Author's Note:
Updated two chapters on FFNet today, check whether you've read chapter 77 first before reading this one.
Happy New Year! I wanted to say Merry Christmas to anyone celebrating it too, and have a nice Boxing Day, but it's kinda late, isn't it? ?. Never you mind. At least I managed to update within a reasonable time frame this time! The wonders of taking a holiday. Also, if SecondUNIT hasn't been diligently giving me all the in-depth and thoughtful comments, across I-don't-know-how-many dozens of chapters on AO3, I wouldn't write and try to update like there's a lit fire under my backside. So, that's my weird way of saying thanks.
I guess I'm just being a bit childish with myself. This chapter is alright, my sister enjoyed it just fine, but I don't really like it since I'm in a mood to just...jump into something action-y, and I can't do that because the plot hasn't linked up enough and that's been a drag on me writing. So...yeah. Let's hope me mentally pushing myself to keep writing helps.
'-
78 Imago
Alastor drops in unexpectedly in the middle of Tom and Dumbledore's meeting. Tom Riddle walks with Moody for a bit. Dumbledore is grading some essays when Dexter drops in on him. Sometimes a second perspective can help clarify events and ideas. Ursula Greengrass gets an offer from Emma, and she ends up looking for Hermione on Sunday afternoon.
'-
"So, what was this debt you owed Curie about?"
Moody asked Dumbledore in a tone that was too casual to be believable to Tom. Dumbledore's reply was just as offhand.
"Oh, I think you'd have to ask Tom about it. He knows far more about that than even I do."
A part of Tom was vexed about it. Dumbledore was the teacher—he should've taken the lead. By doing so, Tom would have enough time to think over how he wanted to tell the story to Moody. Hermione trusted the Auror, but Tom was not sure that he had taken the measure of the wizard's character yet. A misspoken word might cost him more than he was willing to pay.
"Tom?" Moody asked.
"It's…a difficult topic for me, Mr. Moody." he said, stalling for time.
He looked down to his mug. It wasn't because he felt morose—which should be a natural reaction in this case, he supposed. It was because it was easier to not show unexpected or inconvenient emotions this way.
Like rage.
As Tom mulled over it, Dumbledore summoned a mug from the cupboard for Moody, and the violet-coloured mug had just arrived on the table with a gentle click. The professor poured tea for his second guest and the scent spread gently in the living room, a warm mist moving through them like a fine veil. Dumbledore's fine taste in tea improved his mood imperceptibly.
"It's about Hermione's unlawful custody." Tom answered.
He heard Moody click his tongue at that. "That shite was last month, wasn't it? Yeah, that's a hell of a mess if it's anything. Poorly done on all fronts, I agree. How's old Albus in it, though?"
Tom almost couldn't answer.
He wanted to laugh darkly; he wanted to accuse Dumbledore. Neither was a good reaction for a responsible prefect. He rubbed his forehead with his left hand instead, his face still out of view as he took a careful breath.
"He let Blakeshaw take Hermione away."
"And?"
"You knew she ended up in St. Mungo's, Mr. Moody. What you might now know was how she almost died."
It was only a slight overestimate on his part. It could have gone worse if she did not receive immediate attention, though. That was what Dementor's indirect energy drain could do on an empty stomach and low energy levels, as Hermione had explained to him with a far-too-casual tone. He could recall how cold his hands became as he listened to her—and she still insisted that she knew exactly what it meant and that it was 'fine'.
Sometimes he wondered if there was a way to help Hermione regain a healthy fear of death again.
"What?" Moody's tone rose.
"She was in a time dilation chamber—ten to one, I think," he said, as if he didn't remember that precisely, "and she hadn't eaten all that time. Then Blakeshaw summoned a Dementor—"
"He can't do that." Moody half-growled his disbelief, "I know exactly what he needed to sign off for it, and the man doesn't have it. As reasons go, a mere normal student wouldn't cut it."
Tom's chuckle was dark.
"And yet he did."
"Which is why once I and Orpheus put our metaphorical weight on the scale to ask for explanations and demand punishments on the debacle, he's exiled from any direct action, probably indefinitely too." Dumbledore finally spoke up. "His career's never going anywhere again."
The prefect looked up when Moody whistled at that.
