Just so people know now, I'm doing a little worldbuilding surrounding arithmancy in this story, and there will be some other things about the minor families too. Quite a bit of the magical world isn't fleshed out fully, so I'll give some detail to those things when necessary. If you've got extra lore critiques or suggestions, that would be most helpful as well.
The story is intended to be tragic. There isn't a happy ending, but if that's okay with you, please read on. It will be worth it. I promise.
Main Parings: [Draco/OC], [Luna/OC]
Resident Unit
4 January, 1999
Subject: Avery, Rauthr, L
Patient is a nineteen-year-old male. Gaunt features, above-average height, emaciated. Placed in Godfrey's Magical Sanitarium on 2 August, 1998 after he was found to be criminally insane during the Death Eater Trials. Suffers from Anima Contritus and receives regular visual and auditory hallucinations. Synesthetic. Patient has masteries in arithmancy and arcanics. Patient was a candidate for the Merlin Scholarship for Magical Research. Patient was offered lecturer and research positions at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Durmstrang Institute.
Transcript:
Hlr. Morgan: Hi. I'm Healer Morgan.
Avery: How long is our session?
Hlr. Morgan: Sixty minutes. All right then. Why don't we start with how you're doing?
Avery: Is that necessary?
Hlr. Morgan: It is necessary that you speak to me about something during these sessions.
Avery: Why now?
Hlr. Morgan: Why now what?
Avery: Why start weekly sessions now? It's never been mandatory before.
Hlr. Morgan: We believed it prudent.
Avery: Don't lie to me. If you do, I'll lie as well.
Hlr. Morgan: How are you doing Mr. Avery?
Avery: Just Rauthr. No need for fanciness.
Hlr. Morgan: Okay Rauthr. Do you have a nickname? Rau maybe?
Avery: No.
Hlr. Morgan: How are you doing?
Avery: Acceptably.
Hlr. Morgan: You've been playing the piano a lot lately.
Avery: Not like there's anything else to do.
Hlr. Morgan: Do you enjoy the piano?
Avery: Playing it?
Hlr. Morgan: Just in general.
Avery: I'm not sure I know what that means. I've never been particularly talented. I can get by okay. Freyja could play well, violin though. She was on the hook for a professional gig, Magical Orchestra of London.
Hlr. Morgan: That's impressive.
Avery: I used to listen to her play when we were younger. We'd do some duets too, but I'd just be embarrassed.
Hlr. Morgan: What would you do while you listened to her play?
Avery: Think.
Hlr. Morgan: What would you think about?
Avery: Oh boy.
Hlr. Morgan: We don't have to talk about it if you don't like.
Avery: No. It's okay. It's just complicated. Arithmancy, you know. Not sure what you know about it.
Hlr. Morgan: Not as much as you.
Avery: Right. Forgot I'm being interrogated.
Hlr. Morgan: What do you mean? We're just talking.
Avery: Nothing. It's fine.
Hlr. Morgan: What about your sister. Did you care about her?
Avery: Sure. I loved her.
Hlr. Morgan: You do know she committed some terribly heinous crimes?
Avery: So they say.
Hlr. Morgan: You don't believe me.
Avery: Not you. Her trial wasn't exactly fair, was it? None of them were.
Hlr. Morgan: That's quite the accusation Rauthr. What makes you think that? Sibling loyalty is all well and good, but it's quite an accusation to say the records are wrong.
Avery: They're wrong.
Hlr. Morgan: How are they wrong?
Avery: Where should I start?
Hlr. Morgan: Wherever you like.
Avery: Let's see. The trial was handpicked. They were convicted without evidence. The Daily Prophet celebrated their arrival on the stand and said they'd be executed before the trial even began. Despite numerous testimonies offered in favor of the defense, the jury made up its mind to convict anyway. The adjudication was entirely biased in favor of the prosecution. A number of the crimes they were convicted of were manufactured on the spot and not even real crimes. Shall I continue?
Hlr. Morgan: I believe you've made your point. So you still believe your sister despite the fact that she fought on the losing side of a war and was convicted of war crimes?
Avery: My sister committed no war crimes.
Hlr. Morgan: You stood trial as well. But the jury declared you insane. How does that make you feel?
Avery: Insanity is in the eye of the beholder.
Hlr. Morgan: You don't believe you are insane?
Avery: Define insane.
Hlr. Morgan: Out of touch with reality. Engaging in repeated self-destructive behaviors. That sort of thing.
Avery: Ah, but you've not defined the nature of reality. What's that?
Hlr. Morgan: I don't know. What is it?
Avery: A lot. But there's no telling if what I see is any less real than what you see. You might say the things in front of your eyes are real, but how do you know that? Your cup there, it could be real, but how are you to know?
