Chapter Thirteen
"Tom Riddle?" Daph demands. "Are you sure that's the dark lord's real name?"
"'Course that's what you'd focus on," Trace mumbles. Her lip quivers. I'm alarmed to see tears nestle against her lashes. My spidey senses tingle, and not without reason— a second later I am glomped by forty-five kilos of emotional brunette.
"Harry!" She wails. "That's such a sad story!"
It is quite late. The three of us are seated around the crackling hearth in our common room. Well, Trace is not sitting anymore; she's attached herself to me like one of those face huggers from the Alien movies. With great desperation I cast my eyes about for a brick to beat her back with, but there's nothing within touching distance, not even a measly textbook. My desperation reaches fever pitch. I make eye contact with Daph. I silently plead with her to rescue me. She merely smirks and gives me a slow thumbs up. I thump Trace between the shoulder blades. This results in a tightening of the chokehold. She buries her face in my neck and sobs.
With the defeated realisation that my old man has somehow found a way to hook me up with pretty chicks from beyond the grave, I accept my fate. I surrender to asphyxiation by snu snu. I feel my ribs crack even as I do so.
"He did not deserve to die," Trace sobs.
"I don't either," I groan. "But you seem determined to kill me anyway."
"Oh." She lets go sheepishly. Grabs a fistful of my robes while retreating and wipes her face with it.
I stare at the wetness, appalled.
"I don't carry a hanky around," Trace explains, as if that pardons this heresy.
"Use your own goddamn sleeve next time," I cry, shaking my fist at her.
She sticks her tongue out.
With a snarl of outrage I hurl myself at her, determined to tickle some manners into her. She screams bloody murder and tries to escape, but she has no chance against my elite reflexes. I land on top of her. My hands dig into the right spots. Soon the shrieks turn into helpless giggles — Trace is ticklish.
Daph sighs like a long-suffering preschool teacher forced to break up a fight between toddlers.
"We have important things to discuss," she says. "Could you two please act your age for a minute?"
I stop mid tickle. Trace stops mid giggle. We glare at Daph. We stick our tongues out at her in unison.
It is perfectly synchronised.
Trace taps my thigh.
"Sheesh. Geroff, you're heavy."
"Used to be easier when we were kids," I agree.
We return to our cushions.
"Sorry, Daph," I say. "I needed that. To break me out of my funk, you know."
"There's nothing wrong with grieving," Daph says, sympathy tinting her tone. "Tracey is right, I fixated on the wrong thing. It must feel like you've lost your father all over again."
I shrug.
"Feels like I've found him, to be honest. In my heart of hearts, I always knew there was more to it than what the records said. At least now he's just someone who snapped at the wrong moment, rather than a psychopath who went ham for no reason."
"He's a hero," Trace adds, sniffling and rubbing her eyes. "I admire him so much, guys. He sacrificed himself to save lives. Just like Bilbo Baggins."
"That's not how The Hobbit ended," I say.
"Really?" She looks at me in dismay. "I read half the book, I thought the dragon ate Bilbo at the end. That slimy bastard, he's cheated me out of a tragic ending."
Trace trembles with distress.
"What's 'e done that for then, eh?" She cries.
"What are you two even talking about?" Daph asks.
"Tracey's inability to finish muggle novels."
"Bilbo did not blow-up things," she complains. "It's boring. 'Course I fell asleep halfway through. Least he could've done was die honourably. Like a gentleman."
"I'll tell him when I see him," I say dryly.
"Children, focus," Daph interrupts.
"Right," I say.
"You're missing something, Harry," Daph tells me. "Dumbledore's story doesn't make sense beyond a point."
"What, the part about my dad snapping?"
"Yes."
"Oh yeah." Trace shakes off her malaise regarding Tolkien's narrative choices. "If it's as Dumbledore said, then your Da at the end was pissed but not loopy. Takes a special kinda loopy, innit, to torture your wife and murder your best friend?"
"A month's a long time," I hedge. "A fractured psyche can implode pretty damn fast. And the impression I got from Dumbledore is that he's a firm believer in my father's guilt."