"That does explain why he was being shuffled out so quickly. Most people hadn't even noticed he was moving, and suddenly his desk was emptied out. No news had spread from his division too, of the exact reason—I tried asking around, and the most that I get was that I'm not from his division, and that it's being Handled."
The prefect glanced at the Transfigurations Professor, whose expression was rather sombre now. Now, he realised how Blakeshaw was bad news?
"Yet it doesn't undo the damage, does it, Professor?"
The words spilled out before he could think about them, and the bile in it no less unrestrained. The two adult wizards in the room turned their attention to him—Dumbledore's gaze was weighted but unreadable, while Moody's was sharper. He did not regret saying it, though it was probably better if he had not said that in front of the Auror. Tom was about to turn his gaze to his own mug again when the Auror spoke up.
"No. No, it doesn't."
"Hence the Debt." Tom finished.
"Hence the Debt." Moody agreed.
"Notice that I did not disagree with the idea itself." Dumbledore added. "And it might have been foolish of me, but I had trusted Blakeshaw. I trusted that an Auror would not do something so reckless nor so harmful to a Hogwarts student with zero terrible records on her."
"Blakeshaw's actions have certainly reached new levels of idiocy," Moody confirmed, before he drank his tea. "Even if you may suspect foul play, I don't think it's unusual for Professor Dumbledore to be blindsided, Tom. Most members of the public would. I wouldn't, but I also know the exact protocols he's not following by doing that."
Tom didn't stop his quiet huff.
"He's Dumbledore."
The professor's eyebrows' rose up at that and Tom continued.
"Oh, you know, Flamel's first apprentice in more than a century? A grandmaster of transfigurations and a master of alchemy in his own right? I'm sure legilimency is within your grasp too. What's Blakeshaw to you?"
For the first time since he arrived, Dumbledore looked mildly sheepish.
"As flattering as your assessment of my prowess is, I don't read the thoughts of everyone I come into contact with on a daily basis. Even average witches or wizards would notice a passing intrusion like that—a very good distraction is required to slip unnoticed."
Tom didn't relent from staring at the professor for a little bit more.
Moody broke his attention by speaking up again. "Well, now that we know that arse is out of the way, he's no longer a cause for concern. Anyway, did you manage to get that admission of debt from Albus?"
This time, the Auror was staring at Dumbledore, the particular weight in his look clearly saying that the professor better agree to it. To Tom's slight surprise, Dumbledore simply nodded.
"I did."
"Please mind the fine print," Tom muttered under his breath. He thought he heard a chuckle cut short from the auror, but he might be hearing things there.
"Well, at least you've got that down pat. Now, do you still have something else to talk about with Albus here, or not?" Moody asked Tom. "I came to Hogwarts mostly on Curie's request for some society that you're both managing, so, I'd rather talk to you first than this middle-aged fogey here."
"Between the two of us, I'm the one without grey hairs, Alastor." Dumbledore pointed out mildly.
"Stress-related grey hairs—I'm not quite thirty yet."
There might have been some perplexity showing on Tom's face, because Moody glanced at the ceiling once with a long sigh. "Yes, yes, I look like I liar when I say that, I know. No need to batter my ego further."
"I wasn't—" Tom started, before meeting Moody's jaded eyes and decided to just cut his losses. Even if he thought the auror's salt-and-pepper hair wasn't even that noticeable, Moody was too sceptical by a half. Far be it from him to try pulling a man out of a hole he himself was intent on digging.
He shrugged instead. "It's just the hair."
"Right. So, any business still to be had with this old fogey, Lad?" Moody asked.
"'Old fogey' now, am I?"
"Not really, Sir." Tom answered. Both of them easily ignored the professor's rejoinder. Moody nodded at that and picked his wide-brimmed hat up from where he had tossed it before.
"Well, let's get going now, then. See you later, Albus."
"Until later, Alastor."
Tom made his own, slightly grudging, farewell too, and then they were out of Transfiguration's Professor's suite.
'-
The two of them walked down the upper corridors of Hogwarts. The afternoon light fell from the windows. Even if there was less sunlight, with the overcast sky, the white falling snow that had resumed again reflected some brightness in. This far up the castle, the house elfs did not bother lighting any of the outside fireplaces here, and beyond the occupied suites, the pipes underneath the floors didn't have hot water circulated through them either.
