"ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴀ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʜɪᴅᴇ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ." ― ɢᴇᴏʀɢᴇ ᴏʀᴡᴇʟʟ, 1984
Chapter Ten: Parry, Feint, Castle
Doesn't look so invincible now, thought Tee, looking down at the boy in the white hospital bed. Not quite as near death as he had been the first time they met — a grotesque half-shadow with inky veins and paper-thin skin, but still…
Despite the Blood-Replenishing Potion administered every hour, there was a slight grey tint to Harry Potter's face; though, like any injured creature who knows vulnerability would make them easy pickings for the evil-minded, he held himself as if absolutely nothing was wrong.
Don't get me wrong. It's a good show.
You'd almost be fooled into thinking his right hand wasn't still dribbling dark blood, liquid pooling in the white towel.
"Gloating, Riddle? Why don't you take a picture?" asked Harry, tired eyes raking over Tee scornfully. "It'll last longer."
Tee said nothing. After all, he wasn't gloating. He'd moved on from gloating. He was doing what Salazar had told him to. Looking.
"I haven't tried anything yet, Professor," came a voice from behind him. "Honestly, I'm afraid any interference might make it worse."
Tee turned, listening to Dumbledore converse with Madam Pomfrey, noticing the red-haired Defence Professor behind him looking concernedly at the bed's occupant.
Looks a little young to be teaching, thought Tee with an air of derision, before leaving Harry to follow Dumbledore out of the Hospital Wing.
The Defence professor offered him one of those polite smiles you gave strangers to whom you did not know quite what to say, and Tee responded in kind.
"That is Tom," said Dumbledore. "An… associate of mine."
That's one thing to call it, thought Tee, rubbing his finger absently over the faint scars on his hand from the Unbreakable Vow.
"Tom — this is Bill, our new Defence professor."
"You seem to go through them quickly, Professor Dumbledore," said Tee, meeting Bill's eyes unabashedly; the other wizard looked immensely uncomfortable.
Dumbledore turned and gave Tee a flicker of his infamous, judgmental stare. Come on. It wasn't as if the jinx on the position wasn't public knowledge, or at least, rumour, already.
Soon, they reached the gargoyle statue that guarded the Headmaster's office, to which Dumbledore pronounced "Pepper Imps" and it sprang aside to reveal a stone staircase. Tee followed the two professors, the entry sliding shut behind them as they began to climb the stairs.
When they finally emerged into the office, amongst all of the usual clutter, Tee noticed a new item: the bloodstained Snitch.
So there's the would-be murder weapon. But are we sure it's a would-be murder?
After what happened with Mordred last year, I'm not so sure this isn't all a big distraction.
Tee couldn't help but feel a twinge of something as he reflected on the locket-wraith's demise. Yes, maybe Mordred had used him as a pawn for his own ends, but he was another version of himself, after all.
Wanting nothing less than to explore that something, Tee turned his attention back to the Snitch. He'd never cared much for Quidditch — no, he'd never cared for Quidditch at all.
Something about the golden ball seemed sinister — the way it glinted in the warm firelight, the tense fluttering of its wings, like an animal caught in a trap.
Dumbledore, calm as could be, made a slow half-circle and went to sit behind his desk. Tee watched Bill approach the Snitch cautiously, wand-first, like he expected it to bite.
The wings beat harder, as if trying to prevent the Snitch's secrets from being revealed.
"Revelio!" Nothing happened. Then, Bill lowered his wand to the Snitch, and tapped it three times.
It won't work.
"Aparecium!"
Again, nothing happened.
"Hmm, pretty inert," Bill murmured, a flicker of interest coming into his eyes, and then he put a hand into his pocket, drawing out a piece of chalk.
Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the rug rolled itself up, revealing a bare patch of floor.
"Careful!" said Bill as Tee picked up the Snitch to carry it over. "We don't know—"
"The curse burned itself out, it's safe to touch," said Tee in a bored tone. "That's why your revealing spells did nothing."
He looked over his shoulder at a quizzical Dumbledore. "I thought you told me he was a Curse-Breaker!"
Bill drew himself up to his full height, the fanged earring bobbing. "And what makes you the Dark magic expert? What are you, two years out of Hogwarts? Come to think of it, I have no idea who you are, and you don't seem to have any better ideas. And clearly, you don't even know basic protocol — never touch artifices when you don't know what they do!"
