CenturionEon: Thanks so much for your support, I'm very grateful! Ahaha, the anger and teenage hormones definitely aren't working in Alexander's favour. It's making him a bit impulsive. But yeah, he needs to control his temper.
Alexander spent a restless night, his thoughts churning and his emotions in turmoil. His chest felt as constricted as a snake coiled tightly around its prey, his stomach twisted into knots. Anger toward Ron still simmered within him, sparked by his friend's unkindness towards Hermione. There was no mistaking that. The urge to strike, to mark Ron's freckled face was strong. And yet Ron was still one of his best friends; the fiery desire to see Ron hurt, to watch the crimson splatter, had faded, but not to the extent of wishing him harm at the hands of someone as dangerous as Sirius Black.
Ron seemed bashful when Alexander tugged him into a hug, avoiding eye contact as if he was embarrassed. He didn't mention Alexander punching him earlier, which was a good thing. Alexander didn't know if either of them would broach the subject. Perhaps it's best that they didn't address it. What would he even say? Sorry you're not dead mate but you deserved that punch.
What if Black returned? The thought sent shivers down Alexander's spine. How could he — how could anyone — have allowed Sirius Black to get so close to them, to Harry? Security was meant to be tight around here, Hogwarts impenetrable, so then how? The mere possibility twisted his gut with a cold, gnawing dread because Black would be back. Twice the charm or whatever the saying was.
Outside, a night breeze whispered through the branches of the distant Forbidden Forest, an eerie and comforting sound. Alexander tossed in his bed, his blankets twisted around him, every muscle tensed with unspoken anxieties.
Suddenly, a soft, muffled sob pierced the silence. Neville's face was buried in his pillow, his sobs barely audible, yet to Alexander's frayed nerves, each sound was magnified, alarmingly intrusive. He gritted his teeth. Once, he might have ignored it or even gently inquired about the problem, but now, Alexander's patience with Neville was threadbare, stretched to its breaking point. If he hadn't lost the password, Black wouldn't have got a way in.
"Will you just be quiet, Neville?" Alexander snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He immediately regretted his harshness when he saw Neville's shoulders jerk, the sobs stifling into choked silence. An apology was at the tip of his tongue but he let it sit there and merely turned his head around so he didn't see Neville's body shaking.
Alexander's mind strayed, and his heart thudded painfully against his ribcage. What if Black goes after Hermione? The thought was a sharp jab of fear, his mind conjuring up the worst scenarios: a knife jutting out of her chest, her breathing dangerously shallow, eyes glazed over. No. He couldn't let that happen — he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did. He had to do something. Anything. She'll be okay, he tried to reassure himself firmly. She has to be. Otherwise, he'll fall apart. He needed to see with his own eyes. See that she was fine, that she was breathing, alive and out of harm's way.
He swung his legs out of bed, the cold floor sending a shiver up his spine. Just as he was about to stand, he caught a pair of green eyes snapping up at him. Both of them froze for a moment. Alexander swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Um. Where do you think you're going?" Harry whispered, his glasses catching the glint of the moonlight, giving him an owlish look.
"Nowhere," Alexander muttered, feeling his cheeks warm with embarrassment. "Nowhere at all. Go back to sleep." He slid back under his covers, avoiding Harry's inquisitive gaze. He closed his eyes tightly, willing sleep to come, but the shadows formed darker shapes behind his lids.
He lay there, listening to the rhythm of breathing around him, each inhale and exhale a reminder of the restless night they all endured. With a deep, unsettled sigh, Alexander realised sleep would remain a distant hope for now. His mind was a turbulent sea, and tonight, the waves were too high to navigate.
Familiar, tractor-blow snores filtered through. He wondered how Ron could still sleep after all the commotion, especially as it concerned him the most. Then again Ron could sleep through a storm if he wanted to. It was no surprise to Alexander that Harry was awake judging by the heavy sound of his breathing. Harry has always been a restless sleeper since his first year. But Alexander was not inclined to begin a conversation with anyone. He turned onto his side to face the oval window.
Alexander's thoughts meandered, guided by the silver threads of moonlight that now painted an ethereal trail across the wooden floor of the dormitory. The light seemed to connect him momentarily with a past he felt was both distant and intimately close — his mother's past.
Had she too stared out of a similar window, lost in thoughts as heavy as his? Had she felt the same hardwood underfoot, sat in the same creaky armchairs, sipped the same pumpkin juice in the Great Hall?
It was a painful sort of nostalgia, one that brought more shadows than warmth. Each memory, each imagined similarity, dredged up more than just familial bonds; it unearthed a legacy of darkness. The realisation of who his grandfather truly was — Antoine, the revered figure, now tainted by truths undeniable and stark — lay heavy on his heart. His mother's diaries had confirmed the worst. Grandfather was not the golden hero Alexander had grown up admiring; he was an architect responsible for the orchestration of deceit and death.
This new, grim knowledge was a jagged pill to swallow. The entries his mother left behind were like a map to past horrors, each word a breadcrumb leading back to tragedies linked by blood. Alexander's fingers trembled as they brushed against the diary, tucked under his mattress. More entries awaited him, their secrets sealed by his mother's swirling, difficult-to-decipher handwriting. He dreaded reading further, each page potentially uncovering deeper abysses of despair.