"It's something to consider, regardless," Daph says. " I don't want to give you false hope. It is possible that Dumbledore downplayed your father's insanity. But . . . it is also possible that there's more to it."
"We'll see," I sigh. "There's no point in speculating about this shit. You just keep going 'round in circles and nothing ever gets done. Anything else?"
"Riddle," Daph says. "That's not a pureblood surname."
"I knew an Augustus Riddle," Trace chimes in. "Old man. Lived next door when I was . . . seven, was it? No, eight. Worked in a bakery and all. Best pastries in Croydon." She smacks her lips and giggles happily.
"Your stomach's a blackhole, Trace. Stop thinking with it."
"He was a muggle, Harry," she says, wounded, patting her stomach to show me there's not an ounce of fat on her. "That's my point."
"Maybe it's like that Skeeter article," I muse. "Maybe Voldemort is the real muggle dark lord. Maybe muggle tech propelled his rise to power. After all, no one expects a wizard to pull a Glock on them."
"You're not taking this seriously," Daph hisses.
"Why would I? It makes little difference if he's muggle born."
"Or half-blood," Trace adds.
"That as well," I nod to her. "People don't flock to him because he claims to be a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin. That would've helped at the start, sure. But his infamy is established now, and it is death to leave his service. Exposing his lineage would lose him no followers."
My head hurts. The day's events have taken their toll.
"If he were not of noble stock, then he'd not want that information getting out," I continue. "He'd make an example out of anyone who even hints at it. He'd hound them to the ends of the solar system if he has to. So forget it, Daph. Forget you ever heard that name. It's not even decent blackmail material."
I stand.
"I'm going to sleep," I say. "It's been a shit fucking day, through and through. Let's hope tomorrow brings us better luck. Goodnight, girls."
Trace swoops in for a hug. Daph merely raises an eyebrow at my implicit question on whether she wants one as well. She rejects the offer with a dignified shake of her head— it would seem she's back to her usual self.
I leave them and make the walk across the common room.
Sleep awaits.
As do Crabbe and Goyle's snores.
I look back— I see Trace snuggle into Daph's lap. I see them engrossed in animated discussion.
As I trudge up to my four-poster, there's only one thought in my head:
God, I miss Milan already.
The entirety of Slytherin house cowers in terror when I go down for breakfast. This time it's just me, Trace and Daph. Now that the novelty of our return has worn off, Tori has abandoned us like the satanist she is and gone over to the Ravenclaw table, to sit with Luna Lovegood.
I pile on an adequate amount of food, by which I mean a mountain. This might seem excessive, but duelling, with all its sprints, crouches, twists, rolls and other sundry mobility drills, burns through calories like nobody's business.
I absentmindedly make Daph her tea, as is our ritual. No sugar. I pass it to her.
Then I eat quietly. I am not in the mood for chit-chat this morning. Last night I dreamt I was James Potter. My consciousness degraded into secretive hisses, sibilant sighs, impossible directives from shadowy alleyways. I was a pawn kicked from pillar to post in a cold war between two superpowers. And just when I sought to leave it all behind, a spectral Dumbledore rose from the ground, wagging his finger in remonstrance. He adjusted his half moon spectacles mournfully, then proceeded to beat me to death with a saxophone. He was very dignified about it— he piped out a heartrending melody whenever my punches sank into his gut. His insides were matzo dough and his smile remained serene. It remained serene, even when the saxophone struck a discordant note as it cleaved through my skull. I woke with a splitting headache; I lay in bed for a minute and cursed the ancient malice of this dreamworld flute player. I believe I even shook my fist in rage at the bed above mine. Malfoy, who bunks above, and who was unfortunate enough to see this gesture, took it as definitive proof that dark lord Potter cometh. Fearing retribution, he leapt out yowling, fled from my sight whilst still in his pyjamas, and hasn't been seen or heard from ever since.
"Dumbledore!" Trace cries. My contemplation breaks— I grab a plate and prepare to defend my honour. It would be a disgrace to die to a pied piper twice in a row. I ready myself to whack him over the head as I would a cockroach.
"Where?" I ask tersely.