Hlr. Morgan: How is my cup not real?
Avery: I didn't say it wasn't. I just said you couldn't tell whether it was. You see the cup, right? But that's intermediated by all sorts of relations. Then, it's interpreted by my brain. The cup might just as easily be a product of my own mind as it exists in and of itself.
Hlr. Morgan: Do you like philosophy?
Avery: Strange question. I like figuring things out. But philosophy's an odd discipline. Too verbal.
Hlr. Morgan: Too verbal?
Avery: Sure. It's all words.
Hlr. Morgan: What's wrong with that?
Avery: Words are secondary descriptors. If the universe was written in any language, it damn sure wasn't English.
Hlr. Morgan: So what language is the universe written in?
Avery: Music.
Hlr. Morgan: You're kidding.
Avery: No.
Hlr. Morgan: How does that work?
Avery: You know Magical Field Theory? Fields look a bit like graphs. The lines on the graphs are like strings on a violin. We're the notes.
Hlr. Morgan: I'm a violin string.
Avery: No. You're a note.
Hlr. Morgan: But a violin string plays a note. So where are the strings?
Avery: There aren't any. It's just an abstraction.
Hlr. Morgan: So what am I?
Avery: God fucking knows. Magic.
Hlr. Morgan: I'm magic.
Avery: Well, magic is just that which we do not understand. So, sure.
Hlr. Morgan: We do understand magic some.
Avery: Only its effects. Where does it come from? Why is it here? Why can we use it and mudbloods can't? What's the point of it? We can't answer any of those questions. Not yet.
Hlr. Morgan: I'm a muggle-born. That was a cruel thing to say.
Avery: Okay. What's that you're writing there?
Hlr. Morgan: Just a few notes. I have to record this conversation and interpret your behavior, you know.
Avery: So you wiggle your fingers over my file and hope an answer will come to you like in Divination?
Hlr. Morgan: Have you been told you're rude?
Avery: Once or twice. I was only joking.
Hlr. Morgan: You don't think very highly of my profession?
Avery: I don't think highly of many professions. I don't think highly of my own profession.
Hlr. Morgan: Arithmancy, you mean?
Avery: I do.
Hlr. Morgan: Why's that?
Avery: Conversation for another time. It would take too long.
Hlr. Morgan: Okay. Let's talk about your sister then. She's your twin, isn't she?
Avery: Six minutes younger. Yes.
Hlr. Morgan: Twins sometimes display shockingly opposite behaviors. Was that the case here?
Avery: Not really. She was smart. I was smart. She played music. I played music. We took most of the same classes in school. We had the same friends mostly.
Hlr. Morgan: You both took a magical aptitude test when you were five years old. Most pureblood children do. Her scores were very high, third standard deviation: 144. You got 201. Surely that would give you a low opinion of other children your age, knowing your aptitude was so high, both of you, and you would have spent most of your time around her. Did that change your expectations of other children?
Avery: My parents did not inform me of my scores until I entered Hogwarts.
Hlr. Morgan: What about then?
Avery: I don't know. I guess it doesn't make much difference. I was doing calculus when I was nine, so I think I always knew anyway. The scores didn't really matter.
Hlr. Morgan: So what about the differences then? It seems her highest aptitude scores were in charms and the mind arts. Yours were in transfiguration and arithmancy. Did those manifest themselves early? Differences in interest, I mean.
Avery: I suppose. She was always more social than me. She made friends easily, and she'd be happy to talk with all mother and father's friends. I hated that.
Hlr. Morgan: Was she likable?
Avery: That's relative. But I guess she was.
Hlr. Morgan: What about the others being trialed? You were friends with a number of them, isn't that true? Draco Malfoy. What did you think of him?
Avery: Decent sort. Competent, or he got so as he grew up a bit. If you asked me that question when I was younger, I wouldn't have answered so complimentarily.
Hlr. Morgan: He married your sister, didn't he?
Avery: That's correct.
Hlr. Morgan: Do you think he would have been a good husband for her?
Avery: Probably.
Hlr. Morgan: Are you okay? I'm sorry I brought these feelings up.
Avery: It's fine. I'm just thinking.
Hlr. Morgan: Do you want to talk about it?
Avery: Not particularly.
Hlr. Morgan: Okay. What about Luna Lovegood? You were close with her, weren't you? That's what she said. Others did too. That's a long pause. Are you okay?
Avery: I don't want to talk about Luna.
Hlr. Morgan: Are you sure? It helps to talk about loved ones when they're gone. That way the good memories aren't lost.
Avery: I don't forget, and I don't want to talk about Luna.
Hlr. Morgan: Okay.
Avery: Sixty minutes are up.