What would he find next? How many enemies had his grandfather made, and how close were they to his own life? Was there a line of dominoes waiting to fall, each one knocking closer to his demise? Would he eventually end up killing another Jonas, this time for good? These were not just idle fears; they were tangible threats, each linked back to a single, haunting question.
How had his mother really died? And why?
Was it an accident, a consequence of her investigations, or something — or someone — orchestrated by those holding long grudges against Antoine Laurent?
He lay back, the cool sheets a small comfort against the heat of his racing thoughts. He knew he couldn't avoid the diary for long. The truth was a siren call, one that might lead to salvation or shipwreck, and Alexander felt himself drawn inexorably towards it. There was no escaping his origins, or the repercussions of his grandfather's sins. Tonight, the moonlit path seemed an omen — beckoning him towards a fate that was his alone to claim, for better or worse.
∞ ϟ 9¾
By dawn, Sirius Black had escaped again, though that didn't stop the security being placed on them. Filch was suddenly bustling down the corridors, boarding up everything from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes; the Professors looked much grimmer and sterner than usual.
Sir Cadogan had also been fired. His portrait had been taken back to its lonely landing on the seventh floor, and the Fat Lady was back. Alexander was one of the students who breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God for that. This was one blessing in disguise. No more would the knight challenge him to duels or hurl accusations of cowardice whenever he wanted to enter the common room. Indeed, one good thing had come out of this ordeal.
As Alexander walked into the Great Hall for breakfast, he couldn't help but notice the hubbub around the Gryffindor table. There, surrounded by a crowd of excited first, second and a few curious fourth and fifth years, was Ron, looking thoroughly pleased with himself as if he'd solely won the House Cup. A faint trickle of amusement trickled into Alexander's expression. It seemed the news of Ron's encounter with Sirius Black had spread like wildfire, and he was now basking in the glory of it. Ah, typical Ron.
"Yeah, it was terrifying!" Ron was saying loudly, his face flushed with excitement. "I was just lying there, and suddenly, there he was, standing over me with a knife!"
The younger students gasped in awe, hanging on Ron's every word. Alexander scoffed and rolled his eyes as he passed by, grabbing a piece of toast from the table.
"What's he doing?" Alexander muttered under his breath as he took a seat next to Hermione, who was furiously scribbling notes on a scroll of parchment with a thick, bound book opened beside it. The boys still weren't speaking to her by the looks of things.
Hermione glanced up, her brow furrowed. "Huh? Oh, hello, Alexander. It's Ron. He's been going on about his 'close encounter' with Sirius Black all morning."
Alexander shook his head in disbelief. "Of course he is. Only Ron could turn a near-death experience into a publicity stunt."
Hermione sighed, closing her book with a snap. "Honestly, he's exaggerating so much just by listening to him."
Alexander couldn't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all as he listened to Ron's words. "I suppose next, he'll be saying he took down a dragon single-handedly."
Hermione's lips twitched into a reluctant smile and her doe eyes twinkled. "Knowing Ron, he probably will. He's enjoying the attention far too much."
As the students continued to chatter excitedly, Professor McGonagall swept into the hall, her sharp eyes taking in the scene. She cleared her throat loudly, and the hall fell silent.
"May I have your attention, please?" she began, her voice carrying easily across the room. "In light of recent events, I must remind you all to be extra vigilant. If you see anything suspicious, report it immediately. That is all."
With that, she turned on her heel and exited the hall, leaving a subdued murmur in her wake.
Alexander took a bite of his toast, still eyeing Ron with a mixture of amusement and disdain. "You know," he said to Hermione, "if Ron spent half as much time on his schoolwork as he does on his storytelling, he might actually get top marks across all subjects."
Hermione half-smiled, shaking her head. Alexander's gaze drifted until it landed on Neville, who looked downright miserable. He'd barely touched his eggs, and the space around him was practically deserted, save for a few curious glances cast in his direction. A pang of pity pierced through Alexander as he observed his friend's forlorn state. He muttered that he'd be back and Hermione hummed as she kept scribbling.
"Hey. . ." said Alexander quietly as he sat opposite Neville, who peered up with red-rimmed, watery eyes. He winced. Neville did not look good.
"Oh, hi, Alex," replied Neville, sniffing.
Alexander studied Neville's face, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the downcast expression. "You don't look so good, mate," he said gently, hoping to convey understanding rather than judgment.
Neville sniffled again, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Then he hesitated, his fingers nervously tracing the edge of the table. "I—I didn't mean to leave the parchment out. I swear, I was just so tired, and I must have forgotten it. Now everyone knows, and it's my fault. I. . . I didn't want to cause any trouble. And now Ron almost died because of me." His voice cracked, and he looked at Alexander with pleading eyes, as if expecting him to be angry or disappointed.
Alexander sighed, his expression softening. It was hard to stay mad at Neville. It was like kicking a puppy. "I know you didn't mean to. It was just bad luck. Things happen." He reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Neville's arm.