"I don't need basic protocol," Tee sneered back. He had no intention of being lectured to by a goody-two-shoes who'd likely never stepped foot in the Restricted Section.
Then without another word, he sat down and placed the Snitch on the polished floorboards, in the middle of the space that had been cleared.
"If you could cooperate," said Dumbledore smoothly, "I would be most grateful. Tom, I know you are capable of far greater civility."
Tee ground his teeth. Gryffindors!
"Yes, Professor Dumbledore. Of course. I apologise," he said, in a clipped tone, glancing up at Bill expectantly.
"I accept," said Bill, sounding somewhat forced, and now he was regarding Tee warily, as if the latter was something that bites.
"Excellent," said Dumbledore.
Like two children playing a board game, Bill and Tee sat on the floor cross-legged, facing each other, the Snitch between them. A heavy silence hung about the room as Bill worked with the chalk as confidently as if he were drawing a hopscotch instead of encircling the Snitch in a series of concentric runes. His concentration was absolute, the only sound in the room two of the amulet necklaces he was wearing sliding together as he leaned over the floor.
Maybe he does know what he's doing, after all.
The Snitch emitted a low whine. Something was happening.
Both Dumbledore and Tee leaned forward to watch as the bloodstained Snitch emitted a faint, golden glow, wings fluttering faster. The room felt electric, now. Static prickled at Tee's skin; an unseen storm lifted the hair from his face, made Dumbledore's instruments sway, Bill's ponytail lift off the back of his neck.
The chalk runes were shimmering, reflecting all the different colours of the rainbow. Scraps of parchment rose up off of Dumbledore's desk, and several of the paintings' inhabitants started shouting in dismay.
Slash!
"Do you hear it too, Tom?" asked Dumbledore.
"Yes," said Tee, still on edge, electricity still running through his veins. The faintest echo of a knife, slicing through skin and sinew.
"I can't," said Bill.
Tee couldn't deny himself the retort. "Pity."
Dumbledore gave him an unimpressed look before getting to his feet, disregarding the stack of parchment that had fallen to the floor. Again, he flicked his wand.
A thin, shimmering thread rose up from the Snitch and zigzagged through the air, flanked by four arrows pointing in and out.
"Oh," murmured Dumbledore, tilting his head this way and that, studying the diagram. "Really?"
"What is it, Professor?" asked Bill earnestly.
"Something of my own invention, I find it helps to make arcane enchantments simple to visualise and understand — ah, I suppose you are referring to my conclusions." Dumbledore stroked his long beard, deep in thought. "I recognise the handiwork of Antonin Dolohov."
That did not ring a bell for Tee, but Bill sucked a breath in, looking horrified.
"Dolohov — he helped kill—"
"Your uncles, yes," said Dumbledore softly. "Highly skilled, creative, quite sadistic, a favourite of Voldemort's."
Tee, uninterested in Dolohov and his misdeeds, thought about the Snitch for a second. "I think I understand. The wound won't heal, because the curse is on Potter's hand now, and it keeps cutting. Slashing."
"My thoughts exactly," Dumbledore agreed. "Bill?"
He shrugged. "Makes enough sense to me."
"In that case," said Dumbledore, steepling his fingers, "I believe we know how to proceed with devising a counter-curse."
Harry woke to the now-familiar, throbbing dull ache in his hand and his head.
Time for one of those horrible Blood-Replenishing Potions, probably. As much as he had grown to like Madam Pomfrey over the years, he didn't think he could stand another minute in the Hospital Wing, lying around helplessly.
It was only three days after that ill-fated Snitch catch, but it might as well have been months, as far as Harry was concerned.
The door creaked open, and Harry turned his head. He blinked disbelievingly at the figure looking down the row of beds, and then broke into a grin.
"Sirius! What are you doing here?"
Harry would have gotten up and dashed over, despite the state he was in, had Madam Pomfrey not pushed him back down with surprising strength.
"First," said Sirius, drawing up a chair, "Tonks tells me Ruby ran into Inferi, then I get a letter that you and Ruby were sneaking around Hogsmeade looking for the very same Inferi, and then Dumbledore sends me another one about a cursed Snitch! If the Order expects me to sit around twiddling my thumbs—"
"Are you even supposed to be here?" asked Harry, pulling himself into a sitting position despite Madam Pomfrey's complaints. He was glad to see Sirius, but also afraid that he might be whisked away at any point.