The bricks peeled apart, and Freyja Avery cast her eyes over the crowds swarming the street. Diagon Alley's shops were packed, and lines ran out nearly every door, and the monstrosity of Gringotts bank lay sunwise, and it cast a long shadow over the cobbles. An unceasing drone bandied over the air, the cries of young children, the shouts and laughter of friends meeting each other before school began again.
"Come," said Mother, and she walked ahead. "There's much to do, and we'd best be quick about it."
"Can we go see the pets first Mother?" asked Freyja.
She'd pestered her parents about getting a cat ever since she received her letter, and her Father had been a bit hesitant, but Mother seemed amenable. Mother turned to look at the door to Magical Menagerie.
"Not now, Freyja," she said. "We'll stop there once we finish everywhere else. You wouldn't want your cat to remain in its cage for longer than it absolutely had to, right?"
"Okay," said Freyja. "Where are we going then?"
"Somewhere quiet hopefully," said Rauthr.
Ever the pessimist, her brother lurked back by the brick wall, and he hadn't taken a step into the street. His dark hair was far too long, and it nearly obscured his eyes. For, Rauthr knew nothing of the importance of appearances. Freyja was made up impeccably, her hair pinned back in a simple but elegant style, wearing a black dress much like Mother's.
"We won't be long, Rauthr," said Mother. "Now come, we'll gather your books first."
And they entered Flourish and Blott's where the smell of the pages of books wafted about pleasantly, and the other students wandered the aisles, the elder ones better behaved and the younger ones more rambunctious. Rauthr stopped by a stack of texts on arithmancy, and he looked over them a moment while Mother navigated the store, collecting the necessary books one at a time. When she reached the counter with Freyja, they spoke to the cashier a moment – he recognized Lady Avery and chose to compliment her. Though, Rauthr was still not present.
"Rauthr," called Mother, urging him to come to the counter so she could introduce him to the cashier who'd just inquired after the Avery children. "Come here a moment please."
He complied, giving a look to Freyja as he walked up alongside her.
"I've read most of those already anyway," he said.
Freyja smiled. She introduced herself to the cashier, and Rauthr scowled at the man, and he scowled at the other people in the store too. Yet, they went on about their business without acknowledging the poorly behaved eleven-year-old at the counter.
They moved on, now to buy quills and ink, and they were out of the store again just as quickly. Next door, outside Madam Malkin's, her friend Draco Malfoy entered the robe shop, and a proverbial dark cloud hung over his head.
"Mother," said Freyja. "The Malfoys are here too."
"Where?" asked Mother. "I've not seen them, and Narcissa never did answer my letter about meeting to shop together."
"Madam Malkin's. Let's go see them."
Freyja entered the robe shop without permission, and she nearly ran into Draco as he loitered by the entrance while Narcissa spoke to Madam Malkin. He stumbled in surprise, and he caught himself against the nearby countertop.
"Merlin!" he said. "Freyja. What are you doing here?"
"Buying robes, silly," said Freyja. "What else would I do in here?"
"That's not-" he started to explain himself, only to stop as he watched her giggling.
He blushed, and Mother entered a moment later with Rauthr just behind. Rauthr glanced about the store and huffed.
"Why, hello Draco," Mother said. "Freyja told me she'd seen you and she just charged off."
"She nearly knocked me to the floor when she opened the door too."
Mother turned a withering gaze on Freyja, but Freyja only smiled. Mother shook her head, and she greeted Narcissa and joined her conversation with Madam Malkin. While the three ladies spoke, Rauthr ambled closer to Draco and Freyja, and he looked displeased.
"Rauthr," Draco said, and he shook hands with her brother. "Done anything exciting today?"
"What do you think?"
"Figured as much. Mother's dragging me about like some dog, from shop to shop, and it's nothing but books and quills and potion materials. Most boring day I've had in ages."
"It's not so bad, Draco," said Freyja. "We should see if we can Florean Fortescue's and get some ice cream after we get our robes. That would be fun."
"I suppose," said Draco.
"Don't like ice cream," said Rauthr.
"Don't be such a downer," Freyja swatted Rauthr's shoulder. "You're representing our family. You can't look like some common idiot."
"Common idiocy is putting on a fake smile and getting excited over food."
"Merlin," said Draco. "You're depressing."
"My greatest talent."
They were each fitted for their robes, Freyja going first, then Rauthr, and while Draco stood with his feet apart and a frown on his face, another customer entered, a giant of a man and just behind him a boy of their own age. He was dark of hair, like Rauthr, but his eyes gleamed green, and he wore a pair of round glasses, and he looked nervous.
"I shan't be sorted into Hufflepuff," said Draco, doing a rather impressive impression of his father's pomposity. "Not a chance. If I were, I'd probably expel myself."
"You'd best not be expelled, Draco," said Narcissa.