Neville's eyes welled up with tears, but he managed a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Alex. I just. . . I don't know how to fix it. People aren't talking to me, you're the first person to do so today, and Professor McGonagall has banned me from everything — I don't even know what I'm going to say to Gran." His voice cut off as he turned pale, probably thinking about his gran's reaction.
"Let's not dwell on what's already done. Look, why don't you tell me about some of the plants you've been studying recently?"
Neville blinked, momentarily taken aback by the change in topic. "Plants?" he asked, his voice shaky.
"Yeah, plants. Come on, I know you've been up to something in the greenhouses with Professor Sprout. Spill the beans," Alexander urged, his tone light and encouraging.
Neville's face brightened ever so slightly, the hint of a spark returning to his eyes. "Well, we've been working on something interesting. Did you know that Mimbulus Mimbletonia can repel even the most stubborn of pests with its Stinksap?"
Later, Nia caught up with him, staring at him with a curious eye. She stood there, hands snugly tucked into the pockets of her trademark denim jacket, a symbol of her casual confidence. Her hair cascaded in gentle waves, longer than it had been the previous year, framing her face with a lively bounce.
"Well, I'm glad to see you're not dead, Laurent," she said eventually, throwing a smile. "I'd be so fucking annoyed if you were. Who'd I have to take the piss out of then?"
Alexander snorted. "Glad you find this so amusing. But don't worry, I'll try my best to stick around just so you have someone to torment."
Nia chuckled, rolling her eyes. "Oh, I'm not worried. With your luck, your lot will probably end up in another near-death situation by the end of the week. I'm practically betting on it."
"Knowing our luck we probably will be," Alexander sighed, half-exasperated, half-truthful. For all their sakes he hoped to God they wouldn't. "Wouldn't want you getting bored, now would we?"
A warm bubble of joy welled up in his chest. He was grateful that she was more open towards him now, with all the bad blood behind them. He had missed Nia. And Helen too. They'd been his friends before anything else. Helen had asked how he'd been when they bumped into each other in the corridor. She must have heard about the Sirius Black incident like the rest of the school. Alexander didn't know what to say to her despite her being her charming, bubbly self, however. She treated him no differently despite him knowing that she had every right to shun him after how badly he'd treated her. She threw him a smile and trundled after her group of friends.
Two days after the incident, following Neville's mortifying and equally embarrassing ordeal with a howler, Alexander received letters from both his Grandfather and Eliot. His grandfather's letter was brief and direct — straight to the point, Alexander grumbled inwardly. It reprimanded him for not reporting back about Harry for some time. Alexander's face flushed as he crumpled the letter tightly in his fist. Noticing his movement, Harry caught his eye and gave him a questioning look. Alexander pressed his lips together and shook his head, signalling it was nothing to worry about.
Eliot's letter was longer and more light-hearted in a way that caused Alexander to smile as if he could sense the man's presence and sharp grin next to him. A deep ache slammed against him like an unexpected wave crashing onto the shore. God did he miss Eliot.
Dear Alex,
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. It's turned bloody cold up here. Nearly broke my neck the other day slipping on some ice! The streets are a right winter wonderland, all frosted over. The trees look like they're wearing crystal jackets, and the sky's a constant grey blanket.
Make sure you're wrapping warm up there. I'd hate for you to catch your death of cold. And for heaven's sake, drop me a line now and then, will you? Preferably before I go completely grey waiting for a reply!
Take care of yourself, mate. Your letters are a bit of sunshine in this northern gloom.
Cheers,
Eliot
A voice caught his attention. "Hey, Alex!" Harry's voice was bright against the murmur of the Great Hall as he folded a piece of letter. Alexander looked up to see Harry and Ron staring at him, both looking eager.
"We're heading to Hagrid's," Harry said, waving a piece of parchment. "He's invited us for tea this evening around six. You coming?"
Alexander hesitated, glancing at the scattered letters and thinking about the mountain of homework waiting for him. "I've got a ton of work to catch up on," he replied, a hint of regret in his voice. "And I need to write back to Eliot."
Ron scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Come on, mate. Hagrid will be disappointed if you don't come."
Harry gave him a nod. "It's okay, Ron. Alex has stuff to do. We'll see you later then?"
"Yeah, later," Alexander echoed, managing a small smile. "Tell Hagrid I said hi."
The trek to the owlery always left him winded and out of breath. With a resolute sigh, he knew what he had to do. Picking up his quill, he dipped it in ink and wrote a single sentence on a piece of parchment:
I'm not doing it anymore.
He folded the parchment with a firm nod and called Apollo, his loyal owl. The bird swooped down gracefully, landing on the pole with an expectant hoot. Alexander tied the letter to Apollo's leg, his hands steady despite the tumult within.
"Take this to Grandfather," he instructed. Apollo blinked his round eyes and took off, disappearing into the waning light. Alexander watched until the owl was just a speck in the sky, a strange mix of relief and dread settling over him. His grandfather's disappointment was imminent, but the weight of the constant pressure and manipulation was already beginning to lift.
