and rubbing his chin, he went on. "But often times these ingredients were used in deadly poisons. Back in the day witches were encouraged to dip small daggers and knives inside venomous drams. A last resort should they find themselves in danger and without a wand."
"Right..." Taking small pause, he taps his fingers on top of the of the desk. Mortimer exhales a short breath. "But what does this have to do with my dreams?"
"Oh that?" He makes an 'o' shape with his mouth. As if he had come to the realization. "Nothing. Nothing at all. I just thought you would find it interesting; I know I was when I first came across it."
Screwing up his face Mortimer was less than satisfied with the results. "That's what you wanted to show me? A research paper of dead woman?"
"I also thought you'd be interested in knowing where I found it." When Mortimer doesn't offer a response, he proceeds to say. "I was pointed towards the cave outside of the town where you use to live."
His eyes were rapidly drawn to the old man, if it were possible, his ears would've grown just make sure he had heard him correctly. "You did?"
"Yes." Putting his arms behind his back. "I also found an old cauldron, a blanket and this..." Before Mortimer could question him, Dumbledore quickly presents him with an old grey, dirt covered, baby's dummy. "If you haven't already guessed, it would seem that remnants of your mother's presence still remain."
Mortimer lowers his gaze at the small binky. He didn't want to touch it. "You found the scroll in that cave?"
He nods gently and spoke. "When I first found it, the sight was atrocious. It was as though Bellatrix had left abruptly, like she had been forced to leave the spot."
It was suddenly getting harder to breath. "You think she kept me there...?"
"Not quite. But perhaps, she had been using the cave for some dark, meaningful, purpose." His soft voice, distantly stares at the pacifier, bringing it closer to his face. "Your dreams - I can speculate - are due to some kind of unknown connection. A connection through blood? Salazar was powerful enough to make it so that he was able to contact his children through the mind. It could be possible that your father was able to tap into this ability."
Strange as it was, this sort of made sense. There was still a lot that the world didn't know about Salazar Slytherin. The kind of magic and talent he possessed. For example, his family ever only talked exclusively in Parseltongue and it was well known that he had an affinity for dark magic. Through this, who knows? Maybe he was somehow able to enhance his blood through his descendants. Maybe there was a family connection that he didn't know about.
Just like it was easy to go inside Morfin Gaunts mind, if he tries hard enough, maybe Mortimer could do it again. This time he'll be using Voldemort as the subject, willing or unwilling, Mortimer wanted to know just how far the connection goes. If he sleeps, will he be able to see through Tom's eyes? Like Potter?
It didn't make sense. Why was Potter able to see him when Mortimer couldn't? Could he do it if he tried? Or would he be chasing another useless cause.
"Do you think Tom gave it to her?" Wondering how far this extended.
Without any sort of hesitation, Dumbledore peers back and in forth between Mortimer and the dummy that was between his fingers. "I'm fairly certain he did - Where indeed he acquired it, I'm not entirely sure. Have you ever been to the Gaunt vault?"
"Once." He answers, biting his lower lip as he remembers the embarrassing sight. "There wasn't much. Just some old books a couple of portraits... scrolls. . ." Grasping at the clue, Mortimer felt dumb for not realizing it sooner.
The shame only increases as the stupidity of his own family becomes apparent. Being a inbreed Gaunt had no doubt made them dim-witted throughout the growing years. They longer seek knowledge, only wealth that they forgot about the true meaning of treasure. The research and tomes that was passed on across many generations, information that was priceless, these idiots hadn't bothered to give it a glance, not if it wasn't brightly lit jewelry or galleon.
He had to go back. But what if Tom had already cleared the vault of the important files? That was also a possibility. He wanted to double-check; maybe there was something he had missed, something he hadn't thought was important.
All this thinking was now suddenly hurting his head.