"Rauthr here'll probably disgrace his family name and be a Ravenclaw," said Draco. "He loves his books."
"What's your house make a difference about? Feels a bit like professional quidditch to me, interesting, but not terribly substantive."
"You know some big words, you know?"
Freyja turned to the newcomer with the round glasses, and she tried to place him. His face was obscure, however, and she couldn't figure where the green eyes came from. Not one of the important pureblood families had green eyes as a common family trait, so far as she knew.
"What house do you expect to be sorted into?" she asked the boy.
"What house," he repeated.
"Sure," said Draco, and he strutted off with his school robes fitted. "There's Hufflepuff," he faked a gag. "Ravenclaw," he shrugged. "Gryffindor," he gave a thumbs down and booed. "And Slytherin. All my family's been in Slytherin. Best house in Hogwarts, it's said."
"I don't know," said the boy.
"Come Draco," Narcissa sighed and ushered her son out the door.
"Oh!" Freyja rushed out after them, not letting them get out of sight, and Mother came afterward with Rauthr lagging behind again.
"Mother," she said, turning back to face her. "Could we please get some ice cream with Draco? I think Rauthr needs a break from the crowds anyways."
Mother looked at Rauthr, and Freyja thought her brother did look a bit paler than usual. Mother thought a moment, then assented, and they went to Florean Fortescue's together. It turned out that Draco had yet to purchase his wand, just as they had.
Draco got a waffle cone with two scoops of cookies and cream, and Freyja got two scoops of strawberry. Even Narcissa and Mother got some ice cream, some kind of coffee flavor that they agreed to share so as to avoid damaging their figures. Rauthr just looked displeased, and he got a soda.
Draco and Freyja talked about quidditch once they sat down outside while their mothers discussed some bit of political drama. Freyja found that sort of thing interesting, and she tried to listen out of one ear while she talked to Draco, but Mother insisted that she not act as though she were politically astute, even in front of friends. The truth was, she was capable for her age, but she was no brilliant operator yet.
"What classes are you looking forward to?" Freyja asked, changing the subject. "And no, quidditch doesn't count."
"Flying then," said Draco.
"Doesn't count either."
"Arithmancy," said Rauthr, but he didn't sound excited.
"Ugh," said Draco. "And you can't even do arithmancy 'til third year."
"Doesn't change the answer," Rauthr shrugged.
"Personally," said Freyja. "I'd like to see what sorts of charms I can learn. There's so many little ones that could be helpful if you just put in a little effort to figure out what they are."
"I want to learn some curses for dueling," said Draco. "Every good wizard's got to have a good repertoire of spells to employ against his enemies."
"Who are you planning on dueling?" asked Freyja with a smile. "Anyone in particular?"
"Enemies. Gryffindors."
Freyja rolled her eyes.
Draco made a bit of a mess with his ice cream cone, and Freyja had a sticky chin even though she tried to be as clean as possible. Rauthr smiled smugly.
They travelled together to Ollivander's, unadorned on the outside and entirely a mess on the inside. Garrick Olivander himself shuffled about the shop and approached them with a twinkle in his eye, and his hair was all askew, and his robes were shabby and unwashed. He surveyed Freyja and Draco and Rauthr.
"Welcome friends, needing wands for school I expect?"
"Yes," said Draco and stepped forth and puffed out his chest. "I'll need a powerful wand. I expect nothing but the highest of quality."
"And I would expect nothing less from the young master Malfoy," said Ollivander, and he turned to peruse the shelves. "Let's see what we have."
The wand maker withdrew a plain black box and opened it to take up a thin gray spit of wood. He aimed his eye down its length then nodded.
"Try this master Malfoy, elm wood, dragon heartstring, twelve inches."
"My father's wand is made of elm," said Draco, and he took the stick carefully from Ollivander.
"Go on, give it a wave."
With a dramatic whirl about his head, Draco stepped and pointed the elm wand at the closest shelf. While the wand produced no immediate signs of magic, the shelf which was the target of Draco's attack collapsed to the floor, toppling into a nearby shelf, and boxes scattered the floor. Draco was still cringing five seconds after it was all over.
"Sorry," he said.
Narcissa righted the shelf with her own wand, though the spilled boxes still littered the floor. Yet, somehow the store appeared no messier than before.
"Thank you, Lady Malfoy," said Ollivander. "I'll have to take this one back, I'm afraid. Not much like your father it seems."
He swiped the wand from Draco and placed it on a nearby table, and its box was lost amongst the clutter distributed across the floor. Freyja couldn't believe the condition of the shop. It was spectacularly disgusting. Already though, Ollivander was back, this time with a sharp brown wand in his hands.
"Let's give this a try then," he said. "Vine, nine-and-a-half inches, phoenix feather, supple."