He knew that defying his grandfather would infuriate Antoine, but the oppressive weight of his expectations had become unbearable. Every interaction brought a wave of resentment, disappointment, and frustration coupled with the secrets of his mother's diary. Grandfather's constant pressure to monitor Harry and report back was more than Alexander could take. He felt like a pawn in his grandfather's schemes, and the thought of being used this way made his stomach churn.
Alexander had always felt like he was being judged, tested, and moulded into something. Sometimes he wondered if Grandfather was trying to make up for something, something he never had the chance to do with his mother. Alexander always wanted to prove himself, wanted just once for his grandfather to be open and honest with him. Yet, no matter what Alexander did, it was never enough. He wondered if such acceptance would ever grace his path, or if he was fated to forever chase the mirage of being the flawless grandson his grandfather envisioned.
Lost in thought, Alexander didn't notice he had reached the library until he stood before its grand doors. He shook his head to clear it and entered, hoping the familiar scent of parchment and the quiet hum of diligent students would soothe him. It did, for a while. He spent the next couple of hours buried in books, losing himself in the comforting routine of research and study.
As the late afternoon light began to wane, Alexander decided it was time to head back to the common room. On his way, he passed the bulletin board in the main corridor and noticed a new notice pinned up:
Hogsmeade Trip This Weekend! Sign-ups in the Great Hall!
His heart sank, and his hackles rose at the thought of returning to Hogsmeade. The village now felt tainted. He stood there for a moment, staring at the notice, his mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions. He couldn't hide away in Hogwarts forever, of course, he was aware of that. If he did, he would be letting fear control his life. But the thought of facing another potential threat, or even just the crowded, noisy streets of Hogsmeade, filled him with gaping dread.
He turned away from the bulletin board, his steps slow and heavy as he walked back to the common room. Harry and Ron came in afterwards and made a beeline towards him. Ron's voice lowered as he leaned in closer to Harry.
"What d'you reckon?" he asked quietly. "About Hogsmeade?"
"Well, Filch hasn't done anything about the passage into Honeydukes. . ." Harry said, shifting awkwardly.
"Oh, so, you're thinking of going then?" chimed Alexander warily. It wouldn't be a good idea. Not so soon after the attack as everyone would be keeping a hawk's eye on Harry. A voice interrupted them before Harry could answer.
"Harry!"
Hermione was sitting at the table right behind them and clearing a space in the wall of books that had been hiding her. Alexander did a double-take. He couldn't believe he missed her.
"Harry, if you go into Hogsmeade again. . . I'll tell Professor McGonagall about that map!" said Hermione sharply.
"So now you're trying to get Harry expelled!" snarled Ron furiously, face turning red as he glared at her.
As Hermione's words hung in the air, Alexander felt a knot tightening in his stomach. He glanced at Harry and Ron, his expression conflicted. He didn't know what to do. Obviously, Harry going wouldn't be a good idea. Yet, the thought of defying her also made him uneasy. It was a two-way sticky situation.
"Um, Hermione, I understand your concerns, but. . ." Alexander began, his voice faltering as he tried to find the right words.
But Hermione's glare silenced him. "No, Alexander, you don't understand," she interrupted, scowling. "How have I turned into the back guy? This is serious. If Harry keeps sneaking into Hogsmeade, he's putting himself and everyone else at risk. You should know better than anyone, considering. . ."
She let the words linger, a silent accusation echoing in the space between them. Alexander flinched inwardly. Yes, he knew the dangers all too well, perhaps better than anyone else. But he also knew the weight of loyalty and the burden of secrets. And he was done playing into his grandfather's hands so easily and going against Harry's back. He'd promised to be better.
The thought of being complicit in Grandfather's schemes anymore made Alexander's skin crawl. No, he couldn't do it. He couldn't continue to be a pawn, a mere puppet dancing to his tune. If defying his grandfather meant facing his disapproval, then so be it. Alexander refused to be his lapdog. Fudge and him were on their own.
"I do understand, Hermione," Alexander said, his tone pleading. "But turning against us — against Harry — like this, going behind his back. . . it's not right, don't you see?"
Hermione huffed, her eyes narrowing. "Why are you so against me, I thought you'd see why. I thought you'd be on my side."
Before Alexander could respond, Crookshanks leapt onto her lap, his bushy tail swishing back and forth in a display of feline grace. He nuzzled against Hermione's hand, his amber eyes fixing on her with a silent plea for attention. Hermione took one frightened look at them, gathered up Crookshanks, and hurried away toward the girls' dormitories with a look back. Alexander stared after her as Ron's breezy voice continued as if there'd been no interruption.
"So how about it? Come on, last time we went you didn't see anything. You haven't even been inside Zonko's yet!"
"Okay," answered Harry. "But I'm taking the Invisibility Cloak this time."
"Be careful," said Alexander with a tired sigh. "She's not exactly wrong, but just. . . just be mindful, yeah? If you are going to go, that is."