"Who knows," said Sirius. "More to the point, who cares?"
"I only hope you didn't come as yourself," said Madam Pomfrey archly.
"Of course not. I Apparated under a Disillusionment Charm and then came the rest of the way as Padfoot."
"Whom?" asked Madam Pomfrey.
"A disguise I've got — never mind."
Vaguely, Harry wondered if anyone had noticed a great big, black, shaggy dog with an injured leg making its way through the grounds. As least, the students would only know him as someone resembling 'Professor Gloucester,' and the staff were used to him. But he had done something very risky, and all because of the state Harry was in…
The door to the Hospital Wing flew open once more — and it was Ruby hurrying over, her footsteps loud and quick.
"Sirius!"
"You are not ill, so unlike your brother, you're in trouble, young lady!" said Sirius, trying his best to look stern. "What's all this about sneaking into Hogsmeade?"
"It was for a good cause," said Ruby sweetly, playing innocent, but the guise of an angel child had never fit her. There was something about her eyes and the tone of her voice, Aunt Petunia had said, that never made her look or sound genuinely contrite.
Something almost pained passed over Sirius's face.
"What?" asked Ruby. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Sirius muttered. "It was just for a second — you reminded me of Lily."
For a second, the room went very, cold, very still.
Something twisted in Harry's stomach, low and uncomfortable.
"You two need to be careful," said Sirius, but something had shifted in his tone. "You're always getting yourselves into trouble."
"I don't look for trouble," said Harry, glancing at his bandaged hand. "It usually finds me."
Sirius sighed heavily, then cast a glance at Ruby. "You, of all people, should know how dangerous Inferi are. Believe it or not, few run into them twice and live to tell the tale."
Most people don't have Tom Riddle to protect them, thought Harry, and then the thought seemed strange and oddly-shaped in his mind. Yes, that was what Riddle had claimed in 12 Grimmauld Place — "Dumbledore's finally found a use for me. He doesn't think you're safe at Hogwarts anymore after what happened in the dungeon, and I, apparently, am the solution." — but was it really true? It was hard to wrap his head around.
After all, what does Riddle get out of it? There must be some angle.
"Well, Tee— Riddle killed them off," said Ruby defensively. "I even got two."
Sirius's expression twisted — as if he was trying to remain stern despite the look of glowing pride that had appeared on his face.
"So you thought you'd go and try your luck again?"
Ruby was quickly growing frustrated, her arms twitching at her sides. "No, that's not what we did; we wanted to figure out if anyone had been controlling them. It's not like Inferi just appear in a junk shop, someone had to have transported them there!"
"Right," said Sirius. "But Bill didn't find anything, and nor did you."
"Ruby," said Harry, seeing where this was going. "Could you look in the inside pocket of my robes?"
Sirius and Ruby exchanged a confused look before the latter shuffled over to the other side of Harry's bed. Ruby looked even more confused as she stuffed a hand into the pocket — drawing out scraps of parchment and other detritus — Not those! — until finally, a small metal object, attached to a frayed green satin ribbon, was lying in her palm.
"That's the thing we found in Stitches and Draughts," said Ruby, peering at it. She looked up at Sirius, who had walked over to the other side, too, to stand behind her.
"What's wrong?" asked Harry, noting Sirius's expression darkening.
Sirius shook his head, and said, "Let me see that."
But Harry understood that dark look.
Recognition.
"What is it?" asked Harry, pushing himself up into a sitting position so he could get a better view.
Sirius let the medal slip through his fingers, the satin ribbon held between his index finger and thumb, slowly rotating in the ample light of the Hospital Wing, the 'M' sparkling.
"Order of Merlin," he said. "First class."
I knew it was something important! thought Harry triumphantly.
"Not something you drop in a junk shop," said Sirius contemplatively. "Not something you're really intended to wear, either. Some sort of message, maybe… a warning… or a threat…"
There's something he suspects, thought Harry, his stomach lurching uneasily, searching Sirius's face studiously, noticing the slight clench of his jaw. Something he doesn't want to tell us.
"What is it?" Harry breathed.