Trace points. I look. I note the murmurs that have broken out around us. For it is indeed Dumbledore, seated in his palatial throne with a serene smile.
His withered hand is on display for the entire world to see.
I drop the plate.
If I were closer to him, I would set his beard on fire, I think angrily.
"His hand, Daph!" Trace cries, grabbing Daph's shoulder and volleying her back and forth, so that the latter's teeth chatter and her bones rattle. "Look! What's happened to his hand?"
"Unhand me this instant!" Daph squeaks. She meant for it to come out as an order, no doubt; but Trace, with her hyperactive tendencies, has an emasculating effect on everyone, even girls.
Meanwhile I've conjured a piece of paper and a quill.
Pensieve memories, I write, fuming. Use a glove, you sodding saxophonist.
I tap the paper with my wand. It folds itself into a paper crane. Another tap, and it disillusions itself. A third, and it lifts itself off the table and drifts towards Dumbledore. It lands on his platter before shimmering back into existence.
Dumbledore unfolds it and reads.
He looks up.
Our eyes meet. He favours me with the slightest of nods, then slips his hand downwards. When it comes back up it is gloved.
The purpose of my warning is simple. If I could identify what was wrong with Dumbledore's hand, then Lord Voldemort certainly can. And in a dining hall that is twenty percent death eater spawn, all it takes is for one overzealous idiot to get in touch with daddy, who would then pass on the information and an accompanying pensieve memory to his lord.
I'm not certain whether it is senility, fatigue or arrogance on Dumbledore's part, but the end result would be the same: information being compromised. And frankly, I hope it is senility or fatigue, because if it isn't, then I'm starting to understand just why he and his cronies were on the brink of a thrashing come Halloween, 1981.
Daph notes this exchange. She looks at me suspiciously but says nothing.
After breakfast, the three of us head for Charms. There's still ten minutes left for class to start, so Trace leaves us and makes a beeline for the bathroom. We are on the fourth floor— we decide to wait for her.
I expect Daph to start asking pointed questions about Dumbledore. But when she speaks, she surprises me with her words.
"You promised you'd ask Tracey to Hogsmeade."
I shift around with guilt. I'd not forgotten— it's just that there are certain things that are difficult for a bloke to do, like a homework assignment or a stare down with a basilisk or asking a childhood friend out on a date.
"Look, maybe now's not the best time," I plead.
Her expression goes flat.
"Uh huh."
"Trace has given me time till the end of the year," I continue. "I've got complicated stuff going on in my life, Daph. It's not something I wish to burden anyone else with."
"I see."
"And so I'll put it off until—"
Trace rejoins us. I swallow my voice.
"What were the two of you mumbling about?" she demands.
"Harry here has something to say to you," Daph replies.
I wordlessly threaten to throttle her. She ignores me.
"Oh yeah?" Trace turns to me. "Let's hear it, then."
I remain silent.
"Will you tell her, or shall I?" Daph asks.
Let it be known that I marched to meet the firing squad with my head held high.
"Tracey Davis," I hiss, "my loyal servant. I offer you the highest honour—"
"Harry," warns miss Killjoy, watching me like a hawk.
"What I mean is, d'you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?"
Trace stares at me, baffled.
"We always go together," she replies. "You, me and Daph."
"Yes!" I give her a dazzling smile and point at her with both fingers. "Yes, that's right, dear girl. I was testing you, as a matter of fact. You have an excellent memory. Congra—"
"He means as a couple," Daph says.
"—I mean as a couple," I agree, nodding, that dazzling smile still in place. It's blinding, that smile. Worthy of a witch weekly award, if I do say so myself. Every day I inch closer to Lockhartificiation.
It takes a second for what I've said to sink in. When it does, Tracey's hands fly to her mouth.
"You're joking." She's trembling. Her tone is uneven. She looks between the two of us, as if expecting a gotcha.
"He isn't," Daph says gently.
"Yeah, ok, I'm not," I sigh. I run a hand through my hair. "Honestly, I ought to have done this a lot sooner. But I'd understand if you—"
"Yes!" Trace cries, laughing. And she really is crying and laughing at the same time—there are tears running down her cheeks. "Yes, yes!"