Hermione's once warm demeanour now wore the cloak of vexation, a subtle transformation that burrowed beneath Alexander's skin, unsettling the fragile balance of his sanity. She would shoot glances at him from the corner of her eyes, retreating mostly to the library, immersed in her studies and books. Catching her attention seemed an impossible feat. As she swept past, her bushy hair a fleeting sight, Alexander caught only a glimpse of Hermione's presence, trailing behind her was a whisper of citrus, a fragrance that ignited a yearning within him. He longed to reach out, to grasp her wrist, to gently turn her head towards him, to compel her gaze to meet his own with a longing coil around his heart, tugging at the corners of his consciousness with a fervour he dared not name.
On Saturday, true to form, Harry and Ron wanted to visit Hogsmeade again and this time take the cloak. They asked him if he wanted to go with them but Alexander declined. A pang tightened his chest at the prospect of returning, the image of the close-knit houses and winding streets of the village flooding his mind. A vivid memory flashed before him: Jonas, battered and bloodied, sprawled on the snow-covered ground, his groans echoing in the bitter cold air; Grandfather's steady hands clasped Alexander's arms, steadying him against toppling over. He gulped and shook his head.
"Alright, but just don't tell Hermione, yeah, that we're sneaking out," Harry said sheepishly. "She'll throw a fit and run off and tell McGonagall again."
"Of course she would, she's Hermione — lives and breathes rules," grumbled Ron with a roll of his eyes.
Alexander frowned. "You know, you could be a little nicer to her, you know. She's only looking out for Harry because she cares. She's not doing it out of spite."
"You'd never know judging by how she acts. She's got this knack for making us feel like we're about to face a Hungarian Horntail every time we even think about bending a rule."
Alexander's lips twitched as if he wanted to smile but he settled for throwing them pointed looks. "Just be careful, and remember what I said."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Dad."
He wouldn't tell on them but it still didn't stop him from feeling bad about it. He hated keeping things from Hermione but she wouldn't even talk to him right now so it's not like he had a choice in the matter. Great. This was another secret he held. Alexander wondered if one of these days his body was going to explode like an overfilled balloon or crush him underneath the weight of all that he'd been keeping for the past year — from Hermione, Harry, Ron, his grandfather and even Eliot himself. He felt so incredibly tired about it all that sometimes he wished he could just scream into the void.
While the two snuck off, Alexander distracted himself by starting on his Runes essay. It was perfect timing to catch up as the common room was practically empty except for a few first years. The Professors are ruthless lately, and he'd been practising the Patronus charm again and again until his body filled with exhaustion. The white light burned brighter, and a faint shield formation had appeared, so something had to be working. Still. . . it wasn't quick enough for him.
Lupin disagreed and said that he was doing well and shouldn't worry about it too much; his spell was already remarkable. Lupin shook his head with a wry smile. Alexander expected too much from himself — he was still a growing boy. There was nothing wrong with taking a step back and taking a break now and then.
And Alexander got his message, he really did. But he still wanted to produce a fully-formed Patronus sometime soon and would accept nothing less. One of the inherent traits he inherited from his grandfather was his penchant for harbouring high expectations. He could almost feel the pulsating energy of his magic tingling in his fingertips, ready to burst forth and manifest. He had to master the spell. He wandered for a second on what his Patronus would be. Would it be a majestic eagle soaring through the skies? Or perhaps a wise and steadfast wolf?
As he attempted to concentrate on his writing, his thoughts involuntarily veered towards his mother and her diary entries, pulling him into their intricate web despite his resistance. The pages had begun with a youthful exuberance, filled with wit, arrogance, and a hint of rebellious entitlement befitting a fifteen-year-old girl testing the boundaries of her world. But now. . .
Now, the tone had metamorphosed into something altogether different. It exuded determination, tinged with a simmering anger that seemed to pulse through the ink on the pages. This wasn't the aimless fury of a spoiled child; it was a focused, purposeful anger, laced with an intensity that sent shivers down Alexander's spine. A sense of foreboding gnawed at him, whispering that this narrative wouldn't culminate in the tidy resolutions typical of fictional tales. While he often found solace in the tragic beauty of literary endings, recognising their poetic resonance, he understood that this wasn't just another story spun from the imagination of a nameless author. This was his mother's life laid bare on the parchment before him.
It sparked within him a profound curiosity about the circumstances surrounding her death. While conventional wisdom dictated that he should have embarked on a quest to uncover the identity of his father, Alexander found himself strangely drawn to the enigma of his mother instead. Of course, he thought about it often and had his theories. But he felt closer to his mother somehow. She'd felt more real, more human than an elusive father nobody ever mentioned. Perhaps it could also be that after discovering secrets about his grandfather he had a closer bond with his mother because of her connection with his grandfather. She has mostly been like a shadow tailing him, though he could never turn around and face it.
As Alexander ran through the scenarios in his mind, doubts clouded his thoughts like dark storm clouds on a summer day. He doubted the diary would even mention her death. The diary, a potential source of insight, seemed an unlikely repository for such grim details. Why would his mother document her demise if she was determined to take down Voldemort? It seemed inconceivable. Suicide was swiftly dismissed; his mother didn't possess the demeanour of one inclined towards such a tragic end. So then how?