Seeing as how Mortimer didn't want anything to do with the small nookie, Dumbledore sets it right back down carefully. "There is another concerning matter." A small cough, Dumbledore rubs his chin slightly, staring right out of the distance. "Professor Snape mentioned a certain attack against a group of aurors.
Breaking through his head inducing thought, he was brought back by the old man's question. "Oh, that? Yes." Mortimer confirmed, eyes trailing back at the headmaster, blinking slowly. "Truthfully I think they deserve it. They targeted Draco while he was minding his own business." It was one of the easiest things to recall, especially the feeling that soon came after once he was realized it was none other than those little punks that picked on him in school during his first year.
Dumbledore wasn't one to scold however, given by his tightening expression, it was clear to Mortimer he disapproved greatly. "You thought it necessary to pick up a wand and throw stunning spells at the adults?"
"I wasn't given enough time to act accordingly, I just acted out of instinct." It was true. He hardly ever played on those impulses. However, on that day, his train of thought had crashed once he saw Draco's fearful expression as they cornered him. Maybe because he was instantly reminded of his younger himself. Standing feeble-like and helpless to do anything but take it.
Pacing back towards his desk, he promptly sits down, his tone was impartial despite his disapproval of his actions. "That's quite the instinct, should I be worried?"
Smiling Mortimer glance away and shortly looks back at the old man. "No. That really was an accident. I acted rash and Aunt Cissy made it perfectly clear, under no circumstances am I ever allowed to raise my wand against another wizard."
On the corner of Dumbledore desk laid a small bowl of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, grabbing one that was grey in color, he puts in his mouth before making twisting his face. "Belly Button lint - " He retches in breath. "A foulest of the bunch, I'd say - Then again, I remember coming across one that tasted like a dirty sock."
Walking pass the comment, he didn't bother to add anything. Instead, Mortimer glides back his sights on the parchment. "Is there anything else you want to bring up? Or can I leave now?"
"Over the summer - From what I've heard..." He takes a short pause, almost like he was trying to prepare Mortimer for what he had to say. "A certain visit was made in Azkaban... Morfin Gaunt."
"Yeah." He replied, studying the old Gaunt's signature, waiting for the old man. "I wanted to see what he was like."
There was intrigue as he spoke. "I was surprised, truly, I was. I expected you'd be more willing to connect more towards your mother." His snowy eyebrows lower themselves. "Morfin Gaunt... how the years have treated him, I always believed he was innocent."
"He is," Mortimer affirmed, remembering what Gaunt had shown him. The gesture meant a lot to him; it wasn't something he would soon forget. But the pain that came after it... Morfin didn't deserve to die, not like this. "He told me himself and I believe him."
"Curious indeed. . ." Dumbledore folds his hands as he thinks further. "This isn't the way you would've wanted it to go - and you're inclined to disagree, but it was probably the best option. To prolong his suffering is simply too cruel for any being to manage, especially with the dementors floating above their heads."
"That's what Tobey said."
"A smart creature he is." The old man chuckles. "You should listen to him more. A simplistic view is sometimes needed at the most desperate of times."
"And now he's dead. I didn't think he'd start attacking anyone, he seemed fine for a few minutes." He doesn't want Dumbledore to know what he knows, so Mortimer starts building up his Occlumency shields. "We talked for a bit and then all of a sudden he goes mad."
A small story he just made up, what he said was partly true. Except the part where Morfin had allowed him to enter his mind, he made sure to keep it well hidden. "Perhaps I could be of assistance," he spoke up, trying to sound chipper. "Was there anything in particular you discussed? You might have mentioned something that triggered the sudden reaction - again, I don't mean to pry."
So he said, but it was obvious that he was doing exactly that. "If you must know," Clearing his throat, he faces away from the parchment at right up to the headmaster. "I introduced him to Tobey, they talked for a bit and then he starts rambling about his heirloom."
"Heirloom?"