Draco took the short spike and waved it more hesitantly this time. A trail of little red sparks fell from the tip, but they did not fly. They just fell like little raindrops to the floor.
"How interesting," said Ollivander. "Such weak performance."
"Are you saying I'm a weak performer?" asked Draco.
"Not at all, master Malfoy. I was referring to your wand. Perhaps I should try a different tack then."
He wandered off, and Draco looked at Freyja.
"You're difficult," she said.
"No need to remind the rest of us," said Rauthr.
Freyja giggled, and Draco's face grew red, and Rauthr wandered off to investigate a few of the candles by the door.
"Behave please, Freyja," said Mother. "Be respectful. Rauthr don't touch anything. This is Mr. Ollivander's shop, not yours."
Ollivander came back a short time later, and Rauthr was still squatting by the candles. He didn't touch them, just stared.
"Very well, something completely different this time," said Ollivander. "Hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair, reasonably springy. Give it a try."
Draco took up the amber colored wood, and he pointed it straight at the window. A bulbous yellow orb fired across the room and came to rest inside a lightbulb there, gently pulsating. Draco looked at the wand with awe, and he fired it again, whereupon a stream of silver sparks flew from its tip and danced in the air.
"Marvelous!" said Ollivander. "Just marvelous. How about you next miss Avery? Hm?"
And Ollivander was off again already, and Draco was busy playing with the differently colored sparks that shot from his wand. He wasn't so artistic with his movements, but he was dramatic, and he certainly gave his fullest effort to appear impressive with every stroke.
"Draco," said Narcissa. "No more of that please. Do try to maintain at least a little of your dignity."
Suddenly realizing he was acting childishly, Draco straightened up and tried to look gentlemanly. Freyja smiled, and this time she stifled her laughter. Ollivander returned with a new wand, and Freyja took it and held it, politely awaiting his explanation.
"This is hazelwood, nine inches, unicorn hair, flexible," said Ollivander. "Try it," he waved his hands encouragingly.
Freyja stepped forth and with a flick of her wrist, the wand sent the debris across the floor flying through the air. The wands clattered against the walls and ceiling, and Freyja ducked and covered her head as a few of the sticks flew past her and collided with the door.
"Oh no," said Ollivander, waving his own want to quiet the upheaval. "Not at all. No no no."
She tried wand after wand, and the number grew higher, first four, then five, and eventually seven. Alder ten-and-a-half inches, dragon heartstring, brittle. Poplar, eleven inches, dragon heartstring, spongey. And so on it went.
"My goodness, you are a challenge, dear," said Ollivander as he came back with a new wand. "Acacia, ten inches, dragon heartstring, firm."
Freyja picked it up and flicked it, not wasting any movement with her motion, and she was already halfway back to handing the wand over to Ollivander again when she felt a gentle glow of golden light surrounding her frame.
"Ah yes!" said Ollivander.
"About time," said Draco. "And you called me difficult."
"Just shut up Draco," Freyja said. "We all know you're the difficult one."
"Yet it's just been proven by the world's finest wandmaker that you are, in fact, the difficult one."
"Acacia wands are only for those with sufficient subtlety," said Ollivander with a smile. "It should serve you well miss Avery."
"Thank you," said Freyja.
Ollivander turned to Rauthr, who now inspected the lamps on the wall, and he ushered him forward.
"Master Avery," he said. "Come here a moment."
Ollivander assessed Rauthr, looking him over, and looking him in the eyes. He frowned and took to the shelves, searching back and forth, then came back with a spit of gnarled wood.
"Walnut, twelve inches, dragon heartstring, solid," and he handed the wand to Rauthr.
Rauthr fired the wand, yet the wand sputtered, nearly producing its magic but failing to manifest its power fully. Rauthr glanced oddly at the wand.
"Well, it was fifty-fifty," said Ollivander, and he took the wand back and began to search through the wands which had fallen to the floor. "Ah, here. Pine, twelve inches, phoenix feather, rigid."
And Rauthr took up the wand and from its tip shone a white light, and all the wands upon the floor were lifted back to their shelves and put away. Rauthr raised his eyebrows.
"A fine wand, master Avery," said Ollivander. "A fine wand indeed."
Rauthr nodded. They thanked Ollivander and paid him twenty-one galleons and departed the store, promising to see each other again soon.
Father called them into his study after dinner. With only a day left to go before the school year began, Rauthr could only assume he wished to impart to them some great lesson about building connections and establishing one's future. He'd tell them to play nice with the big names and represent the family appropriately. It was always schmoozing and politics and games with Mother, and it was little different with Father. His analysis was cleverer, more pragmatic, for he was not a born operator, and he never neglected his ends.
"What do you suppose this is about?" asked Freyja.
"Don't ask questions you know the answers to," said Rauthr.