Sirius sighed heavily, his voice growing more and more bitter as he spoke. "I can't be sure. But there's one Death Eater who definitely owns one of these, one Death Eater for whom it is his crowning glory, his only achievement."
All the time Sirius was speaking, it was as if something dark and heavy was settling on the Hospital Wing. Harry felt as if the light had dimmed, the room had darkened, and a great shadow was leaning over them.
"I can't be sure," said Sirius again, frowning at the medal. "But I think this may belong to Peter Pettigrew."
Bile rose in Harry's throat at the mention of Pettigrew; the atmosphere in the room seemed even more dark and oppressive. Craven Pettigrew, the Death Eater, who had followed Sirius and Ruby two years ago with the extent of killing her, who had worked with Lockhart to unleash the Serpent of Slytherin, who had betrayed his parents to Voldemort, killed twelve people and condemned Sirius to Azkaban for the same number of years.
"If Peter's nearby, perhaps permanently stationed in Hogsmeade," said Sirius, "I think you two may be in even more danger than I previously believed. This is why you can't go running off on your own. What if you'd run into Peter instead of Bill? I know he doesn't look like much, but—" Sirius's eyes flashed, again, with something dark "—underestimate him at your peril."
"Just—" His expression softened. "Be careful. Something's coming. Something big."
That sounded treacherously like a goodbye, and feeling as if he were eleven years old again and it was his first ever time in the Hospital Wing, Harry asked: "Will you stay?"
"I'll stay as long as I can. I promise."
Mafalda stared irritably at the glass of water on the table between her and Tonks. It wasn't the glass of water that offended her so much as the three drops of Veritaserum contained in it — what sounded like a negligible dose, especially considering the colourlessness and odourlessness of the potions — but still enough to make the drinker spill all her secrets.
And to Nymphadora Tonks, of all people.
To be fair, Mafalda herself wasn't sure quite why that proposition was so unnerving. After all, Mad-Eye had probably picked Tonks for this task because he thought she'd be the least embarrassing partner.
Partner, for preparing to go back into the Ministry, even though Bellatrix has seen me — knows the Order recruited me — and convince Narcissa to trust me despite that — to become a double agent.
I have to be crazy.
"All right?" asked Tonks.
Mafalda nodded and reached for the glass of water. It tasted like water. Smelled like it too. Of course it did, she knew that, she'd gotten an O in her Potions N.E.W.T. after all.
"What's your name?" asked Tonks, her dark eyes, large and worried, fixed on Mafalda's.
"Mafalda." Her voice was expressionless, flat, as if she wasn't the one moving her own mouth. It was a distinctly unpleasant experience. "Mafalda Prewett."
Before her very eyes, Tonks morphed — her body stretching taller, her hair growing longer and paler, her eyes lighter and colder, her features sharper — and Narcissa Malfoy was before her.
"What brings you to my office, Miss Prewett?" And it was Narcissa's voice, too.
The desire to destroy everything you stand for. To avenge my family. The words were pulling at her tongue. They pried at her lips, stole her breath.
"To—"
"Yes?" asked Tonks, almost harshly. "Why have you come? After all, you've made your choice, haven't you?"
You want to lie under Veritaserum? Mad-Eye had said. Then you'd better make yourself believe it. Make it your truth.
Mafalda forced everything down, as she'd been taught — everything until but a single thought remained.
"I was foolish," came her answer, in that same flat not-her-own-voice intonation, "but now I finally understand the power of the Dark Lord."
Narcissa's face was cold, impassive, evaluative. She seemed to stare through Mafalda's eyes and into her head. Even though the logical part of Mafalda knew that was Tonks in front of her, it certainly didn't feel like it.
"Do you?" asked Narcissa's voice, still regarding her as if Mafalda was a rabbit and she was a wolf. "May I ask how you finally accepted the truth?"
She didn't have to lie this time. The words came almost without thinking.
"It was when Bellatrix Lestrange followed me when I tried to escape with Dennis Creevey."
"Hand me the boy, Prewett." Mafalda could see the dark street, Bellatrix's determined expression as she gazed down the length of her wand.
"Prewett, you cannot win against me! The Dark Lord has taught me spells of power such that you, girl, cannot possibly hope to comprehend!"
"I couldn't win against her," said Mafalda, shaking her head. "There was no way."
"You will die here! You should have joined my master when you had the chance! But I am merciful; I will give you the choice to live. Give me the boy!"