She is no longer frozen in place. She claps exuberantly, then does a little jig. Her eyes sparkle. In that moment I see all the beauty in her that I've always seen and rarely acknowledged. Sunlight, I think. She reminds me of sunlight, purity and everything in the world that's worth fighting for.
She hurries over to me, stands tiptoe, and kisses me on both cheeks. Then she runs over to Daph and does the same thing. After that she goes back to doing her victory jig, face flushed. She does a lap around us, throwing back her hair, tapping her toes, laughing, all the while laughing. She can't dance for love or money, but it would be a cold day in Hell when Tracey Davis lets that stop her.
"I'm so happy!" she exclaims. "Thank you for giving me this chance! Thank you, thank you! I promise I won't mess it up— I'll be the best girlfriend ever, you'll see!"
She starts crooning an out of tune muggle song as she spins and shimmies.
And as she does, I feel my lips part in a reluctant grin.
Perhaps this won't be such a bad thing, after all.
It is almost afternoon when Trace leaves us and departs for Runes. She skips away, singing. She's been on cloud nine the entire day. I have been the recepient of quite a few kisses, even though, adorably, she's too shy to attempt a lip-lock.
Daph and I are in the library. We study for fifteen minutes, then I endure some good-natured ribbing from her for the next ten. She seems almost as jubilant as Trace, even though the sentiment, in her case, is tinged with a hint of melancholy.
But eventually we run out of lighter topics, and she pursues her suspicions from the morning.
"Will you be honest with me?" Daph asks.
"Have I ever lied to you?"
"Dumbledore's hand— that's some kind of withering curse, is it not?"
". . . maybe."
"It's weakened him," she decides. "Yes, the symptoms . . . and the history of such curses . . ."
She taps her foot and looks very satisfied with herself.
"Is there a point you're trying to make?" I ask.
"Mm. Did you blackmail Dumbledore?"
"He's not the type to be blackmailed."
She chews on her lip. Considers this.
"He offered you your father's history out of the goodness of his heart?"
"I asked."
"And he gave it?"
"Kinda. Had to be persuaded."
"And you were somehow more persuasive than two years ago, when he refused to share anything point blank?"
Her tone makes it quite clear what she thinks of that notion.
"Let's go with that."
"Mm hmm. Quid pro quo, then?"
"Yes."
She considers this as well.
"It must be worse than mere weakness," she says.
I make a non committal grunt.
A pause. I can see the wheels in her head turn.
"Harry, is Albus Dumbledore dying?"
"We're all dying," I say wryly. "Just at different speeds."
She smirks.
"Fair enough. Let me rephrase that: is Dumbledore's death imminent?"
"Define imminent."
"Don't be obtuse."
"The term you're looking for is pedantic."
"The term I am looking for is berk. Don't be one. You promised the truth, so spit it out."
I sigh.
"All right, he's dying." I raise a finger before she can gloat. "And I'm glad you figured it out by yourself. Old man's an absolute weapon, but I dislike breaking the promises I've made, even to the likes of him."
"Are you going to tell Tracey?"
"No."
"May I?"
"No."
She simmers in anger.
"Oh? And why not?"
"Trace can't keep her mouth shut. You know this."
"Do we want her to?" Daph asks.
"What d'you mean?"
"The information you hold . . . the dark lord would pay a lot of money . . ."
"Some things are more important than money. If this leaks out, it could jeopardise thousands of lives."
"Since when do we care about that?" She demands. "You've always shown . . . a certain moral flexibility. And if you were to take this information to the dark lord, you'd be welcomed with open arms. You could ask for anything in return . . ."
This is a bridge I would've preferred not to cross. Yet it must be crossed, nonetheless. I snap my book shut. Drag my chair back and turn to face her.
"Daph, can I—er— would it destroy your impression of me if I were to be vulnerable for two minutes?"
"We've seen each other at our worst." She shrugs. "If there's something you cannot say to me, then I've failed as a friend."
"Right."
I hem and haw. The words seem stuck in my throat.
Her eyes soften.
"Harry, it's okay. You don't have to explain if you don't want to. Say the word, and we'll put this behind us."