The vestiges of winter could be felt here, in the way heat started to ebb from his hands and his nose before he casted a quick warming charm.
"You've said that Hermione asked you to be our supervisor," Tom began.
"Yes, she did. Earlier today, actually." Moody confirmed.
The Slytherin prefect found himself without words to say beyond some measly platitudes—and Moody didn't strike him as someone who enjoys meaningless words. He had expected Hermione to contact the auror soon, but their conversation had only been last week.
"If you don't mind me asking, why did you agree?" Tom asked.
Moody gave him an amused side glance. "What, you're having second thoughts now?"
He shook his head. "Hardly. I'm just surprised that you agreed so easily and quickly. We're just another Hogwarts society, and I'm sure you're busy enough already at work, what with Grindelwald's minions making a mess of things in Britain."
There was no immediate answer, and Tom did not mind the quiet so much as they kept walking. He heard a quiet exhale.
"It's worse than anybody expected, yes, but it's still not the worst it could be." A shrug. "I'm just…curious, I suppose—thought I'd take a gander at what you've managed so far."
It was not quite the answer that Tom had expected.
"So, how's Hermione holding up?"
"Oh?"
"After St. Mungo's? Merlin's bollocks, I thought it was dehydration or something as mild, not getting drained from hobnobbing with a Dementor!"
"She'd just visited you. Didn't she look fine, then?" Tom asked.
"That doesn't answer the question, Riddle. Looking fine is also an oft-utilised skill among aurors. Many looked just fine…right until the moment they're not."
The Auror pivoted into a smooth turn right in front of him, staring him dead in the eyes. Tom didn't avoid the gaze; he had found no reason to.
"An acquaintance wouldn't be able to see much below the surface, but it's near impossible to hide from a close friend or family that you see all the time, for weeks and months on end. Now, Tom, look me in the eyes and tell me truly, how is she doing?"
The snowflakes falling outside the tall, gothic windows rushed by for a moment, as a wind blew past. A similar cold draft seems to echo it inside their corridor. His mood being unpleasant as it was, he actually appreciated the chill; 'twas fitting. For some reason he could smell winter indoors—that melange of pine needles backed with frost, a cold that pricked the nose.
"She's…"
He could lie to Moody. Tom knew he could.
His concern for Hermione wasn't faked in the slightest, and he really detested seeing her hurt. Tom was certain that the auror had noticed his anger when he overheard the sharp conversation he had with Dumbledore. There would be enough truths in his words and sentiments for the answers he chose to give to register as true. But…
He hadn't had answers yet. Tom's gaze drifted in thought. There were no books he'd found that spoke of it in the library, and he was starting to wonder how deep he'd have to dig.
Moody still waited for him. The muscles of his jaw drew taut for a moment, then loosening again when he drew his breath.
"I don't know," he finally said. "But I don't think she's completely fine."
When he started walking again, Moody kept up at his pace.
"She looks fine; she insists she's fine. She still has her nightmares, on occasion, and they still woke her up from sleep in the middle of the night. She says it's rare, and she's not exactly wrong there but it's still rather notable to me. I don't think they're from her time in custody, though—she'd already had that from before. I'm starting to think that it's another thing you pick up when you've lived through the war."
"And I suppose you knew about that from her dormmates, then?" Moody's tone was dry.
It did not sound like a question to Tom's ears. The Slytherin student smirked but said nothing. Neither of them touched the question further.
"How do you stop the nightmares?"
It was the auror's turn to exhale as he glanced towards the end of their corridor. "There are some ways that may work, but there's no single guaranteed method for everyone. I'm somewhat optimistic because it hadn't taken over her waking days too. Time helps, that's for certain, and being able to live a life filled with living things, I guess. I can probably rustle off the department's guide from some corner."
The only sound in the corridor were their boots over stone, and how it rang in the mostly-sparse space.
"I appreciate that, Mr. Moody."
"No need to thank me, it's the least I could do," he mumbled, somehow managing to make that sound like a half-complaint. It wasn't directed at him, that part he knew.
"I think we'd all be better off once this blasted war is over."
"Hear, hear."