Mortimer moves his head to look at Dumbledore, and he could make out the excitement in his smile. He stares down at the table where the name causes him to crack his neck. "Yes, apparently he lost his precious ring - went mad after that. I stepped away before he could get violent, that's when the guards came in and the rest. . ." He pauses, hoping the story was convincing enough. "Well, you can probably already guess what happens."
He takes a deep breath and leans further down the back of the chair. Thinking about Morfin momentarily brings him back into the dark, cold, cell of Azkaban. He sees the broken face of Morfin as he succumbed to the madness these walls were known for causing. He hears Gaunt's voice breaking as he confessed his innocence to Mortimer.
Lowering his gaze, he can hear Dumbledore talking to him. "You miss him."
"No. I don't." Eliminating the idea, Mortimer shakes his head. "I feel bad sure - But I hardly knew him. . ."
"There's no shame in compassion. It doesn't make you weak, it makes you human." He attempts to encourage but all it does is irritate him. "Blaming yourself doesn't bode well for one's health."
"It's been dealt with." With his hands dropping to his thighs. "It's over. Morfin's dead and the heirloom is lost."
Lost for good. And the only man who knows about its whereabouts is none other than Tom. "You sound disappointed," Dumbledore observes him, noticing how his brows are furrowed.
"I was curious about it." Mortimer manages to utter, quickly averting his stare at the old man. "Lucius said he had once seen my father wearing it until one day, it was no longer on his finger."
Dumbledore was unsure what to think of this statement. Giving by the blankness in his facial features, he seemed in thought. Out of his own curiosity, Mortimer asks. "You've heard about what happened at the quidditch cup, haven't you?"
"I have."
"Do you think Tom's back?"
"I do."
"Where does that lead me? As soon as he comes back, he'll come after me."
There was a stillness surrounding the between the two. Even some of the portraits become quiet, while others left their frames to get away from the heavy air filling the room. The headmaster looks away for a few seconds, wrinkling his forehead, almost out of concern, but Mortimer couldn't be too sure. "You sound confident at the prospect." He eventually says. "Is there something you wish to bring into my attention?"
Repressing his lips from going up, he decides to focus his eyes on his polished fingernails, huffing on them as he wipes them down on his school robes. "What if I were to tell you that your golden boy has been dreaming of Tom over the summer."
Dumbledore sat in front of Mortimer, who had been looking down, which immediately made him suspect that the boy was not making it up. If he didn't know better, he would swear that Mortimer was telling him just to taunt him. "I beg your pardon?"
Mortimer spent several minutes ridding on the question with carefully tended thought, hoping that he could at least get the old man to give him what he wants. "Potter is willing to share a memory with me. The only problem, I can't seem to find a way to view it. You wouldn't happen to know where I can find a pensieve, would you?"
"Why would you tell me this?"
"Because..." Old fool, he wanted to say but had enough self-control not to give in. "everyone else is denial. If you were to come out right now and tell everyone that Voldemort has returned, I'd say, they'd quickly lock you up in at the psych ward and label you a loon. I'm trying to give both of us something special. You get to see what Tom is up to and I get to see what that fat little rat has told him."
"Rat?"
"Potter mentioned that in his dream Peter Pettigrew has been reunited with Tom. Apparently, the traitor has been gossiping about me - The creep had been watching me all throughout last year and I want to know what he said." Mortimer laughed at that. Something about a grown man watching and following him struck him as insanely funny. It explained why Tobey was always freaking out, why he always felt like he was being watched.
At first, he thought it was just a figment of his imagination. But after a while, he assumed it was due to the paranoia he experienced because of the induced stress. Certainly, the dementors did not help matters either, and being hunted by Sirius Black only made things worse. Weasley was right, of course; if not for the dementors, Sirius might have been dead.
"Where is this memory?"
"I haven't got it yet - Potter said he'll consider it for now. But I know if I can just prod him a few times, then he'll be more than willing." Defending it further by quickly saying. "Harry trusted me enough to tell me about his dream - It's enough to let you know that I'm no threat to him."