"She could've killed me." As easily as I could squash that spider on the table. Mafalda could have been an afterthought, a bloody smear on the stairs, another death in the Daily Prophet, whispered in the halls of the Ministry.
But instead, her veins had filled with fire, every atom of her body with misery.
"And she spared me instead."
And then she'd taken Dennis. Cold, still, Dennis, who hadn't asked for any of this — who had only just found out that their world existed.
Tonks-as-Narcissa leaned forward, white-blonde hair sheeting down like a plate of armour. "Mercy is not a quality Bellatrix is known for, Miss Prewett."
Nothing about that night had felt merciful.
"I suppose she had other priorities. Besides, maybe—" Was she pushing it? "—maybe she thought I was interesting, like you did."
Too far too far too far—
"That's true." Tonks-as-Narcissa picked up the jug of water and leisurely poured herself a glass. Glug, glug, glug. A thin film of clear liquid spilt out and pooled around the glass. "I did say that. I thought that you were smart. I thought that you understood."
"I—"
The breath caught in Mafalda's throat as she watched Tonks-as-Narcissa study her like someone studies a trapped animal behind glass. Mafalda slid her hands along her robes to wipe off the clamminess, her heart in her throat.
"But I do understand, more than most. I've seen both sides, and I've made my choice."
"Don't be glib." Tonks-as-Narcissa leaned forward ever so slightly, eyes searching Mafalda's face. Her gaze was cold as winter snow. "I know you resent us for your uncle's deaths."
Oh.
Mafalda's tongue itched; her throat burned.
I do. I hate you for it. I do.
The words were bubbling up now, burning behind her eyes, the pressure mounting in her head.
"Fabian and Gideon Prewett?" murmured the woman in Narcissa's guise, each word like a shard of ice. "It took five Death Eaters, and, as the legend goes, they fought like heroes."
The words chanted in her head. They choked her, and pulled her head now, threatening to drown her in the maelstrom of anger and pain and fear.
"Yes. That's true." The Veritaserum kept her voice that same steady, flat intonation despite the frantic rhythm her heart was playing on her ribcage, and Mafalda was grateful for it. "They were brave, and they died for it."
A flicker of interest passed over Narcissa's gaze, but then it was gone, impassive again.
Now, comes the hard part. That was the truth. Now, can you believe the lies?
"If they'd served the Dark Lord, they would still be alive today." That was probably true.
"And instead, they died a brutal death."
The words shook Mafalda to the core, even though she knew they were meant to.
She hadn't been quite six years old at the funeral, as she watched two closed coffins laid into cold, frost-hardened ground.
The lump in her throat was impossible to swallow.
Control yourself. Master your emotions, or they'll master you.
"They— they made the wrong choice. Just like— just like I was about to, with the Order."
That seemed to take everything out of Mafalda. She gasped for breath, her mouth suddenly dry as ashes, and Tonks-as-Narcissa pushed the glass of water towards her.
Mafalda gazed down at it. Mercy.
"Will you be loyal to the Dark Lord's cause? Can we truly trust you?"
No, you can't. You shouldn't.
"Yes." Mafalda forced the word out, like pushing gum through a straw, reluctant and sticky.
The Veritaserum's hold on her mind was fading. Her head spun, and Mafalda reached for the glass of water, cool and reassuring against her fingertips.
When she had finished, it was not Narcissa Malfoy who sat across from her. The familiarity was almost jarring.
"Phew, it's me, I'm back!" said Tonks, running a hand through her now short and neon-blue hair. "She's really unpleasant, isn't she?"
Mafalda's throat still felt tight; her brain throbbed behind her eyes.
"Hey — hey!" It was Tonks, peering at her with a look of concern. "Want some fresh air?"
"That would be great," muttered Mafalda, falling forward, Tonks's arm stopping her from crashing into the table. Mafalda gripped it like an anchor as Tonks helped her steer herself upright.
The hallway of the Tonks' house loomed before her eyes, floorboards creaking under her feet as she made her way towards the door, gulping mouthfuls of clear night air until her head stopped spinning.
Something tight and nauseous had lodged itself in her stomach. Mafalda sat down heavily on one of the old, metal swings, wrapped her cold hands around the metal chains, and heard Tonks's light footsteps before she sat down on the swing beside her.