'-
Hermione was unloading the thermos flasks she'd ordered from a glassmaker at Diagon Alley in the infirmary, at a particular table that she and Nurse Edelstein had cleared for exactly this.
It had been easy to pick them up with Lakshmi lending her mokeskin bag to use, because she'd ordered more than two dozen of them—the variations were only a third of that, but she'd need identical copies of each type, just to be sure. She knew the basic idea and design, but she wasn't exactly an expert in the related material sciences, so some trial and error weren't a bad idea to start with. The starting design didn't differ much, but the insulators used outside the glass were another matter.
"Lakshmi," Hermione called without turning around.
"Yes?"
"Stop poking Avery."
"How do you know that I'm poking Avery?"
"Why would you ask me back if you weren't poking Avery? Stop it." Hermione answered as she stuck another label on a thermos with Sellotape instead of a sticking charm. A completely nonmagical vessel was the idea here.
"Urgh, did you grow eyes at the back of your head at some point?" Lakshmi complained.
Hermione snorted. "I don't need to. I just have an instinct for troublemakers."
She had her friends to thank for that, really. Ron, Harry, the Weasley Twins…the list goes on. Even Draco wasn't immune from the urge to start shit when he was bored.
"But I'm helping you out, you know?"
"How exactly are you helping?"
"I'm helping her wake up sooner."
The brunette took a deep breath, placed the last thermos she was working with down, and turned around with one hand on her hip. Just as she had expected, Lakshmi was patting and sometimes squeezing Jemima's cheeks.
"Lakshmi, it won't work."
The other Ravenclaw clicked her tongue in disappointment and let off. "What's wrong with her, really? I didn't think it was that bad."
"Something deep in her psyche cracked, and I suspect some sort of magical self-backlash was involved, or it wouldn't be this bad. It would take some time for the mind healer to work their magic, and I mean that both literally and figuratively."
"Huh…"
"Yep. So, you can stop trying to wake her up by the usual means. It hasn't worked, and I don't think it would work today either."
Lakshmi looked up from the seat she'd taken next to Jemima's bed. There had been no other patient in the infirmary today.
"Are you going to take some time? Because I'm really bored right now."
"What, you weren't bored ten minutes ago?" Hermione said this with fake surprise. "Oh no! Who could have guessed that someone trying to wake the patient I said was in a coma was bored?"
Lakshmi rolled her eyes but otherwise didn't react to it. "I was only a little bored back then."
"This would take another five or ten minutes. If you're really bored, you can try reading something to Jemima. It helps to keep her mind engaged with the outside world and draw her out, you know?"
Lakhsmi thought over it, and took out a second mokeskin bag from her person and thought for a moment before calling a book out of it. Hermione had decided to stop asking why any of her friends might have multiple copies of anything she knew to be rather expensive. One of these days, having several friends in the rarefied pureblood circles was starting to skew my sense of what's affordable, she thought dryly. Luckily, that day was not today.
The title of the book wasn't obvious from the distance between them. When Lakshmi started reading, though, it was unmistakable, and Hermione stared at her for a moment before rubbing her forehead.
It was Jemima Puddle-Duck, by Beatrix Potter.
Let it not be said that Lakshmi didn't have a well-developed sense of irony.
'-
The staff lounge was mostly empty right now—which would be of no surprise to any discerning staff members, considering that it was Sunday afternoon. The staff of Hogwarts may be dedicated to their charges and consummate professionals to boot, but they weren't about to cut short their personal time while unpaid either.
Yet Albus often found the staff room was more conducive to help him mark essays than his room, where it was easy for him to get distracted by a different thing he was writing, an unread book, or even unfinished correspondences that caught his eye from his desk. That was why he was here on a late Sunday afternoon.
"Orpheus."
"Yes?"
"Why are you here?"
The astronomy teacher was lying down on his favourite chaise lounge, which he had floated over and placed next to the armchair that Albus was using. He was merely resting, complete with an arm over his eyes to block the light.
"I'm sure you could sleep better in your room than here." Albus pointed out.
"Oh, but I can't find out about what happened after Tom's visit in my room, can I?"
Orpheus floo-called him from his room earlier, and Albus had mentioned something offhand about Riddle and Alastor dropping in. He'd thought it was nothing, but Orpheus arrived at the staff lounge sometime after he did and started poking.