They stopped just outside the study door, and Freyja looked at him. She turned away and rolled her shoulders back and reached for the handle, then stopped and looked at him again.
"When someone asks you a question out of the interest of politeness," she said. "Answer it politely. It's better you figure that out now, not later."
"The inefficiency of your speech is spectacular."
"People do not function efficiently, if you haven't noticed."
"And you would choose to encourage their ineptitude," said Rauthr. "I choose to avoid ineptitude wherever possible."
Freyja smiled and opened the door. Inside, Father sat behind his desk with steepled fingers, and he looked over a document, his eyes shifting from line to line with mechanical precision. Freyja swept into the seat on the left, and Rauthr dropped stiffly into his chair, and they waited in silence. Father insisted upon their silence, and they had learned his lessons well. Quietism was all in the Avery household.
"Are you both prepared for school?" Father asked.
Rauthr grumbled.
"Yes Father," said Freyja. "Is there something you wanted?"
"Tell me, what do you know of the Dark Lord?" he asked.
"He's dead, isn't he?"
"Assumably," said Father. "Yet, I'm no longer so certain of this. Just over eleven years ago he was defeated by a mere babe, and he has not been seen since. His body was never found, and he left his mark upon Harry Potter. Even still, there are shadows lurking just beyond the edge of public knowledge, shadows that hide a dark truth."
"He's alive," said Rauthr. "Via some means of dark magic surely."
Father nodded, and Freyja folded her hands and recrossed her legs and straightened her posture. She waited for Father to speak. He would tell them what was required, but not before he had provided sufficient context.
"The Dark Lord lives," Father said. "And if so, he is – as we speak – searching for some spell or dark ritual which will grant him his body again. When he returns, things will be as they were before, and he will attack the mudbloods, and he will attempt to find and defeat Harry Potter. Only, this time he will find things to be different. There will be no hint of support for his cause, not even in the philosophical sense, leaving the grisly details behind for a moment. The Ministry and its bureaucracies will resist his infiltration, and battles for power will ensue.
"Yet, even were he to achieve victory, the situation is already too far gone. He will find it impossible to wrest control of the levers of power from those who currently hold them. The fact of the matter is, he has become a devil, and when he returns he will appear as such to the populace and to the Ministry. He knows no other way than brute force, and what subtleties of magic he grasps with such ease are lost on him in the political."
"What are you saying, Father?" asked Rauthr.
"I am informing you of the situation as it stands, Rauthr," said Father, glaring at the boy. "You'll need to understand this now you are entering Hogwarts."
"We have an important part to play too," said Freyja. "It's our job to make connections for the next generation and to keep tabs on the educational institutions. We're in just the position to do the job."
"Exactly," said Father, and he smirked. "But I am informing you of more than this. Young Potter is from an old family, pureblood he may not be, but an old family nonetheless. He's an aristocrat in the waiting. He needs only to be convinced of that fact, and he may yet prove an ally to us, potentially one greater than the Dark Lord. For, if he is so strong as to be able to defeat the Dark Lord, then he may serve as a strong rallying point for those of our persuasion. Suppose he takes up arms with us: the populace is more readily convinced by a loving caress than a cudgel. He may be just the voice we need to further our aims, but he's also young, and with none of the baggage associated with the Dark Lord."
"You want us to become friends with Harry Potter," said Rauthr.
"He may yet be useful, son. Don't close your mind against the possibility just yet."
"I'm only suggesting that I'm not the best person for that task."
"I can do it," said Freyja and smiled.
"I'm not asking that you become close friends with the boy," said Father. "Only that you observe him. Study his character and determine whether he might be an asset or an enemy. If the former, then excellent. If not, we need not worry. Other opportunities will present themselves.
"Additionally," he said. "Keep your eyes open for any signs of movement by Dumbledor. He is our main enemy in this game. While it may serve us better to move forward without the Dark Lord, he is far more trustworthy than the old headmaster. Do not be fooled by his act. He's sly as a fox and wants nothing more than to see our world destroyed. Interact with him only as necessary but be mindful that he will eventually seek both of you.
"Remember, the other children will not possess your aptitude for magic, either of you. In general terms, you are both extraordinary, and it's my job to ensure you receive just the sort of upbringing demanded by that talent. You'll see children of all blood status fail to match your capabilities, and I would not ask that you suppress yourselves to better serve as spies for me. You are my children, not soldiers, and I only want what is best for you, but you will be alone in the school, surrounded by many enemies, and they'll seek to take advantage of you for your talents. Do not let them. Make it clear that your gifts are yours alone and not to be falsely influenced by any of the teachers who would try to control you.