"Nah, I'll tell you."
I swallow my own spit. It's never an easy thing to talk about feelings, especially when in doing so I'd be denying Daph and Tori the salvation they cherish.
"I'm not a murderer, Daph," I confess.
"Meaning?"
"I just— I can't — look, it's one thing to joke about this shit. To borrow Granger's notes after confounding her, or to break Malfoy's leg, because if there's a wanker that deserves it, it's him. But the leap from that to murdering good people . . ."
I take a deep breath.
"Lily Potter," I say lifelessly. "Marlene Mckinnon. Sirius Black. James Potter. Fabian and Gideon Prewitt. Edgar Bones. Frank and Alice Longbottom. And countless others besides. All righteous people trying to fight for a better world. Lives brutally cut short by Voldemort and his death eaters. I can't, Daph— I cannot— I don't have it in me— I don't sympathise with that tosh, that blood purity nonsense. And what's worse, I can't bring myself to murder our school mates in cold blood, when their only sin would be to stand against the hate and vitriol this vile man wishes to spread."
I draw in another gulp of air. Clasp the quill in front of me.
My hand shakes.
"I've never seen myself as a bully," I admit. "Yet if you were under threat— you or the other two— I would take that mark with a smile on my face. But I'd rather just . . ."
"You would leave it as a last resort," Daph says.
"Yes."
"I understand. I won't bring it up again."
The corners of my mouth twist into a sardonic smile.
"I take it you disagree?"
She huffs mirthlessly.
"I was raised a blood purist. Some part of that is still here." She taps her head. "When I see Granger, I don't think academic overachiever— I think worthless mudblood. I'd never put that into words, not anymore, and certainly not in front of Tracey—"
"Because she and I are muggle-raised?"
"Partly. But also because I don't want to be this way. I know it's wrong. But I can't help it. It frightens me that the voice never goes away. I repress it— I never pay attention— but in my weakest moments it's still there. It's a ghost I cannot exorcise, a part of my soul, and it . . . goads."
A pause.
"I think I'd find it easy to side with the dark lord. I'd find it easier than doing the right thing, because as a child I was told it is right to hate. The dark lord could tap into that reservoir of hatred by promising us safety. It'd be so easy to abandon the morality you've given me. I'd do horrible things for you . . . and unlike you, I'd not even feel the slightest pin prick of conscience."
Daph kneads her forehead with her fingers.
"I'm a terrible person, aren't I?"
"Yes," I say immediately.
She laughs.
"You could at least pretend to give it some thought."
"What for? Daphne Greengrass, you're quite literally the worst person to ever exist. A fitting lieutenant for Dark Lord Potter, if I do say so myself."
"I was serious, Harry."
"So am I." My smile fades. "Okay, maybe not entirely. But still. What matters isn't whether or not you're a terrible person on the inside— it's what you do with that knowledge. You struggle with morality. So what? We all do, just to different degrees. But you're not inhumane for having certain thoughts, let's say, or certain inclinations— it's only when you act on them that you cross the line."
I raise my palm sedately.
"So, are you going to act out your thoughts? Abandon us and join Lord Voldemort? Embrace his genocide, unless our lives are on the line?"
" . . . I don't think so."
"Then let's blame your parents for your upbringing and be done with it."
"You make it sound easy," she says.
"Because it is. I don't see this stone hearted bitch you think yourself to be— I see my friend, brainwashed as a child but trying to do her best anyway. If you're even a slightly better person today than you were yesterday, then that's all that matters."
The corner of her lip curls up.
"You sound like Dumbledore."
" . . . I've changed my mind, Daph. You're a basket case and a heartless bitch— there's no redemption for you."
The half smile remains intact.
"We got sidetracked," she says. "Have you considered the implications of Dumbledore's death?"
"I've had a lot on my plate," I reply, taking off my glasses and rubbing my eyes. "So no, I have not. But if you mean politically—"
"I mean for the war efforts."
"Oh."
I see what she's driving at.
"Yes, Harry. Oh."
"You think Dumbledore's the only thing stopping Voldemort from sweeping through Britain?"