"Well, he visited."
The blond pulled his arm down. "Oh, come on, Albus, that's not an answer—just like the previous non-answers. From the way you said it, it did not sound smooth. What happened this time? I thought your relationship was getting better?"
"It is getting better."
Orpheus fixed him with a nonplussed look.
"We talk occasionally, which is far more than what we used to do."
"That's because you don't even talk before." the astronomer pointed out.
"Precisely!" he replied, with a cheerful tone he knew would annoy most people. "I'd still call that progress, wouldn't you?"
There was a long, annoyed sigh as the astronomy professor stood up and walked to the pantry. He picked up the teapot he'd left a moment ago there, and picked it up. Soon, a floral scent spread in the air, and Orpheus brought a chair floating behind him as he prepared tea for both of them. The most obvious scents were jasmine and lemon, and when the light-coloured liquid poured from the kettle to two separate cups, Albus realised it was white tea. The chair floated down behind him and he sat in it.
"You're beating around the bush and that's very annoying," Orpheus stated, with the same patient tone he gave first and second years. "Why don't you start from the beginning, and I'll listen?"
And Albus did, mostly because he could recognise the steady, unwavering gaze the Ravenclaw had that meant Orpheus was prepared to wait him out however long it would take.
When he was done, Orpheus stared at him quietly for three seconds before drinking his tea.
"Weren't you about to ask me questions, Orpheus?"
"Well, I suppose I'm curious. Why do you have to needle him?"
Albus accepted the cup he was handed, but lowered his brows in thought at the question.
"Excuse me?"
"You needled him on purpose, while he's just an overwrought young man—"
"You do realise that Riddle is far from innocent, don't you?"
The blond waved his left hand. "So do many Slytherins, and he had started with a handicap more arduous than most. The way the House runs itself raises questions from other Houses that we'd like to be addressed, but that is a problem that has existed for literal centuries—you know that, I know that, who doesn't know that? It's not going to be solvable in a year or two and the problem with that lies not in any single student."
A gentle inhale, and gaze that was a little too knowing for his comfort.
"But you're a teacher, Albus. I've seen you deal with many Slytherins before. You must've dealt with them for years before I decided a change to my career and enter Hogwarts as well. But what is it about him that gets you to drop your habit of neutrality?"
The astronomy teacher sat with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, fingers long and finely boned. He stayed with the sort of stillness that reminded Albus of a clear midnight sky, vast and patient, because the cosmos can always outwait you. He was still waiting even when Albus didn't immediately answer.
"I don't think I dropped my habit of neutrality," he finally said.
Orpheus' gaze was sceptical. The transfigurations professor met his gaze without saying anything, simply drinking his tea with relish.
"You know, Alastor dropped by my place for a little while before he left. There was something he said that piqued my interest, Albus." There was a slight lilt to his tone that gave Albus a vague sense of warning.
"He said: 'Severe, isn't it? To judge a teenager by the scales of an adult?'"
Albus knew that his wariness of the young Mr. Riddle was warranted, and that he hadn't cared about how it had looked before, to the rare person who noticed it. Yet as someone who was proud of being a teacher, the blow still landed to a degree, and he winced. At the very least, he owed Orpheus an explanation. The Head of Ravenclaw House certainly cared about Hermione, and it would be better for him to know what sort of wizard she was close to.
It was his turn to sigh this time.
"Let me tell you of what I know of him, which is far more than any other teacher in Hogwarts. Do you know that I was the one who was sent to check on him, when his name came out on Hogwarts' Future Students Ledger?"
"Not at all."
Albus mulled over it carefully. It had been a while, and he realised that he had never told the story to anyone else before. Perhaps it was about time that he shared it.
"Well, it was a normal autumn day when I was summoned by the headmaster…"
'-
"Well," Orpheus started after sipping his tea. "I can see how he had been a problematic child."
Albus took his spectacles off and pinched the bridge of his nose at that.
"Problematic is for a child with minor bullying issues. Problematic is for a thoughtless brat. To kill is beyond that, don't you think?"
"I wish I can say I was surprised, but I'm not. You do know that some of the older, more traditional pureblood houses have some sort of initiation rite for their children too? Tom's actions would not be out of the norm compared to it."