"You especially, Rauthr," said Father with a stern look upon his son. "Do not allow anyone to rule you, whether they be friend or foe. You have great talent, son, and I only ask that you guard it jealously. Share only with those you trust, and do try to find one or two friends you can trust.
"And Freyja," Father turned to her, and Freyja sat up a little straighter. "My sweet, you will be a beautiful woman one day. With your looks and your charms, I have no doubt you'll be popular, but be wary of the attention lest you be lost in it. Many a bright young pupil was more interested in flash than purpose, and you'd do best to find yours and stick to it."
"Nice speech Dad," said Rauthr.
Father rolled his eyes, but he smiled. They didn't see him near as much as they wished they could. He was always working on something, research for one purpose or another, political concerns and the like. It made the few moments they had with him all the more meaningful.
"I do only want what's best for you, Rauthr," said Father.
"He's just telling you not to screw up your life," said Freyja.
"That was rather clear," said Rauthr, and they all laughed.
"Now, before you go," he said. "Why don't you play me a song, you two? Go on."
Freyja plucked at the strings of her violin and played a gentle pizzicato melody. Rauthr stared out the window, and Draco Malfoy barged into the room with his unfortunate lackeys Crabbe and Goyle behind.
"Weasley," said Draco. "Honestly, what a stupid name. Who even thought of that? Bunch of morons, the lot of them. He's even got a pet rat. Who's got a pet rat, seriously? That's disgusting."
"I'm not sure anyone picked the name Weasley, Draco," Freyja smiled. "It's a surname, not like anybody chooses their surname."
"Whatever," Draco sat down next to Rauthr. "Still a stupid name. And guess who he was sitting with, Harry Potter."
"What?"
"Yeah, they were just talking about some nonsense. I introduced myself to Potter, told him I'd help him around the school, you know, and he told me he didn't want any help."
"How did you introduce yourself exactly?"
Crabbe moved to sit next to Freyja, but stopped when she met his eyes with a cold stare. He backed away and squished himself next to Goyle, and all the boys sat on one side of the compartment while Freyja plucked away, alone on the other.
"Just told him a bit about the importance of wizarding families," said Draco, leaning back and pushing Rauthr further against the window. "Like which ones to associate with, which ones not to, just being helpful."
Freyja sighed and picked up her bow and held it above the strings for a moment. Maybe Bach.
"So you tried to convince him to spend time with you because you're from an important family," said Freyja. "And you implied that his new friend, this Weasley boy, whichever one he is, shouldn't be associated with."
"What's the problem with that?" Draco asked. "I gave him a very generous offer."
"The problem is, Draco, that you're opening too aggressively. If you want to convince him, it's better to lead with conciliation. Make him think he's making the decisions and having all the ideas himself. If the rumors are true, he has no experience in our world, and you'd have to accommodate that when talking to him initially."
"That sounds complicated."
"No," said Freyja. "It's called diplomacy. You have to invite him in, make him want to be a part of something, not just lay out two sides and ask him to choose between them like he knows anything."
She started playing, and the strings vibrated gently, and talk ceased. Crabbe and Goyle looked upset at the music, the only honest response of ugliness to beauty, their faces creased with nauseous frowns. Draco watched her play, and Rauthr still stared out the window, though his posture seemed to ease with her playing.
The door to the compartment creaked and slid open, and an earnest girl stood in the frame. Her hair was thick and wavy, her expression overbearing. She was already dressed in her robes.
"Hello," she said. "Have any of you seen a toad? Neville Longbottom's lost his. He's very worried."
Draco glanced at Freyja, and she stopped playing. Even Rauthr had turned from the window to stare at the newcomer talking of Neville Longbottom. By happenstance, this girl had chosen to be their enemy. The girl looked between them.
"Additionally, we're nearing the school, so you might want to change into your robes."
"Who do you think you are?" Draco asked. "Telling us what to do like that?"
"I'm trying to help," said the girl. "You'd be surprised at the appalling behavior of the other people on this train. Trying to do magic before we even get to the castle? Honestly. I'm Hermione Granger by the way."
Not a pureblood name Freyja recognized. Half-blood was possible, but judging by her overcompensation, Freyja guessed mudblood. Draco stared at her impetuousness incredulously.
"Do you play the violin?" Hermione asked. "It's a beautiful instrument."
"Hermione Granger," said Rauthr with a sigh. "Could you kindly leave my friends be? We didn't invite you to join us, so bugger off why don't you?"
"That's not very nice of you. What's your name?"
"Mike Hunt," said Rauthr.
Draco smirked.
"Well Mike," said Hermione. "You shouldn't berate people in that way. It's not very kind. But, I'm going to be on my way, see if anyone else is more helpful."
"Good luck with that," said Rauthr.