"It is rumoured he's the only one the dark lord fears," Daph says carefully. "I don't put much stock in rumours, but you have to admit Dumbledore in his prime was a fearsome wizard. That reputation has stayed intact, even through the fiasco our schooling has been. But even if he weren't half the wizard he once was, he is still the most recognisable pillar of British society— a one-man bastion, a symbol of hope. If he were to die, and if the dark lord were to reveal himself . . ."
"People would still fight for what they believe to be the right thing. They always do."
"They'd lose."
"That's not our concern," I say. "We'll be out of this wretched isle long before it comes to that."
"Do you really believe that?"
"I do."
"Knowing Tracey? Knowing Tori? Knowing what you told me last month, about the dark lord's interest in you? He does not strike me as the sort of person to simply live and let live."
I do not respond.
"Neutrality is wishful thinking," Daph tells me. "Sure, we might be able to avoid the war, but I would not count on it. There might come a time when we have to pick a side. And when we do, do you really wish to pick the one with the dying old man who wronged your father?"
"I hate them both equally," I say after a while. "But only one of the two repulses me to the extent I'd prefer death instead. So if the alternative is Dumbledore . . . "
I sigh.
"You know what, I'll see if I can cut a deal with Voldemort or something. Stay out of the war in exchange for security."
But even as I say it, Daph is shaking her head.
"You can't trust him to keep his word. And if he does not— if he comes after us once the war is over— then everyone who could help us would already be dead."
"We could live under Fidelius."
"Not forever. And even if we could, it's no way to live."
"Hm. Unbreakable vow?"
"He won't give it. The mere suggestion is an insult in pureblood circles. He's more likely to kill you on the spot for suggesting it."
"Tricky," I breathe. "Tricky, tricky, tricky."
A minute's silence.
"I'm at a loss, Daph. Any ideas?"
"You won't like what I'm about to say."
I chuckle.
"When do I ever? Say it anyway."
"You need to establish contact with the other side."
"What, Dumbledore's Order?"
She forestalls my outrage with a placatory palm.
"Only establish, not side with. But we need to keep our options open. We can stay neutral, but there's no harm in finding out what the Order's war efforts look like. We need to figure out who would take the reins when—"
She trails off mid sentence. Her eyes widen.
"What?" I prod.
"I'm an idiot," she whispers.
"Yes, Daffy," I agree amicably. "Your self awareness has always been your best quality."
She does not even retaliate to the wise crack.
"Don't you see?" Her tone is urgent. "Oh, Merlin, there's just one person in Britain who has the social standing to replace Albus Dumbledore."
"Kingsley Shacklebolt?" I venture.
"Neville Longbottom."
I blink, uncomprehending. I blink again. I wait for the punchline to this joke. It does not come.
I burst into incredulous laughter anyway.
"You've taken leave of your senses."
"He has the same reputation—"
"He's half the wizard I am. And trust me, while I think very highly of myself, even I am not delusional enough to believe I have a chance against Lord Voldemort."
"Perhaps. But you underestimate the myth of the boy-who-lived. You underestimate just how many people would flock to that banner."
"If they do, they're fucked in the head. You said it yourself: myth. And Boy. He's our age. A literal child."
"A child who beat the dark lord."
"He did nothing of the sort. There was ancient magic at play that night, but it had nothing to do with Neville Longbottom. Maybe his parents were well versed in sacrificial magic— the governing principle being, you have to sacrifice more than you seek to obtain. If his parents had the time; if they loved him, as parents often do their children; if they were aware of certain forbidden rituals; and if they had dabbled in such esoteric arts before, then it is not impossible to prepare a perfect defence out of that sentiment of unconditional love. Issue being, it would only work against one person, and it would be time bound. The price for such magic is the utter annihilation of its caster's soul. And since it takes two people to cast . . . I think you can fill in the blanks."
". . . how the fuck do you even know that?"
It is rare to hear Daph swear. She sounds torn between disbelief and admiration.
I rub the back of my head sheepishly.