Murder, then, loomed as the most plausible explanation. By Voldemort or one of his lackeys? Jonas? No, it couldn't be the latter. That freak would have mentioned it to him when he had Alexander in his grasp. Salivating over it as some form of twisted revenge against his grandfather — a way to twist the knife in the wound deeper.
Besides, there was no way Grandfather — though it caused bile to rise in his throat — would've let Jonas live if he had killed his daughter. That was what Alexander was certain of. Would've hunted him down like an animal chasing his prey and made a fucking spectacle of it, leaving no stone unturned until justice was served. His grandfather was too clever not to have known if it was Jonas. So that ruled out Jonas. Maybe someone was covering it up. But then again who?
Alexander sighed and threw his head in his hands, his essay long forgotten except for a few words scribbled down. He had to ask his grandfather about it, there was no other way. He was old enough to bear the truth, whatever it was. He'd just have to create some of that Gryffindor courage and do what he should've done in the first place if he wasn't so afraid — speak to his grandfather. Perhaps this summer when he sees him. If he wanted answers he'd have to. Why had his grandfather remained silent, withholding the truth like a miser hoarding gold?
∞ ϟ 9¾
As Alex stirred from his impromptu nap, he felt a twinge in his neck, as if it had been protesting against the uncomfortable angle it had been bent. Blinking groggily, he found Neville gently shaking him awake, his expression a mix of concern and amusement. Ah, he must have dozed off. Golden hour was slowly approaching.
"Oh, Neville," he yawned, stretching. "What's up?"
"I had to tell you," muttered Neville. "I've seen Hermione in the library — crying."
That knocked all the drowsiness out of him. Alexander's eyes snapped open and his head snapped up.
"What? Do you know why?" he demanded.
Neville shook his head. "I don't know but she looked pretty upset." Neville looked sheepish. "I know Harry and Ron aren't talking to her so I thought I'd tell you instead."
"Thanks, Neville, appreciate it," said Alexander distractedly, rising from his seat in the armchair.
His feet took him in the direction of the library, his mind in a twirl on why Hermione could be crying. Did Ron say something to upset her again? He scowled deeply and clenched his fists. Lost in his contemplation, he collided with a tear-streaked Hermione halfway down the hallway. Her usually sharp gaze was clouded with distress as she clutched a crumpled parchment in her trembling hand.
"Hermione," he said with a tone of worry, reaching out to grip her arms so he could take a look at her. "Hey, what's wrong? What is it?"
"Oh, Alexander," she burst out shrilly. "It's just awful, I don't know how they can get away with it!"
"What—"
"Buckbeak's going to be executed, Hagrid's lost the case!"
Her face crumpled and she broke into loud, heaving sobs. Without hesitation, she flung herself into his arms with a fierce intensity that nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He stumbled backwards slightly, caught off guard by the force of her embrace, but instinctively wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. His expression transformed from confusion to concern, his brow furrowing with worry as he held her trembling form against his chest.
Fucking Malfoy, he thought angrily. Fuck him and his pale, twisted prick of a father. His hand rubbed circles into her back in some form of providing comfort to her.
"Oh, I'm so sorry — that's awful," he murmured quietly. "Have you, uh, have you told Harry and Ron yet?"
Hermione pulled back and shook her head, her face streaked with tears. "No, I—I've been in the library the whole time."
"Come." He glanced at his watch. "Let's go find them, and we can tell them together, okay? And we can appeal or do some more research on the matter. There has to be a loophole — there always is."
Hermione sighed and wiped her face with the back of her hand as they strode towards the Gryffindor common room. "There probably is but there's no hope. Malfoy will sway the favour to himself and everyone will go along with it too. There's nothing we can do. It's fixed."
"No," said Alexander with vehemence. "We won't let that happen. Look, I'll write to my grandfather. He might be able to do something I don't know. But we can try, yeah? All of us, you don't have to be alone in this."
Hermione glanced at Alexander, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen with tears. She squeezed his hand tightly but then let go as they neared the annoying security trolls pacing in circles. Harry and Ron came into their eyesight as they came up the marble staircase. Alexander frowned slightly, feeling how cold his palm was now that it wasn't enveloped in hers. He shook his head as Ron cast a frown at her.
"Come to have a good gloat?" said Ron as she stopped in front of them. "Or have you just been to tell on us?"
"No," said Hermione. Her lip was trembling. "I told Alexander but I just thought you ought to know. . . Hagrid lost his case. Buckbeak is going to be executed."
The stunned look on the boys' faces would've made Alexander laugh in different circumstances but the grave expression and seriousness of the matter gave him no inclination.
"They can't do this," said Harry, shaking his head. "They can't. Buckbeak isn't dangerous."
"I don't think they care much, Harry," sighed Alexander. "Not with Lucius Malfoy at the helm of this whole thing. It won't end until he gets what he wants."
"Malfoy's dad frightened the Committee into it," said Hermione, wiping her eyes. "You know what he's like. They're a bunch of doddery old fools, and they were scared. There'll be an appeal, though, there always is. Only I can't see any hope. . . Nothing will have changed."
"Yeah, it will," said Ron fiercely. "You won't have to do all the work alone this time, Hermione. We'll help."
