Hi there,

as the description already mentions, this is going to be a What If …

The title of the story is an inversion of the line 'Dum Capit Nox Diem' from the song In Noctem from Nicholas Hooper's Half-Blood Prince Score. Originally, and literally, the night takes the day, but here, the day rather takes the night. (Foreshadowing, oh so subtly …)

Trigger warning: Dark and cynical motives and thoughts of a young Mr Riddle, as well as murder.

Disclaimer: Characters, Hogwarts and anything that sounds familiar to you belongs to JKR/Warner Bros. I do not earn any money off this and the media for the cover belongs to its own respective owner.

That being said, let's go to Hogwarts in 1943 and see where the journey takes us …

If this story is entertaining to you, or if you notice anything you'd like to bring up, I would love to hear your comments. Also thank you for each and every follow and alert.

xx

Dalia

"Mr Riddle, are you mentally present?"

I groan inwardly. And yet I force myself to smile as I look up. "Of course, Professor."

He eyes me rather suspiciously. "Are you sure? Have you been listening?"

"I have, Professor. You were just about to enlighten us on the complexities of occult motives during the French Revolution – at which point you digressed and told us about your youth in Paris, though that took place there about 120 years later …"

Wolburry snorts, looking around the classroom almost caught off guard, but of course everyone is already enjoying themselves, just like Elliott next to me.

Wolburry is a good teacher, intelligent for sure. And yet I could not help myself …

"Excuse me, please continue, Professor," I say much more politely. "It was not my intention to criticize you. On the contrary – your personal experiences bring history to life for us. It makes it more memorable."

For a moment there, we look directly at each other, but Wolburry just cannot read my face.
It's not his fault. Very few people can, ever could.

I suppose the only exception to this rule is Albus Dumbledore. Though I'm not sure whether that testifies that much in his favor. Anyone who can see darkness must have it in their own soul.

"Well," Wolburry finally sighs, "let's just continue with Chapter 14 then. Go on, open your books."

Rustling of paper becomes loud, and as bizarre as it may be, it relaxes me at once. For a brief moment, there is silence in my noisy head. Soon, however, the class begins reading aloud – one narrator per paragraph – and I'm forced to wonder how on earth my fellow students are even able to attend a school like Hogwarts when they apparently, to this day, struggle with the very alphabet.

How are these individuals supposed to master Latin spells when their own mother tongue is a challenge already?

Not everybody had as much time to read as I did, I suppose. Spoken words are one thing, but what is immortalized in black on white is of true meaning.

Who knows … Maybe one of these days my name will be in all the books, all the papers.

Partridge, on the other hand, will only very unlikely manage to make it into everlasting lines. The pronunciation of the word 'guillotine' is giving him audible headaches, and that forces Professor Wolburry, after some patient consideration, to intervene.

"Mr Partridge, do you know what a guillotine is?"

I close my eyes for a moment, it's at least a faint attempt to not roll them so obviously.

What's the point of asking? Of course he does not know. So why waste our time inquiring when a simple explanation could do?

Oh surprise, Partridge shrugs apologetically, admitting, "No, sir."

"Do any of you know this device?" Wolburry looks around the high-ceilinged classroom, however he finds himself with either disinterested or completely perplexed faces.

Until he begins watching me attentively. As a person fond of harmony, he would probably have preferred to avoid me for the rest of the class, but it must be clear to him that I know the answer …

"Mr Riddle?"

I breathe in and out quietly, then I nod.

"A guillotine," I begin, "plainly explained, is a blade used to execute death penalties by beheading. The supposedly revolutionary Muggle equivalent of the deadliest of our three Unforgivable Curses."

Silence. All at once. I even hear Elliott gulp.

Oh, sure … The Unforgivable Curses are not ever to be mentioned, a taboo, even though all the children of wealthy wizarding dynasties know exactly what I'm referring to.

One might hear the proverbial pin drop and Wolburry is at a loss for words.

Even my own looks around the room should probably worry me, given that everyone present seems to have forgotten how to breathe …

For a blink of an eye, however, my gaze lingers on Harper.
Her black and blue tie is much too loose, as usual, but she's not staring at me at all. Quite the opposite. She just shakes her head, it's barely visible, and I alone can guess there is a vague smile on her lips.