"Yet he's not a pureblood scion and he certainly wasn't raised under their norms and social pressures. That he gravitates towards such bloody sport naturally, on his own, does not speak well of his stability."
"It's not exactly sport if he'd only done it once."
"At least twice," Albus corrected.
Orpheus let out a surprised sound.
"Really?"
"Well, I couldn't be certain, but a student's familiar ended up as a dead rat sometime at the end of the first year. It caused a bit of a furore in the Slytherin dorms at that time."
"Alright, twice, then."
"Yes."
"And are there others beyond his early years? They could still be teething problems—wild magic is a known problem among youths with a strong magical potential and strong emotional outbursts. He may be cold and detached enough to not care about such violence, I can see that. Yet for all his bloody impulses when he was younger, he still follows the Hogwarts rules very well afterwards, and even assisted in upholding them now. I wouldn't put that as the behaviour of a monster."
"Just one that controls himself very well, then." his reply came out sardonic.
Orpheus looked up, his gaze sharper now and his words just as pointed.
"Albus. You said that he was unusually courageous today and you took that to be unusual." The astronomy professor waited for his nod. "I would like to say that I'd be very disappointed if Hermione's beau was not angry on her behalf. There it is. That's the explanation that you're looking for."
Albus didn't realise that the sharp intake of breath was his.
"That's just…" too normal, he thought. Impossible was an inaccurate word to use, and implausible wasn't any better. Orpheus was still watching him with unblinking eyes.
"That's what a teenage wizard who actually cares about the most important young lady in his life would do." Orpheus finished, looking somewhat amused. "Convince me I'm wrong, then. Say, did he risk nothing by barging into your rooms in anger and demanding that you save her? If Hermione was nothing to him, why would he take so much risk for her?"
He could not gainsay Orpheus and that realisation was an annoying itch.
"It's so…mundane, though." he murmured.
The blond rolled his eyes. "Even young geniuses are still teenagers, Albus. You're seeing curses and conspiracies where none exist. Again, I would like to ask, what is it about him that tripped you up so to imagine him to be a more monstrous existence than he actually is? If push comes to shove, I'm sure two Hogwarts teachers can constrain him, and even then, that's a little overkill."
"I'm sure you could do it alone." The Ravenclaw pointed out.
After that, Orpheus was content to lean back on his chaise, letting the silence steep between them. The scent of jasmine tea and lemon still light in the air. He was so still and relaxed that one might mistake him to have fallen asleep once more. The auburn-haired wizard wasn't one to make that mistake; he knew his friend was still quite aware.
He finished marking the current essay he was working on, but he found that it was difficult to focus on the one after that. Albus put the pile down for the moment.
"I suppose I can't quite shake the similarity. It has gotten worse when I see how he'd even managed to impress Hermione."
One eye was half open at his words, but Orpheus said nothing. If he had said something, Albus would probably never finish what he wanted to say. The transfigurations professor picked up the next essay and his idle quill once more, staring at the scroll but not quite reading them.
"He reminded me of a young Grindelwald, actually."
He shut his mouth the moment the sentence spilled forth. Most people did not know of his familiarity with Grindelwald in their youth, and he was fine with keeping it that way. Orpheus sat up straight at that comment, as he'd expected, eyes suddenly fully awake. Albus put in more effort to read the essay currently in his hand, even if he could feel the intensity of the other wizard's gaze while he did so. He didn't know what the other professor noticed or realised, only that the blond settled down on his chaise once more after a while without asking anything else.
"Huh."
Albus started scoring the more obvious parts, scribbling on the margins.
"That's certainly another hint why the stars seemed to augur about some sort of greatness for him."
This time, it was Albus who glanced up at Orpheus in surprise.
'-
When Emma went looking for her, Ursula Greengrass hadn't expected anything unusual.
Emma was their House's 7th year prefect; she had many things to do and various students to contact for one reason or another. The fifth-year had expected some information that she'd need to spread in her own dorms, perhaps some information about the upcoming winter hols? Emma picked one of the nice side tables to sit in and Ursula followed her with ease.
"How are your classes?" Emma asked.