There was a long moment of silence, Mortimer staring blankly out at the darkened skyline, the rain having only just ceased. The long, tall windows glistening in the moonlight, as the raindrops trailed slowly down their panes. It would have been beautiful if the topic they were discussing wasn't so morbid. Thankfully, the old man couldn't see the emotions radiating off him - the excitement and the exasperation - leeching into his skin. Slowly wriggling over his body and weighing him down with an overwhelming sense of exhilaration.
What was Dumbledore thinking? Even though he was teeming with the urge to pry and get the answer himself, he bites his tongue, however. If the headmaster could be convinced of Mortimer's willingness to open up, surely, he'd give in.
"I may be able to help you." Dumbledore finally said, he delicately arises from large desk. As he does, he starts to walk pass Mortimer, staring blankly ahead, there was another table set nicely to the side.
Mortimer didn't think about it much as there didn't appear to be anything special about it. That is until he uses both his hands to lift it up. A shallow stone emerges with a single touch. "Will this do?" Dumbledore suddenly says softly that it was practically a whisper.
He meets his eyes, and his eyes widen. It was more than enough, it was extraordinary. "Yes." He manages to say.
As he gets ready to get up from his own seat, he hears Albus talk from the side. "Should Harry wish to divulge the memory for you, I would be very interested in seeing it for myself as well."
At this Mortimer gets closer, observing the beauty of the creation. There were runes deeply carved into the stone, this old and powerful magic, Mortimer holds his hands together, suppressing from reaching out to the pensieve. "Deal." Mortimer said quietly as if he didn't believe what he was saying was real.
In that short period of time, his eyes gleam bright, and a smile spreads. It was one of the best outcomes that could've happen. "It's getting late for the both of us. I will, without a doubt, be dreadfully tired once the Triwizard tournament ends. What do you think? Are you excited?"
Mortimer snorted a sarcastic laugh, staring at the pensieve and then Albus. "I'm curious who will be picked..." Mortimer agrees, moving in the direction of the staircase. "But that's it really - I care little for sports."
"Ah, yes. The real excitement lies in the upcoming Yule Ball. I'm sure someone like you will have no issue finding a suitable escort." Dumbledore teased, before putting the magical stone back onto its slab.
"I certainly don't care about that either!" Mortimer utters, quickly averting his gaze back to the staircase.
Albus let's out a chuckle, finding the boy's flushed cheeks to be funny. Whilst the old man laughs at his expense, Mortimer felt his mouth go a bit dry when he tried to respond, so he shook his head instead and left his office.
Climbing down, Mortimer put a hand over his chest and briefly looked around. Once he was sure there was no one watching him, he took out the locket. He may not have the ring, but the pendant certainly made up for it. It was still warm from where it rested on his palm; he couldn't figure out why. There had to be a way to open it, part of him wanted to ask someone. But there was a small lingering fear in the back of his mind telling him to stay silent.
Something so important should not be told to just anyone. They would only take it away from him, and he could not bear losing it.
It was his.
Only his.
He didn't own many possessions, but for once, he was proud to own this beautiful trinket. The decision to remove it hadn't been made, even after he told the old elf, Kreacher, that he would. Mortimer had yet to do so. Why should he? It didn't feel right to leave it in an old dusty box; it was almost criminal to have to hide it. There was no shame in showing it off; it was worthy of respect and admiration. The elf didn't know what he was talking about. Caught up in the loss of his previous master, the creature probably wasn't thinking straight.
It made total sense! The more he thought about it. There wasn't anything immediately wrong, not that he could find any, so what was the harm in wearing it?
Yeah. Smiling to himself, he hugs it tight and safely puts it back inside his shirt. Nice and safe, no one was going to put their nasty fingers on it, not while he was wearing it.
Returning to the Slytherin common room, Mortimer found it empty. The calm sounds of the muffled lake filled his ears as several fishes swam by and seaweed brushed against the glass before being swept away by air bubbles. Draco, who sat near the silver-coated table at the far end, had been waiting for him.
