A/N: Year Two begins!
"ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴜꜱᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴇꜱᴛᴇʀᴅᴀʏ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇɴ."
― ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ᴄᴀʀʀᴏʟʟ
Chapter One: Into the Maelstrom
-Hogwarts Castle, August, 1992-
His magic felt dead.
Same way as it had since losing control in front of Voldemort.
Harry had never thought about his magic this way before. But there was no other way to describe. He could still use it, a little… just… it felt quiet. Very quiet.
Too quiet.
Whereas before it had been all-too-alive and fiercely disobedient, lashing out at the slightest provocation, now the oily shadows sticking to his fingertips felt lifeless.
Does it even exist?
Sometimes, he wondered if he'd managed to burn through all his magic that night, in his rage; but Flamel assured him that it simply wasn't possible.
He wouldn't have minded if he had lost his magic, except for one thing:
"Until we meet again...Not today, Harry Potter. The time is not quite right. But one day, I will kill you. I promise."
Quirrell's ― no ― Voldemort's ― no ― whose? ― voice rang in his head in the absence of all other noise.
Slowly, he guided his broom (and himself, he supposed) in another lazy, deliberate, head-over-heels loop, so high above the ground that any people below him would look like tiny pinpricks.
Instead of looking at them, Harry leaned over his broom and guided himself closer to the open window so he could peer into the Headmaster's Office, and perhaps catch some of the conversation between Dumbledore and a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak.
To his dismay, he had missed the Hogwarts board meeting; Dumbledore and the strange man were the only people present.
This was an odd way, thought Harry as he floated closer to the window, to find out his ultimate fate.
"Come, Cornelius. Sit. We have much to discuss," said Dumbledore, his voice carrying out of the open window and into the open sky, but too quiet for Harry to hear well.
"...curious, these little chocolates... Muggle, are they?" asked the visitor. His voice, unlike Dumbledore's was lost on the wind.
"Clever, isn't it?" he continued in a condescending tone, inspecting a brightly-wrapped piece of chocolate. "...manage to cope without magic."
Harry edged closer to the window as the visitor, Cornelius, removed his hat and sat down opposite Dumbledore. From this angle, situated closer to the back of the office, he could not see Dumbledore's face, but he could see the other man's very clearly.
Not only that, but he recognised him; he'd seen that face in the Daily Prophet, several times.
He's the Minister of Magic, Harry realised. What is he doing here?
"The boy must go," said Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, and Harry stiffened, clutching his broom for comfort as well as balance. "It is a bad business, Dumbledore. I apologize for the intrusion, but the Ministry must act."
"Cornelius," said Dumbledore in a warning tone. Harry could not see his expression, but it didn't seem that the Minister's plea had moved him in the least.
"Professor Dumbledore," said Fudge hurriedly, "I have enormous respect for you and your domain over Hogwarts. However, this is no longer a question of policy, but of—"
"Have you any idea what a child must go through in order for a raw form of Dark magic to coexist with a pure soul?"
"While that — that creature is at this school, an entire generation is in mortal peril!" shouted Fudge.
A wave of exhaustion came over Harry; he gripped the handle of the broom hard enough to make his knuckles pale.
Dumbledore did not move an inch, seemingly unfazed at the outburst. "I think," he said, "if Harry were to feel unsafe once more, more than a generation might be in peril. He will remain under my care until the situation can be handled."
Fudge's expression was greedy. "Handled?" he asked.
Dumbledore's voice was particularly steely. "Handled," he agreed. "My way. Harry is a very normal child, I assure you."
"That thing will kill us all — Mark my words, Dumbledore!"
"Certainly not before an old pupil of mine has the chance, once you decide to throw a twelve-year-old boy to the dogs. Or, I suppose you think that offering Harry on a silver platter might buy you favour?"
"Favour with whom?"
Fudge frowned in confusion, and Harry imagined Dumbledore was regarding him sceptically over the top of his half-moon spectacles..
"I was referring to the infamous Dark wizard, Lord Voldemort, of course."
Fudge uttered a terrified squeak at the name; Dumbledore merely continued.
"If he and his Death Eaters do not make themselves known in some violent fashion by the end of the year, I should be surprised."
"Now, if I remember correctly, Dumbledore," said Fudge, shaking a finger at the the headmaster (and a bit rudely, Harry thought), "your miscalculations are partially to blame for that."