Alexander smiled. "Told you," he said teasingly to Hermione, who looked as if she could cry again. He turned to Ron. "Thanks, mate."
Alexander couldn't help but smile, a glimmer of relief warming his features. He glanced at Ron, grateful for the return of the friend he'd missed. Not the annoying git that he'd recently been acting like.
∞ ϟ 9¾
They couldn't visit Hagrid during the evenings because of the tight security put in place after the break-in. They had to resort to speaking to him during the lesson as it was their only chance. Hagrid looked completely numb.
"S'all my fault. Got all tongue-tied. They was all sittin' there in black robes an' I kep' droppin' me notes and forgettin' all them dates yeh looked up fer me, Hermione. An' then Lucius Malfoy stood up an' said his bit, and the Committee jus' did exac'ly what he told 'em."
Alexander stared as Hagrid sniffled, a well of sadness pooling inside his chest at seeing the man so disheartened and downtrodden as if all of his spark seemed to have disappeared. He didn't know what to offer him. The urge to pummel Malfoy was second nature as they walked back up to the castle. Buckbeak didn't deserve to die like that. It should've been Malfoy, he thought darkly. The pale-faced ferret should've had his neck laid bare on the chopping block, the sharp axe poised to remove it from his head. One less arsehole in the world would've done wonders.
The second that Hagrid hurried back toward his cabin, his face buried in his handkerchief, Malfoy made his irritating, grating voice known to the rest of them.
"Look at him blubber! Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic? And he's supposed to be our teacher!"
Alexander's temper brewed like a storm on the horizon, his eyes locking onto Malfoy's smug countenance with an intensity that betrayed the tumult raging within him. The smirk etched across Malfoy's features seemed to goad Alexander, each curve of his lips a challenge to his fraying patience — a perfect canvas for his mounting rage. Alexander's jaw tensed, muscles coiling like springs ready to release their pent-up energy at the injustice of everything. Nothing good ever happened to them. Perhaps punching Malfoy would finally bring some positive aspects to their lives.
But before he could even raise a trembling fist—Smack!
Alexander was left gaping. Hermione had got there first before him. She stood there, her eyes alight with blazing indignation, a captivating force that ensnared his every thought. Like a fish hook, her fury pulled at him, drawing him into the storm of her emotions, leaving him at once mesmerised and apprehensive.
"Don't you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul — you evil—"
"Hermione!" said Ron weakly, and he tried to grab her hand as she swung it back.
"Get off, Ron!"
Crabbe made a hesitant step forward as if unsure of what to do next. Alexander caught the movement and whipped out his wand with a hard stare, daring him to even try.
"C'mon," Malfoy muttered to his goons, and in a moment, all three of them had disappeared into the passageway to the dungeons.
Alexander couldn't speak. He kept blinking at her as if she was a foreign entity he couldn't decipher. Ron and Harry appeared impressed.
"Hermione," he breathed reverently, amazement colouring his features. "That — that was. . . brilliant." He swallowed, his voice laced with awe. "You're. . . you're a wonderful person."
She was. He meant every word. His eyes flickered to her knuckles, seeing if they were bruised but he couldn't see them properly as she'd placed it out of eyesight. A subtle urge stirred within him, a yearning to unfurl her fist, if only for a glimpse like a thirsty explorer. Hermione barely heard him. Her eyes were burning still with dull anger as she addressed Harry.
"Harry, you'd better beat him in the Quidditch final!" Hermione commanded with an authority befitting an empress. "You just better had, because I can't stand it if Slytherin wins!"
She marched off towards the marble staircase.
"Merlin, what's up with her?" asked Ron, shaking his head in disbelief. "She's been in a right tiff lately."
"Beats me," shrugged Harry.
"She really let Malfoy have it, didn't she? About time someone knocked that git out."
Alexander blinked, still staring after the space that Hermione had disappeared. "Yeah. . ." he murmured.
Harry clapped him on the back. "You alright there, Alex? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm. . ." Alexander's voice cracked embarrassingly as if he were a prepubescent boy. His cheeks flushed with heat as he struggled to regain composure, feeling the weight of their curious gazes like a spotlight on his embarrassment. With a subtle cough, he straightened his posture, summoning every ounce of resolve to appear nonchalant. "I'm. . . alright," he finally managed, the words sounding steadier despite the lingering echo of his earlier stumble. "I'm fine."
"Okay then, mate. We're due in Charms," said Ron, shrugging. "We'd better go."
"Huh? Oh, yeah, I suppose."
Alexander followed them in a daze, his steps guided more by instinct than conscious thought. It was as if he were caught in a current. He couldn't stop thinking about the fire that blazed in Hermione's eyes, which was a relentless force, its fierce intensity leaving an indelible impression on Alexander's mind. It seemed to sear into his very being, igniting a matching fervour deep within his core. As he replayed the look of expression in his mind, he couldn't shake the sensation of heat spreading through him, settling in his stomach like a dormant ember waiting to burst into flame.