Upon hearing his footsteps, Draco looks up before frowning. "Your eyes."
Taking a few steps closer, he studied the area. For once, Mortimer didn't seem concerned that someone might notice the suspicious glow of his slytherin eyes. "No one else is around to see," he thought. "It'll be fine."
His features tighten but doesn't say anything. An arm was resting on the table, Mortimer watches Draco clench it tightly as he questions him. "What did the old fool want?"
"The usual. He put his nose where it didn't belong and asked the same annoying questions."
"Did my father's name ever come up?"
"Surprisingly? No, he didn't. He wanted to know more about my summer than what your father does in his spare time."
Clamping down his teeth, he gave a firm nod. "Good." Sounding relieved, he watches some of the tension leave the Blond's shoulders. "The less questions, the better. It's bad enough that aurors are getting suspicious, but we can't have the headmaster start meddling in as well."
"Whose fault is that?" Mortimer raises a brow. That not to say he wasn't partially to blame. But Lucius attacking at the quidditch cup made them privier to an actual investigation.
"Who's the one who brought them here in the first place?" Draco counters, his tone laced with more bite.
"Who's the idiot that ran off and got themselves into this situation?" he tosses back. "All I wanted was to help."
Mortimer wanted Draco to desperately believe him; he needed to know that everything he said was true. He never said it would be pretty or promised any subtlety - being a Death Eater's son is not something easily hidden. In his case, discretion was not an option.
Black could see Draco's feature soften. "I'm sorry." He says suddenly. "You're right. I guess the reason I ran off in the first place was because I wad freaking out... What you said about him, that he was coming back - I didn't want to believe it. What will happen to us when he does return? You were right. He'll be angry and he'll punish those that didn't look hard enough, like father."
"I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to scare you. I guess I thought you'd be able to handle it. I also didn't want to hide anything from you; you deserved to know what I was up to."
"And Theo? Shouldn't he know too?"
"I. . . I've thought about it." He pauses, pressing his lips together. "But I'm not sure..."
Draco wasn't pleased with his answer. "He went out of his way to help when he didn't need to. Theo at least deserves to know why he's risking his neck for you."
"Isn't being Bella's kid enough?"
Shaking his head; it wasn't enough for him. "You've drained that excuse for a while now. Theo isn't that stupid - He knows there's more to it than just you and Aunt Bella."
Huffing in exasperation, Mortimer took out his wand. Deciding to fix his eyes for the millionth time, it really was getting late, and they would need to get up soon. "I'll think about it...," was all that he could muster.
"Fine," Draco replied. "But don't expect me to pull you out of the fire when it blows up in your face." He wasn't entirely happy with the decision, but it was close enough.
Mortimer glanced at him; it was almost hurtful to see the worry on Draco's face. He meant well and seemed sincere in his apology. However, every time Mortimer made a decision that Draco didn't like, he would belittle him for it. This left Mortimer feeling slightly guilty, and he knew he would do it again.
"I expect nothing more," he clipped, his eyes scanning around. Quickly, they landed on the staircase leading to the girls' dorms. Squinting, he thought he saw a blonde head peeking out before it retreated back inside.
"Let's go to bed." As Draco gets up from the table, he stretches his arms and lets out a tiring yawn.
His thoughts snatched away, Mortimer shakes it off as him being tired and soon follows him back to their own dorm.
There were small dimly lit lanterns resting at the ends of the four-poster beds. Trunks sat neatly beside their respective owners; Mortimer found Tobey's cage perched atop a small cupboard next to his bedside. The snake was fast asleep.
Changing into his pajamas, he lays back, he could already hear Draco's snoring on his right ear.
Taking out slytherin's locket, he admires it one last time. Holding it close to his chest, Mortimer closes his eyes in calmness. He felt like he could do anything as long as he wore this proudly; and he will. As he was fairly sure nothing could ruin the year.