"Mafalda?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Tonks put a hand on her shoulder. Her neon hair shone in the moonlight, illuminating the faint spray of freckles across her nose as she leaned out of the swing, swaying gently. Had those always been there?
"You did really well in there," said Tonks earnestly. "Even though I made it hard for you. You're going to be fine."
"Your eyes are always the same."
"Huh?"
It must be the lingering effects of the Veritaserum, forcing her to say whatever thought bubbled to the surface.
"Sorry, forget I said that."
It's fine," said Tonks, with a small, quick smile. "No, I… I try not to change them. Best to keep some things the same, right?"
Feels like nothing's been the same for a long, long while. Mafalda stared at the cold, hard ground beneath her, feet dragging a semicircle in the soil.
When had it all started? When Harry Potter destroyed the third-floor hallway? When the basilisk had awoken? When Dementors had started roaming the streets? When she'd found Ruby Potter and Dumbledore's apprentice in the Muggle library?
"Penny for your thoughts?"
"What if everything goes wrong?" It had to be the Veritaserum still in her system, making her spill every jumbled thought in her head. "What if I make a mistake? What if Narcissa sees right through me? What happens to the Order?"
Mafalda turned, and Tonks was nearly dangling out of the swing, her head tilted, eyebrows raised in concern.
"What happens to you?"
Tonks laughed softly, pushing off a little, the swing creaking gently back and forth. "I know us Hufflepuffs don't look like much, but I can defend myself. I'm an Auror, you know, I've got three years of training."
"I don't mean you're not capable, I just mean—" Stupid, stupid Veritaserum. "I don't want anything bad to happen to you when I inevitably make a mistake."
A loud, sudden dragging sound told her that Tonks had pulled herself to a stop.
"It's like when you fly up to the rings and throw the Quaffle," she said, voice earnest. "You don't think about missing the hoop, because you won't."
Now, a laugh escaped Mafalda.
"You're not really trying to make a Quidditch analogy, are you?"
"You were a Chaser, weren't you?"
Mafalda flushed, her hands growing warm against the cold metal chains, and hoped the moonlight would hide it. "You noticed me?" She'd hardly thought Tonks — a popular, charming older student — had been all at aware of her existence.
"Of course I noticed you."
She held Tonks's gaze for perhaps a little longer than she should have, something strange and warm snagging in her stomach, just in the place a Portkey would.
The words lumbered through her mind with an almost drunken quality — Of course I noticed you — and for a second, she felt a faint sensation of vertigo, the world spinning below the swings like a carousel.
The night air was cool, and still as they settled into a warm, comfortable silence, the sounds of the swings creaking gently back and forth the only interruption.
Maybe it won't be so bad, thought Mafalda. It was a treacherous proposition. Another lie? She should believe it, perhaps, anyway. What was the harm? Maybe it'll all work out.
Harry was comforted to see that Sirius had indeed kept his promise when he awoke; he had not moved from the chair, engaged in a low conversation with Professor Dumbledore.
Now, if only his scar wasn't stinging like that.
There was a flash of red hair in the corner of his vision.
Ron? he thought groggily, and turned his head.
Not Ron, but Bill Weasley on the other side of the bed. And, to his great misfortune, Riddle — an expected nuisance, but far from welcome.
Harry couldn't help but feel surrounded. Outnumbered.
"Glad to see you are awake, Harry," said Dumbledore, breaking off his conversation. Riddle's gaze followed the Headmaster with a polite interest, every part the model student, straightening up from the wall he had been leaning against.
Awake? I don't feel awake.
Everything since the fateful Quidditch match, after all, seemed like the same strange, waking dream.
"Are you feeling alright?" asked Sirius, eyebrows drawing tight with concern.
A laugh tore itself from Harry, alien to his own ears.
"I know you're not feeling well, and that's an understatement in and of itself," Sirius went on. Harry heard the chair scrape against the floor and the bed dip as he sat down. "But — enough to try the counter-curse?"
"Counter-curse?" he repeated, thoughts sluggish. "Oh. Yeah."
Is it just morning, or is the blood loss getting to me? It looked early outside — golden dawn staining the cloudy sky a hazy orange.
"Will it work?"
"It will." Everyone looked up as Riddle stepped forward, head held high — a haughty carriage, Harry remembered, from when Aunt Petunia used to watch Crufts on the television. "I deconstructed the Slash Curse, and Professor Dumbledore's counter-curse worked."