"Quite alright. At least I'd like to think that I've been managing just fine so far," Ursula replied, though the prefect seems to be in an unusually chatty mood this afternoon.
"Nothing too overwhelming, then?"
"Oh, not at all." Ursula shook her head. "What's this about?"
"I'm just wondering how busy you are recently. After all, you did show interest in becoming a prefect back in the fourth year," Emma said, and Ursula couldn't hide the full-body twitch she had. The prefect did not even act like she noticed it, still meeting Ursula's gaze from behind her glasses.
That wish was before Ursula realised that Tom Riddle had a very good chance of being the prefect from the wizards' side. She'd counted her blessings when she saw that Jemima was the witch chosen to be the prefect alongside him.
"Well, it's a little late for that now, isn't it?" was her reply instead.
Emma glanced down to a little notebook of hers that she had open before looking up again. Her next sentence was rather cryptic.
"Not as late as it might seem…"
To her disbelief and the unexpectedly rising dread, Emma went on to explain how Jemima had an unfortunate health issue that she had to take sick leave for. That part wasn't a mystery in Slytherin House—Ursula had heard it early on. What had worried her were the rumours. There wasn't a single coherent story of what Avery could possibly be suddenly and inevitably afflicted with, and none of the prefects were confirming in the direction of one thing or another.
It concerned her more was how not just Emma, but even Oswin Orpington and Mordred Montmorency has a deeper glint of something in their eyes when she asked them about what happened to Jemima, even as they confirmed their lack of knowledge at the exact details of Avery's health issues.
What exactly do they know, and why are they not telling?
She was starting to have a particular suspicion that Avery had experienced an Accident. She was sure that she has Experience when it comes to Accidents, especially when Tom Riddle was somehow, tangentially, still connected.
When it comes to Jemima, that connection wasn't even tangential anymore. It was the eye-searing flare at the top of a lighthouse.
"…and that's why, you can still be a prefect of Slytherin House. Of course, we'd have to start with Prefect Pro Tempore first, instead of an outright replacement; who knows if Jemima would immediately recover sometime soon? But in the event that she could not recover as swiftly—or that she found the duties still taxing even after she rejoins class—you can certainly become the next prefect in turn."
"Really? But Jemima's already the prefect, right?" Ursula commented with a weak smile.
"Oh, this isn't without precedent either, really. We have you covered for the eventual transition from her time to yours." Eccleston smiled back at her. She tried to think of anything that can possibly become an obstacle to the plan, anything at all.
"But, well, this is a little one-sided, isn't it? Sure, I've thought about it before, but it's not just about me anymore, isn't it? It's about the House too, and who's the better replacement for the position." She thought she made a good start on her excuse there. "I mean, Tom's the one who was Jemima's partner. I can't possibly impose…"
Emma lightly patted her hand. "Oh, no worries about it. Tom doesn't mind—I thought of asking you after Hermione told me of his opinion about it."
Ursula's smile was still charming (she was good at being charming, there was no question about it), but it was getting to look a little fixed at the edges. What was that supposed to mean? Was this a trap?
As the conversation wound down not long after that, and Emma saying that she'd leave Ursula to think about 'the honour she was offered,' while Ursula's mind was too busy running in circles around herself. She couldn't even decline it immediately. There were powerful rumours rising in their House about Riddle, and she didn't think she can just…say no to him.
That's not a good idea, right? Right.
She hadn't done anything suspicious recently, and she'd stayed away from Tom as much as was polite! She didn't interfere with anything he's doing and—Ursula paused her thoughts for a moment.
Was it Bernard? Did Bernard do something stupid again? I swear, if he gets me into a deeper trouble, I wouldn't just blackmail him for extra pocket money anymore! I'll go straight to Mother about the truth from my third-year accident!
Restraining the urge to bite her nails, she searched her pocket for rope of liquorice candy and started nibbling on that instead.
'-
The Ravenclaw first-year in front of her guided her to the infirmary.
It wasn't that Ursula would get lost, this was actually the fourth place she guided her to, because the firstie knew the various places Hermione Curie would usually be, but she had no idea of her exact schedule. Not being in a position to negotiate right now, the Slytherin simply agreed to letting the firstie guide her. Even if they had toured at least half of Hogwarts already.