"Tom," Wolburry finally takes heart again. He clears his throat and says, "That's … absolutely correct. The guillotine was used for beheadings. And yes – in the world of magic, that would equate to one of the three curses, however, I believe that in Defence Against the Dark Arts, you have not yet spoken about the Unforgivables …"

He eyes me with a mixture of concern and skepticism, looking for answers in my facial expressions again. He will not find any.

"Professors Dippet and Slughorn," I say, watching Wolburry relax at the mere mention of their names, "had discussed them the other day, in a conversation I overheard in my function as Prefect."

As though titles necessarily result in doing the right thing.

The only person in the room that knows I just blatantly lied is Harper. But she would never tell the tale. It was far too much fun in the Restricted Section of the library the other night …

Wolburry slowly nods. "Well then. Perhaps you should not mention this kind of magic too soon again, Tom, at least not until it's officially taught. I'd be very grateful for that."

Enough controversy for today. "Of course, sir."

As if these matters were a secret. Should not all students have some interest in the Dark Arts? Why has nobody the least bit of intellectual hope in them …

Partridge finally continues to read aloud, after the Professor's kind plea, and his reading remains just as bumpy as ever. The other students pretend to listen, scribbling on their parchments – including Elliott, he indeed has some form of creativity to him – while old Wolburry, as he so often does, takes to strolling in circles in the classroom. Listening to the history of mankind as he peeks thoughtfully up at the sky.

I do not look up.

There is something in me, deep down, that puzzles me. Nomen est omen, my name is surely not Riddle for nothing … In any case, the other children in the orphanage often spoke of heaven. About their parents being there. But I'd never get much closer to this inexplicable longing for heaven – because the sheer emptiness at the thought of my parents awakens odd emotions in me that I don't want to feel. I bury them as deep as I can, for what is the use to dwell on them?

Fate did not want me to know family. Neither a mother, nor a father. My identity is rooted in myself alone.

If you grow up without any role models, confidants, you either fail to strive for anything at all, or you do for absolutely everything possible – and nothing less.
You either perish or you never need intimacy again. You learn to stay quiet. Not to share your thoughts, neither the bitter, nor the bad ones. You seek for your very own answers to all questions. Your own solutions, your own maxims.

And you understand one thing. That in this way – if you always act on your own – you keep aces up your sleeve at all times. Stale loneliness is compensated quite well by the fact that you become more independent than most will ever be.

Unless – and until – you get distracted from it.

"Here," Elliott whispers as he hands me a tiny heaven-and-hell finger game. He winks conspiratorially, which can only mean one thing.

Intuitively, I turn my gaze to Harper.

This is what she's been waiting for. She first makes the number five clear with all fingers of her left hand up, then she points upward.

I take her heaven and hell so that Wolburry won't notice, then I count up and down to five. I unfold the finger game and read her message in the upper left.

Hogsmeade, 7:00 pm

The curved handwriting is just like her. And just like her tie. Not quite neat, but all the more charming.

For a Ravenclaw, she also has surprisingly little concerns of contact with Slytherin – and with me.

I read her message again and bite my lips to stifle a smile, but then a thought crosses my mind.

What if I had started folding and unfolding the other way around? Maybe I've opened the wrong message.

I begin again, all the same, only with a different start.

And now that I read the message, I really can't help but grin.

Once again it says:
Hogsmeade, 7:00 pm

"Two roads lead to Rome?" Elliott whispers.

"So it seems," I reply. Then, without further ado, I unfold the whole game. "No," I correct myself yet again, "all roads lead to Rome."

It wouldn't have mattered in which order or counting I'd have done it – we'd always meet in Hogsmeade at 7:00 pm.

"Why did she even bother?"

I give a half shrug. "I'd gather she finds Wolburry's descriptions of Paris boring as well …"

Elliott nods mischievously as I let the bit of parchment vanish into my robe.

Meanwhile, McBurney has begun reading from the history book, and while Wolburry has returned to the blackboard to gaze out of the window, lost in thought, I turn around to Harper.

She raises her eyebrows in question – and I just nod.

Hogsmeade, it is, tonight at 7:00 pm.

Rarely have I ever had better prospects …

Thanks for reading!

You can find my cover and other inspiration regarding this story on Pinterest. Just search for 'lasdalias' as a person and check out my boards for 'Dum Capit Dies Noctem'.