"Slash Curse?"
"That's what we called it," said Bill, with a shrug. "You know, because it keeps on cutting — slash, slash, slash."
He had to still be asleep. That was the only reason Riddle and Bill were discussing his bandaged, painful, still-bleeding hand like it was an extra credit project. That was the only reason Riddle was acting like he'd just solved a Rubik's Cube, instead of playing around with Dark magic.
"So?" asked Bill, and Harry's head snapped to the side. "Will you try it?"
"Yeah, why not," said Harry, taking in Sirius's concerned expression. "Anything's better than this."
Whatever his feelings about the process, anything would be better than lying here in the Hospital Wing, helpless, again.
Dumbledore flicked his wand with a solemn expression, and the bandages vanished. Harry sucked in a breath as the air hit the open wound with a cold sting.
All this time, he'd been avoiding it, never really taking it in. It was much shallower than he'd imagined, given the volume of blood seeping out of it — as if he'd only had an accident with a kitchen knife.
As Harry stared at the cut disbelievingly, Dumbledore moved closer, seeming to hesitate.
"I will warn you — this may hurt."
"It's fine," said Harry, holding out the hand like an offering on a temple altar.
He didn't hear the words of the spell, just saw something like blue lightning skip down the Headmaster's wand. Then, as he had been warned, came the pain, a searing dull ache to match the scar, the deep, unshakeable itch of skin being forcibly knit together. All the while, Riddle was watching the process with great interest.
Harry bit down hard on his tongue, tasting metal, fingers curling.
"I'm fine!" he said, just as Sirius looked like he was about to say something.
It has to be almost done. Harry glanced over at Dumbledore; his face was a mask of concentration, focused on Harry's hand, still encircled by flickering blue light.
Riddle leaned closer, eerie shadows cast on his face.
"It shouldn't take much longer," said Bill, shifting his feet under him, every nervous moment loud against the marble floors.
The pain in his scar and the pain in his hand became one, set to the same nauseating, throbbing rhythm. Not much longer seemed to stretch on forever. The only indication of time passing was the stream of golden light through the window fading to the pure, brilliant white of morning.
And then, he felt nothing. The blue light disappeared, too, and he heard Dumbledore step away. Just a thin red scar remained; as if it was really just an ordinary cut. He was half sure the thin scar was going to burst open and start spilling blood again. Just to check, he clenched his hand, flexed his fingers, and it held.
"It worked."
"Of course it worked," said Riddle, still hovering, admiring what he doubtlessly thought was his handiwork. Harry had a strong urge to swat him. Like a fly.
Sirius glowered over his shoulder at Riddle before turning his attention to Harry again. "You should rest," he said firmly.
That was the last thing Harry wanted to do, despite the residual pounding in his head. As if noticing that Harry was about to protest, Dumbledore looked up, waking from his trance of concentration and said:
"Sirius is right, Harry. I know you have many questions, but there is plenty of time later."
Later — later, when Sirius would be back at 12 Grimmauld Place.
But Harry only nodded, watching everyone file out of the room, slowly lying down, closing his eyes. Sirius glanced over his shoulder just before the door swung shut, encasing the Hospital Wing once more in tranquil, lonely quiet.
He could just hear Madam Pomfrey puttering around in the next room. There was no one here to witness him bolt upright, brain sloshing painfully in his skull. No one to watch him slip down to the floor, to shrug his robes on over his pyjamas, tug the sheets back over the bed and leave—
Madam Pomfrey would likely worry something had happened. Harry dug around in his pocket for a scrap of parchment and hastily scribbled a note before hurrying out.
Every step made his head lurch, and his legs still felt unsteady, but he was moving, sure and swift. Even though he wasn't quite sure where he was going. The corridors, thankfully, were still empty, the early morning sun leaving slanted stencils of light on the floor, shifting before his blurry eyes.
It made no sense.
One minute he'd caught the Snitch and the next he'd been bleeding and then the next he'd been completely helpless, right back to where he started at the last of year, leaving a trail of collateral damage — Cedric had nearly gotten hurt this time.
Why?