Her luck and persistence finally paid off. As they entered the infirmary, their steps taking a more echoing tone in the hall, Ursula could clearly see the witch thick curly hair with a nurse's apron over her Hogwarts' uniform. She stood right next to the bed of one of Ursula's classmates in Potions—Jemima Avery. She knew her well enough to recognise her even from this distance.
"Hermioneee!"
Ursula winced at the volume. The firstie started yelling for no reason while waving her short arms. Perhaps she grew up in the hills, the Slytherin thought, and was used to yelling to make sure she was easily heard on the other hill. Really, she had no idea how muggleborns live, she should be more understanding of their cultural differences.
(After all, Curie was one too. She was not going to mess up her first interaction with her by being uncharitable.)
"Hermione, someone's looking for you!"
"Hattie, don't shout!" Curie marched in their direction; her voice oddly clear even if she didn't seem to raise her tone at all. "The patients need their rest!"
The firstie scratched her head, "Ah, right. Sorry about that."
The Ravenclaw witch was soon in front of them, and Ursula felt her heartbeat was picking up once more like an anxious bird flapping wildly in its cage. Ursula usually kept her distance from the Ravenclaw genius, especially once the rumours of her closeness with Riddle started going around. Having to approach the transfer student of her own free will was not making her feel calm.
"Ah, hello? I don't think we've been introduced before?" Curie said.
"Uh, no, not at all. I'm Ursula Greengrass, fifth-year Slytherin." She said all this quickly, the words were barely held back from running together.
"I see? Well, I'm Hermione Curie. So, you were looking for me?"
She…gave her hand? But Ursula's not a wizard? What's she supposed to do with the—ah, a handshake! So, that's how it worked! How quaint.
Unfortunately for Ursula, she forgot how nervous she was. When she next spoke up everything simply poured out.
"Emma offered me the Slytherin prefect position, but I don't think it's a real offer. My brother antagonised Tom before! I can even offer my position to you if you want—it would be perfect, you could be Tom's prefect partner!"
Hermione Curie stared at her in bewilderment and more than a touch of concern.
Only Ursula's stubbornness stopped her from covering her face with her hands and simply standing straight there. The Ravenclaw firstie that guided her had thankfully left already—she had strolled away earlier with a pep on her step, unconcerned about anything other than having been paid and having successfully finished her task.
The burst of laughter coming from the chair next to Jemima's bed made Ursula wanted to curl up on herself and just…disappear. There was…another student there?
"Uh, thank you? I'm not a Slytherin, though, so I don't think it's possible for me to be Jemima's replacement." Curie answered, more than a little bewildered.
The laughter merely grew louder.
'-
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Handshake (gesture): A gesture of greeting. The oldest reference to a handshake that I keep seeing is to an Assyrian relief of 9th century BCE. The modern usage is harder to track, because it certainly did not start out as a formal gesture, as those are more highly recorded than informal ones. The European courts are more used to greetings that show clear hierarchy between the greeter and greeted (like a bow or a curtsy).
The oldest modern record is 1607 author, James Cleland (believed to have been a Scotsman living in England) proclaimed that instead of things like bowing down to everyone's shoes and kissing hands, he'd rather "retaine our good olde Scottish shaking of the two right hands togither at meeting with an vncouered head". It's not an unusual thing if the wizarding world, especially the purebloods, aren't overly familiar with it yet as the place usually lags in terms of cultural changes.
Jemima Puddle-Duck (story): It's a children's story written and illustrated by the talented Beatrix Potter. The first part of the plot goes like this: Jemima Puddle-Duck is not allowed to keep the eggs she lays at the farm, so she seeks out a nesting place in the forest. A charming gentleman fox talks her into nesting at his house on a mysteriously ample supply of feathers…the fox does not have good intentions for her, and luckily, the farm's collie, managed to find her and warn her about the danger beforehand. Now, why does the main plot sound somewhat familiar…
Sellotape® (UK brand): A British brand of transparent tape that's cellulose-based. Originally manufactured in 1937 in West London. Still new, but already sold in London in 1940s. Hermione came across it by accident and bought three tins of the rolls at once. It's definitely not cheap, not at the height of rationing, but guess who had oodles of gold galleons to convert to pound sterling?
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