"I do not deny it."
"Wouldn't death be a kinder fate?" asked Fudge, and Harry nearly fell off his broom from shock. "The boy must be suffering. And surely, should he fall into the hands of You-Know-Who, he may endure yet more pain."
"If I did not know you better, Cornelius," said Dumbledore carefully, "I might call you a coward. But that is not so, and as a man of virtue, you will allow Harry Potter to remain undisturbed and under my guidance."
He said nothing. The wind made the curtains sway, and Harry didn't dare to breathe. A glance in the right direction, and he would be revealed.
"Fear not," added Dumbledore. "He will not leave this castle. And Hogwarts is well capable of protecting itself and its inhabitants."
"Fifty years ago," said Fudge, sneering, "a girl died. And just last year―"
"Myrtle Warren," said Dumbledore solemnly. "Yes, Cornelius. Not finding her killer in time is one of my greatest regrets. As you know, when we are responsible for so many, these things are inevitable. Mistakes have been made, I do not deny it―"
"Inevitable, Dumbledore?" asked Fudge. "Then let Harry Potter go! He is just, as you said, an ordinary boy…"
"No," whispered Harry. "No."
"You are sorely mistaken, Cornelius. No one is ordinary, or disposable, as you clearly mean to suggest. Quite frankly, I am disgusted that you would suggest such a thing about an innocent child―"
"Do you think parents will tolerate this?" asked Fudge. "In fact, Lucius Malfoy has—"
Dumbledore sighed. "You mean to frighten me? If they prefer to send their children to Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, that is beyond either of our powers. Lucius Malfoy has every right to withdraw his son from Hogwarts; but none at all to compel me to force Harry Potter out of the only home he has."
"And yet," said Fudge, "were we debating about You-Know-Who rather than Harry Potter, you would still rebuke me for wishing you to oust him from the school for the sake of the students' safety."
"Perhaps," said Dumbledore. "It depends if one believes children to be incurably criminal. In my experience, they are most often malleable beings who fear authority. It is once they are out of school that we should worry."
Fudge sniffed. "An Obscurial is hardly malleable, Dumbledore. And furthermore, it is the board, which, may I remind you, consists of certain personages, furthermore may I add, personages who are members of some of the most ancient and esteemed magical families in Britain, such as—"
Dumbledore stood up quickly, and Fudge balked, nearly falling out of his chair headfirst.
"You are blinded by the love of your office, Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you always have done, on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognise that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be!"
He'd heard enough now (and he wished he hadn't heard anything at all). Harry turned, and guided his broom down to the Clock Tower Courtyard, just barely catching a glimpse of Fudge stumbling around to collect his bowler hat and his dignity before scurrying out of the room.
"They're in there, the board. Must've just finished, because I missed them. And the Minister. Talking about me." His voice shook. "What if they're deciding to get rid of me?"
"No, they're not," said Ruby reflexively from where she was lying on the ground and sunning herself, about ten feet below him. She looked more-or-less like the female version of him, maybe a little less now that her hair, which had previously been kept as short as possible by Aunt Petunia, was starting to grow out past her shoulders.
"Professor Snape said you were fine. And Snape rarely thinks anything's fine," she added.
"He didn't say fine," said Harry, frowning and shifting on the broom. "He said minimal risk."
"Mmm. Aren't they the same thing, though?"
Harry ignored her. "If I was fine, everyone wouldn't be sending their kids to Durmstrang and Beauxbatons and even Ilvermorny."
"It's not just because of you, Harry!"
"But mostly." He sighed.
"Quirrell really messed us up, didn't he?"
"No," said Harry, swallowing the bile that had sprung up into his throat. He didn't feel like flying anymore, so he guided the broom back down the ground, his feet hitting the stone floor of the courtyard with a soft skfff.
"Not Quirrell. Voldemort."
They were both quiet for a while.
"Who's that?" asked Harry, pointing towards the entrance to the courtyard. Ruby pushed herself up into a sitting position and turned around to stare as Harry peeled his flying gloves off, sticking them in the pocket of his robes.
A man with long, white-blond hair streaming behind him was coming towards them.
She shrugged. "New Defence professor, maybe?"