Slash Curse, Inferi in Hogsmeade, Umbridge as Minister. And that was just this year. There'd been Quirrell, the Obscurus, Lockhart and Pettigrew colluding to wake the basilisk, the Ministry trying to use the Muggle-borns as a bargaining chip, the Siege of Hogwarts, the poisonings last year, the Horcrux in the locket, Mordred, wreaking havoc, injuring Sirius, nearly scrambling Ruby's brain, Harry himself had been seconds from death before Dumbledore saved him — all with Voldemort as the ultimate puppeteer, the circus-master. It was a nightmare of monstrous proportions, and he just couldn't pinch himself awake. Round and round again. He had no idea how to break the cycle. Always on the back foot, clinging onto survival as the second-place prize.
Maybe if I was stronger. Then maybe I could actually win for a change.
The Sorting Hat's words echoed in his ears as the ground swayed under him.
Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that.
It was all there, was it? Well, it certainly didn't feel that way right now. Just like the stupid prophecy that got his parents marked for death — talking about power he definitely didn't have. What had he ever done against Voldemort? Not die, by some stroke of luck? Besides, Harry didn't go in for tea leaves. What was it Hermione said — Divination is a woolly subject.
I can only tell you the same thing I did a year ago; Slytherin would have made you great, no doubt about it.
No use in feeling sorry for himself. He'd made his bed, and now he'd lie in it — make the most of it, and hope that was enough.
"Password? You do want to go in, dear, don't you?"
He looked up.
Somehow, he had found his way back to Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady gazed down at him, yawning as she filed her nails.
"Er, yeah…" What was it again? "Alea iacta est*."*
He pulled himself through the portrait hole, ignoring the nauseating lurch in his skull, and found himself in the warm, familiar environment of the Gryffindor common room. It was much quieter than usual — it couldn't be much later than seven — but nothing compared to the clinical stillness of the Hospital Wing.
People, of course, started whispering when he came in. But after years of that, Harry expected it. This was normal. This was safe.
For how much longer?
HIs mother had done it. She'd been the one to defeat Voldemort that night, the only one to truly harm him, set him back a decade. Ruby had come back from Godric's Hollow talking about runes under a crib. In his dreams, he'd seen her whisper to an unseen presence, strange and frantic.
How? he thought, sinking into one of the overstuffed armchairs.
If only there was some way to talk to Lily — some way to find out what she'd discovered.
His thumb ghosted over the ouroboros ring Quirrell had given him, feeling the delicate detailing — the beaded eyes, the snakes' scales. If it really was the Resurrection Stone in disguise, something he'd put out of his mind as one of Hermione's more bizarre theories, and one she seemed to have long abandoned, there was some way he could talk to Lily anytime he wanted, couldn't he?
But it couldn't be. It was all another childish hope. How many times had he wished to speak to the dead, and the ring hadn't answered?
Someone called his name, snapping him back into reality.
"Harry!" Hermione had appeared between the armchair and the fire. "We were just coming to see you, what are you doing out of the Hospital Wing?"
He frowned, but couldn't find it in himself to be actually annoyed. "No, 'Hi Harry, nice to see you're not bleeding to death anymore'?"
"Should you even be up here?" asked Ron, appearing suddenly around the side of the armchair. "Mate, you look like a ghost."
"I'm fine," said Harry, for what felt like the twentieth time that morning, displaying his healed palm.
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look over the top of the armchair.
"Come on, I know for a fact Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let you leave looking like that."
Harry threw his hands up in frustration. "I'm tired of sitting around, twiddling my thumbs, alright? It drives me crazy!"
The shouting awoke his fading headache, setting off another series of pounding, throbbing pain. Harry wrapped a hand around the arm of the chair, fingers digging into the plush fabric.
"Alright," said Ron, clearly realising trying to convince Harry that he needed rest was a lost cause. "Just — be careful, if you faint in Potions Malfoy'll never shut up about it."
"Ron!" snapped Hermione. "Malfoy's the last thing he should be thinking about right now."
Harry grimaced, but Ron was right. But he really was fine. He'd been through worse, and they all knew it.
"I'll just go get changed, and then we'll go to the Great Hall."
Hermione looked particularly contemptuous, but then she sighed deeply. "Fine, Harry."
A/N: Crying and screaming because it's historically inaccurate for Tom to make a Cluedo reference (I love that game) when he sees the Snitch because it was first manufactured in 1949 (yes, I checked).