"Luck," I mumble. "And it's only a theory. There was a news report from 1981, which I found while going through the papers for info on my dad. It said they never found Frank or Alice Longbottom's bodies. Now, if we were in one of Tracey's favourite whodunits, the Longbottoms would show up at the end, hale and hearty, and we'd realise they were Lord Voldemort all along. But since we aren't— since it's a world with magic— and since Voldemort is famous for the killing curse, not for making bodies disappear— I started looking into esoteric magic that claimed the casters' bodies as compensation. And I found a ritual that takes not just the bodies, but the souls as well. If you have advance warning, you can even time it, so the ritual only kicks off when both casters are already dead. It is vile— you sacrifice the Afterlife to save the person you love."
I grin.
"You'd be surprised at just how much dark magic there is in the restricted section. It's all in that one shelf, labelled 'Books on Love'."
Daph snorts.
"An oxymoron," she says.
"Nah, a paradox. There's nothing purer than love, but nothing darker either."
A lightbulb goes off in her head.
"Is that how you figured out Grindelwald's spell?"
"The final aspect, yes. But unlike the vitam profundere ritual, protego diabolica does not offer a perfect defence. Nothing can, unless it is quite literally cursed."
Daph lets out a loud sigh.
"As interesting as this is, we got sidetracked again. Where were we?"
"War leaders."
"Longbottom, yes. They'll turn to him when Dumbledore dies, because he's a symbol of resistance and the most obvious proof that the dark lord can be beaten."
"Heaven help us all," I mumble. "So, what d'you want, then? Should I cosy up to him? Win his trust? Because that just paints a giant target on my back. But if you think it's wise, then we'll go with it; even though I'm telling you right now, it's thick as pigshit and the most harebrained scheme I've heard in a long time."
"Are you done?" She asks, expression placid.
"Yes."
"Good. Now listen. I don't want you to cosy up to him. I want you to bait him."
". . . what?"
"Nothing overly antagonistic. We don't want to make an enemy for life. But you need to somehow find a way—"
"Whoa, slow down. Backtrack a little. What d'you mean, bait him?"
"Fight him," she says, looking at me blankly. As if I'm the dumb one here.
"Would m'lady care to explain her thought process to the poor oppressed peasant?"
"If he's going to lead after Dumbledore, then we need to see where he stands, skillswise," she elaborates. "You keep saying he's half the wizard you are, but we have no proof for this— we just know he's slain a basilisk and stopped the dark lord twice. For all we know he might very well be the second coming of Dumbledore; and if so, I'd sleep a lot better at night, knowing we can go over to their side if push comes to shove."
". . . Second coming of Dumbledore? Have you perchance seen what his cauldron looks like in Potions?"
"Have you seen what yours looks like, Harry?"
"Fair. But come now, he's a simpleton. He's just so—so—fucking feckless, I s'pose. He looks perfectly harmless, he barely stands out in any of his classes, herbology aside. Like, yeah, he's always seemed perfectly solid for a fifth year, but there's a night and day difference between that and Lord Voldemort."
She points a finger at me, as if I've hit the nail on the head.
"And that is why you need to test him," she murmurs. "If that's all there is to him, then we're better off swallowing our pride and going over to the dark lord. But it might not be the case. Two years under Dumbledore . . . perhaps there's more to him than meets the eye."
"Right." I shake my head, making it clear just what I think of her scheme. "Right, well, I'll go call Granger a mudblood then, shall I? That ought to give us the fight you're looking for."
"Did you not pay attention?" she hisses. "Do. Not. Antagonise. Him."
I throw up my hands.
"Have you seen the guy? He's too levelheaded to bait. Some sort of saint, presumably. How do you expect me to fight him without having him spit and rage first?"
The bell sounds. It is a free period for me, but Daph has Care of Magical Creatures. She collects her parchment, quills and books. Stuffs them into her bag. Pushes her chair back and gets up.
"That's for you to figure out," she says, smirking.
"Fuck you too, Daph," I call out to her retreating figure.
I'm treated to the dying echoes of melodious laughter.
Endnotes
A brief alternate timeline:
1. Late 1930s: Professor Galatea Merrythought goes to meet Tom Marvolo Riddle at an orphanage in muggle London. She introduces him to magic and tells him he has a place at Hogwarts. She sees the same cruelties canon Dumbledore did but writes them off as boys being boys.