"So this is the famous Harry Potter," said the strange man, giving them both a disapproving look. "My, my… aren't you two both the spitting image of your father. Draco speaks about you constantly, Mr. Potter — Merlin knows I am well-prepared to ghostwrite your autobiography…"
Judging by his tone, it wasn't meant as a compliment. The man's gaze searched Harry's face, cruel and analytic, as if he was trying to see the invisible monster. Harry said nothing in response; just glared right back at him.
"… thankfully Draco will be attending Durmstrang next year. No Mud— Muggle-borns are admitted, and Karkaroff does not shy away from teaching the Dark Arts there. None of your kind, either," he added, giving Harry a very nasty look. Harry did not look away.
"I am Lucius Malfoy," he said. He certainly resembled his son strongly. No, it's the other way around, of course, thought Harry. Anyway, the older Malfoy was too reminiscent of Uncle Vernon for his liking.
"School Governor of Hogwarts. The chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, in fact."
"Very impressive," said Harry, and Ruby elbowed him in the ribs.
"Don't be rude," she hissed in his ear. "You're not helping your case, you know."
Lucius Malfoy did not look pleased.
"I have just come back from a meeting with Dumbledore, in which he begged me to stop Hogwarts from closing, on account of you. The man is too foolish to admit his own mistakes ― or deny his own considerable ego."
Somehow, Harry couldn't imagine Dumbledore begging anyone for anything.
Lucius sniffed. "Hmph. Aren't you a little miracle, Mr. Potter… in so many ways." He produced a large, boring-looking book from the depths of his cloak (it was a warm, summer day). "All that is known about Obscurials. Required reading for Mr. Potter."
He all but threw the book at Harry, who only barely managed to catch it before it nearly knocked him over.
"Good day."
"Who does he think he is?" asked Ruby as Lucius Malfoy began to walk off, his dark cloak swirling behind him. "Do you think he uses a spell to make his cloak swish like that? Lavender says there's some for dress robes."
"Dunno," said Harry irritably, staring at Comprehensive History of a Moste Unfortunate and Unspeakable Afflyction as if the book's mere existence was offensive towards him (it was). "I've got to read all this before term starts?"
"Ask Dumbledore," said Ruby, laying back down and shutting her eyes.
For his part, Harry flicked through the book, which was littered with gruesome drawings, omens of destruction, and reminders that being an Obscurial was a death sentence sooner or later.
"Miss Potter!" called a sharp voice from the direction of the courtyard entrance.
Harry stifled a laugh as Ruby shot upright so quickly that she nearly fell flat on her face, her eyes widening comically.
"Yes, Professor Snape?"
"Retrieve your cloak; the unfortunate task has befallen me to escort you to Diagon Alley to purchase you and your brother's school things."
"It's two o'clock already?" asked Ruby.
"Yes, Potter," said Snape, stepping into the courtyard so that he could give them both a disapproving look. "Time indeed moves forward, and today is no exception. I, too, am utterly shocked. Daylight is not reserved for frolicking and indolence."
Ruby groaned, scrambled to her feet, and headed indoors.
"That applies to you, too, Mr. Potter. Have you no studying to do?"
"It's the holidays, sir," said Harry resentfully. "I've finished all my essays for next term."
Snape looked down his nose at Harry, his eyes glittering with pure malice.
"Get inside, now."
Honestly, Harry wondered if Snape ever had wild fantasies about him dying in horrific ways; it certainly seemed plausible.
He gave Snape a glare that would have certainly cost him at least five points for 'cheek' if it was term-time, but as it were, he was allowed to shuffle back inside without incident.
"We will get your books, and then I will need to go to Knockturn Alley for a brief errand. Do not wander off," said Snape as they left Gringotts. "I am a professor, not a childminder."
"Yes, Professor," muttered Ruby, trailing him down the stairs. She didn't suppose he was going to allow her to stop at Fortescue's to get ice cream. He had already told her off for 'keeping her money in her shoes like a cretin.'
Well, she wanted to say, if you'd ever tried to pick pockets before, you'd know that's the best place to keep your money.
Snape did allow her to go into Eeylops Owl Emporium to buy a large box of owl treats for Hedwig, lurking around the shop like a grim shadow and frowning all the while. After that, he marched her in an efficient circuit around Flourish and Blotts to buy schoolbooks (Ruby couldn't tell if he was in a hurry, or just couldn't stand her presence as usual), and then finally into the apothecary to buy potions ingredients for the term.