She let the door close with a clatter, and Draco howled with laughter. He wheezed and kicked back his feet, and Freyja started laughing too. Crabbe and Goyle started laughing moments later, mimicking Draco's mood. Rauthr gave a mischievous smile.
"I can't believe she fell for that mate," said Draco, wiping tears from his eyes and chuckling.
After a particularly cold trip across the lake, the group of first years to be sorted entered the castle without incident. It didn't last particularly long as Draco began to poke fun at Neville Longbottom, who had recovered his toad before their arrival evidently. Rauthr only inspected the few runes he spotted on the thick stone walls, and Hermione Granger's voice trilled in the background, telling anyone who would listen about Hogwarts a History. She was proud she read books, not a terribly commendable act in Rauthr's opinion.
"Honestly, does she ever shut up?" Draco asked, crossing his arms.
Crabbe and Goyle loomed behind him, all round and flabby like two enormous piles of pizza dough. Disgusting.
"Likely not," said Rauthr. "Those of mediocre talent are always proudest of themselves."
"She's just annoying. I don't care how smart she is."
"Fair enough. Not like I'd disagree with you."
Freyja slipped through the crowd of kids away from their group and made her way toward a suspicious redheaded boy. Ronald Weasley, and she was certainly looking for Potter. Ever the good soldier, Freyja.
They were delivered at last to a set of double doors, where a gray-haired lady waited for them. Her robes were green, and a dark pointed hat rested atop her head. Rauthr spotted Freyja still whispering to the Weasley boy while the woman introduced herself as Professor McGonagill and informed them of the sorting ceremony.
"There are four houses," said McGonagill. "Each is home to its own class of students, and all have produced fantastic witches and wizards in the past. They are as follows, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin."
"Of course she'd refer to us like we just killed her cat," Draco said and shook his head.
"Enemy lines mate," said Rauthr.
Draco looked at Rauthr with narrowed eyes while McGonagill told them about the importance of valuing your housemates, and then about interhouse unity. Rauthr shrugged, then they were lead into the great hall. The raggedy old Sorting Hat sat on a simple three-legged stool. McGonagill stood beside the hat with an open scroll.
"Abbot, Hannah," she called first.
The plain girl was sorted into Hufflepuff to applause from the table of yellow badgers. They seemed a happy bunch, all the more reason to avoid them.
"Avery, Freyja," said McGonagill.
Freyja gild elegantly into place on the stool, and it took only a moment for the hat to announce her place in Slytherin. The snakes eagerly applauded her arrival.
"Avery, Rauthr," McGonagill glanced at him as he grumbled and sat on the stool.
He pulled the hat on and glanced about at the tables watching him. The Gryffindors looked apprehensively upon him, as did the Hufflepuffs, and the Ravenclaws seemed rather indifferent.
"Mr. Avery," said the hat. "How nice to meet you finally. I've heard many rumors about you, about your intelligence, your potential."
"Why does a hat need to flatter its audience?" Rauthr asked. "Just tell me what house I'm in."
"Very impatient, aren't you? Didn't even think to ask how I'd heard of you."
"I assume you hear a lot being in Dumbledor's office. I bet you've seen more than a few confidential conversations and backroom deals."
"Clever, clever indeed, but you don't want others to know it do you? How interesting. You're a far savvier operator than you're given credit for, and you're pleased people don't recognize it. They think you're just a scholar, but you're more than that, aren't you Mr. Avery?"
"Which house, hat?"
The hat chuckled a moment, and Rauthr watched the others watching him.
"Slytherin!" it said.
Rauthr saw across from his sister at the table, and Draco joined them soon enough. The hall held its collective breath as Harry Potter stepped up to the stool. He sat under the hat for quite a while, but eventually he was put into Gryffindor.
"I guess that gambit's over," said Freyja.
"Your skills in diplomacy failed you?" said Rauthr. "Color me surprised. He's a Potter. They've always been progressive. Family preferences pass down in the blood, so why would he be any different?"
"Huh?" asked Draco. "What gambit? What are you two going on about?"
"Father asked us to befriend Potter," said Freyja. "See if we could bring him on side. I tried to talk to him before, but apparently Weasley already told him about us, said we were untrustworthy."
"Seems it's not just your fault Draco," Rauthr smirked while Dumbledor informed them the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side was off limits. "Potter's enough of a fool to trust a Weasley on his own."
Soon they were fed, and a prefect was leading them back to the common-room and the Slytherin dorms. Down in the dungeons beneath the lake, it was a rather moody place. Rauthr enjoyed it immensely, and there was even a piano in the corner he decided on playing later. He doubted he'd be able to rest much given the rambunctious nature of his fellow first-years. Tomorrow would be a long day then.
Thanks for reading guys. I know I'm writing another new story, but I'm going to try to actually work on this one some. I've got a bit of inspiration here.
-Red