It threatened to unnerve him. Sharply inhaling, he cleared his thoughts as they reached the door that led to Flitwick's classroom. He kept waiting for her to show up for the rest of the lesson but she never did and a well of disappointment lay in his chest. Even the Cheery Charms they practised felt hollow and artificial to Alexander. It was only when they made it to the Gryffindor common room that they saw her sitting at a table, fast asleep, her head resting on an open Arithmancy book.
Worry gnawed at him immensely as he gently shook her awake. What if she was burning herself out with this much work?
"Wh—what?" mumbled Hermione drowsily, waking with a start and staring wildly around. "Is it time to go? W—which lesson have we got now?"
"Hermione, take a deep breath, okay?" He watched her mimic his gestures, gently rubbing up and down her shoulders. She blinked her wide, doe-like eyes at him, and a peculiar sensation washed over him once more.
Ah. . . there it was again.
It was like a swirling mix of emotions he couldn't quite pinpoint. Was it anger? Surprise? Satisfaction? Disgust, perhaps?
No.
No, none of those labels seemed to fit. All he knew was that it was potent, whatever it was. He couldn't shake the feeling, and it left him bewildered. What was happening to him lately
March 5th, 1978
I haven't written in a while, I know. I hardly know what to say. Things have become very dire. There's an unspoken terror that grips everyone at Hogwarts, even if we don't dare speak its name.
It's my last year at the school. Each day, when someone lays hands on a newspaper, the entire atmosphere holds its breath, praying that it's not their family splattered across the pages, another victim chosen. The list of the deceased grows longer with each passing day, like a relentless tally of despair etched into our very souls. It sickens me to the core because I feel so utterly powerless, unable to stem this growing darkness that hangs over us.
But most of all, I am incredibly angry. This fury that rushes through me scares me sometimes. This can't be the Hogwarts I remember. Now, people are afraid to exchange so much as a word, for fear of drawing attention to themselves. It's a suffocating silence, choking the very life out of our beloved school. And it's all thanks to that deranged freak.
Still, a beacon of hope we have is that the freak won't attack the school, not when he's scared shitless of Dumbledore, nosy little dodger though he was.
Dumbledore summoned me to his office the other day, his piercing blue eyes seeming to see right through me. He asked about my father, a topic that should have held no interest for him. Yet, there was a knowing sparkle in his gaze, a silent acknowledgement of the truth that lay hidden beneath the surface. It unsettled me to my core, to realise that he may know more than he lets on.
And then there's him. The one I can't help but think of, despite the ache it brings to my heart. He's changed, grown gaunt and hollow-cheeked, a mere shadow of the person he once was. I worry for him, fear that he's fallen under the sway of those who seek to destroy everything we hold dear.
But I refuse to let my feelings cloud my judgment, to betray everything I believe in for the sake of my heart. How fucking trivial. He may have been indoctrinated, may be working for them, but I won't sacrifice my morals for the fleeting comfort of his presence. Not now, not ever. Otherwise, how would I face myself every time I look in the mirror?
He's made his choice and I've made mine.
I can't also help but feel a twinge of annoyance whenever Dumbledore diverts his attention to students' personal lives instead of strategising some sort of attack against the darkness that looms over us. It's as if he's more concerned with the intricacies of our relationships than with devising a plan to push back against them.
I understand the importance of maintaining a sense of normalcy amidst chaos, but there comes a point when we must prioritise action over idle chatter. We need to hit them where it hurts, to make them pay for the atrocities they commit against muggles, muggle-borns, and their families. It's unhinged. . . pure, downright evil.
The stories I hear are enough to send shivers down my spine. Just the other day, they wiped out an entire family of muggles in Leeds, including a six-year-old child. The mere thought of it sends bile rising in my throat. And to brand that symbol onto the child's forehead with his own blood. . . It's beyond comprehension, beyond anything I could have imagined.
But in other news, I'm trying to uncover what my father is up to. I don't believe he's caught my suspicions yet, but I can't afford to be careless. Every moment feels like a delicate dance, a careful balancing act.
I attempted to eavesdrop on one of his secret meetings, hoping to glean some insight into his plans, but Father must have been more cautious than I anticipated. A silencing charm thwarted my efforts, leaving me no closer to unravelling the mysteries that shroud his actions.
However, a stroke of luck — or perhaps fate — led me to a parchment tucked away in his drawer. It revealed little, only two words: 'Fenwick' and 'Bushy,' the latter underlined twice. Though sparse in detail, I could sense the weight of importance behind those words. My father doesn't do things second-hand; every action is calculated, deliberate. This must be significant.
I refuse to stand idly by while such horrors unfold around me. And so I need to put an end to whatever sinister plans my father is involved in. We must take a stand, fight back with everything we have. For if we don't, who will? I will stop at nothing to protect those I love. That is a promise.
Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I don't know it feels very. . . meh to me. But let me know what you think, of course.
I think this one is a lot more character-based but needed to post it before I scrapped the entire chapter and had writer's block.
Also, what do you guys think fits Alex's character a lot more in terms of Patronus? I was thinking of a dragon in terms of passion and fearlessness, but I may consider a better idea if there are any suggestions.
The next chapter should be a lot sooner. It's going to be a monumental one by the way!
But thanks for reading and hope you guys are having a good day. See you next time.