2. Late 1930s to mid 1940s: Tom Riddle spends his first six years at Hogwarts being a talented loner. He shows no signs of sympathizing with the blood purity brigade. The purebloods in his house ostracize him, and as a consequence he has no friends. Nor does he look for any. He always unsettles Dumbledore a bit, but till the CoS incident and Myrtle's death there's no reason to think much of him.
3. Since he's kept such a low profile, and since he's always been a charmer, no one really suspects him for CoS. Dumbledore briefly considers him a suspect, but he's rather low on the list, since there are proud purebloods who boast about their lineages and are known for their muggle hating tendencies. Whereas Riddle has never shirked that part of his ancestry, at least publicly. It doesn't help that Dumbledore does not know Riddle is a parselmouth.
4. Riddle does gain some prominence in his final year. But even at this point none of the purebloods are too friendly him. He graduates from Hogwarts as one of its most talented students, but no controversies pursue him. Dumbledore once again grows discomfited when he realises the lad has turned down promising job offers in the ministry to work at Borgin and Burke's; but as the years pass, and as nothing comes out of it, Dumbledore puts Tom Riddle out of his mind.
5. Early 1950s: Riddle robs Hepzibah Smith of Slytherin's locket and wipes her memories. He does not take Hufflepuff's cup. He does not murder her either. He wipes Borgin's memory as well and vanishes into thin air. At this point he's already made two horcruxes: the diary, after Myrtle's murder; and the ring, after murdering his father and grandparents.
6. Late 1950s: He makes the locket his third and final horcrux. At this point he realises that the three soul fragments are starting to interfere with his personality, his iron will and his sanity, so he decides not to make any more.
7. Mid 1960s: Tom Riddle interviews with Albus Dumbledore for the DADA post. For Dumbledore, it is the return of someone he's not thought about for almost two decades, since he's overburdened with other jobs, and since there's not been a peep about Riddle from anywhere. He decides to do his due diligence and research Riddle's last twenty years pre interview, and discovers that he's chasing a ghost. No one has heard a word about Tom Riddle for at least fifteen years.
8. When Riddle walks into his office, he still resembles Tom Riddle, not Lord Voldemort. The interview that follows is gruelling but Riddle passes it with flying colours. However, he clams up when asked about his past. Dumbledore eventually rejects him because his gut tells him there's something very wrong about this entire situation and because he does not want to put his school at risk (yes, I am aware of the irony when compared with canon Dumbledore's actions).
9. Riddle disappears again. This time Dumbledore puts a few aurors he is familiar with on the trail (Moody), but once again they come up empty handed. Riddle is a mystery wrapped within an enigma.
10. Mid 1970s: Pureblood movement is on the rise again. This is the first-time people start using the word 'Voldemort'. It is 1977 by the time Dumbeldore finally makes the connection, and when he does he's stunned and finds himself blindsided, because at no point in his life has Tom Marvolo Riddle been associated with purebloods or pureblood culture at all. Nonetheless, Dumbledore starts putting together an Order of the Phoenix.
And that's a brief history for this work. Hence Dumbledore's claim in the last chapter 'we were fighting an enemy who clung to the shadows' or something to that effect.
Most of these modifications have been made to make Dumbledore appear less incompetent than his canon counterpart. Consider that canon Dumbledore not just kept an eye on Riddle but was well aware of the moniker 'Lord Voldemort' by the early 60s. He also knew about the Death Eaters. I can only assume he sat and twiddled his thumbs for the next twenty years, as he did between Harry's birth (in canon) and him coming to Hogwarts. It just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, because it's a case of poor character writing. Forget reactive, you'd need to be functionally brain-dead to be that stupid, especially if you have Dumbledore's power and his presumably first-rate intellect.
So ye, in this fic, by the time Dumbledore realises the danger they're all in, it's already too late. And then they're stuck playing catch up. He's still able to eventually track down Riddle's past via Galatea Merrythought and via the orphanage, but it only comes well after the first war. He's more proactive than canon Dumbledore.
It isn't enough.