Snape inspected a crate of powdered moonstone while the assistant weighed Ruby's supplies; he made sure to offer a snide comment about the poor quality before they left.
By the time the shopping was done, Ruby felt as if she had run a marathon. No one had shopped this fast for Hogwarts in all of history — she was sure of it.
The only reprieve came just as they walked past Flourish and Blotts again.
"There she is!" someone shouted. Both Ruby and Snape turned towards the source of the voice; a boy the same age as Ruby carrying a wobbling stack of books in his arms, which he handed off to the austere wizard standing behind him and ran up to them.
"How have you been? How's Harry? Oh, hi Professor Snape! How is Hogwarts? Is it weird with just the professors there? Not saying you're weird, Professor Snape, just—"
"For Pete's sake, Anthony, let the professor and your friend breathe," said the wizard, who Ruby assumed must be Anthony's dad, though they didn't look alike at all. In fact, Anthony looked more like his mother, who was dressed in Muggle clothes instead of robes and had the same blonde hair as her son.
"Sorry, dad!"
"Benjamin Goldstein," Anthony's dad introduced himself, stepping forward to shake both Snape and Ruby's hands. "Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Head of the Pest Advisory Board. And this is my wife, Elizabeth; she's a professor as well."
"Of what?" asked Snape. He was feigning politeness, but Ruby could tell that he didn't want to be there. In fact, he seemed rather impatient.
"Philosophy," said Mrs. Goldstein simply.
"Oh. Where, may I ask..."
"Cambridge."
That explains the Muggle clothes, then.
"Oh," said Snape once more, and Ruby thought he sounded slightly impressed this time.
Mr. Goldstein cleared his throat.
"Why don't we let the kids go to Fortescue's for a bit; of course, if you don't mind us having a quick conversation with you, Professor Snape, I suppose you must be on a tight schedule."
"Not at all," said Snape, displeased. "Certainly. By all means."
At once, the two of them set off, leaving the adults far behind before they could possibly change their minds.
"So how was your summer?" asked Anthony, once they had found someplace to sit. "Mine was so boring. Mum thinks I should be learning Greek, so I can read The Iliad in the original language, or as close to it as possible, but Dad says Latin and Arabic are better for traditional spellwork." He took a deep breath. "So, they compromised and I ended up with Greek and Latin, which is better than Greek and Latin and Arabic, I guess, but still. Had to do that and summer camp."
Ruby nodded, still very focused on her lavender ice cream. Anthony, if last year was anything to go on, had a lot more to say.
"I got in trouble for the whole troll thing, or, to be more exact, the whole not-a-troll thing. I got all my memories back from that day, by the way."
"How'd that happen?" asked Ruby.
"Who knows? Magic involving memory manipulation is really complicated. How's Harry?"
"He's, you know, Harry. But fine, mostly. Except, he thinks the whole incident was his fault, which obviously isn't true. He's still hung up on the whole an Obscurial is a Dark monster thing."
"Hmm," said Anthony. "Is an Obscurial really a Dark monster, though? Or just their Obscurus? Come to think of it, Dad says the line between Dark and non-Dark magic is really fine."
Come to think of it, thought Ruby, he's actually trying to have a philosophical conversation about the nature of good and evil over ice cream.
"And what do you think of this Gilderoy Lockhart bloke?"
"Gilderoy Lockhart?" she repeated. "Didn't he write all our Defence textbooks for this year?"
"Yep. Lockhart's complete works, from Break with a Banshee all the way to Year with the Yeti. Same booklist for every year, even the N.E.W.T. students. Mum was aghast, she thinks it's blatant racketeering."
"Really?"
"Apparently," said Anthony, with an air of wisdom befitting a seasoned politician more than a twelve-year-old schoolboy, "he's probably the professor and trying to sell his books to make as much money as possible by requiring the whole lot. Pretty terrible, isn't it?"
Anthony lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"He's in there. In Flourish and Blotts, signing autographs and taking pictures. Didn't you see him?"
"No," said Ruby, remembering how feverishly quickly Snape had insisted on shopping in there. "I suppose Snape didn't want to see him. What's he like?"
"Blond, shiny American teeth that look like they belong in an advert for toothpaste, bit of an egomaniac. But at least he hasn't got You-Know-Who on the back of his head, right?"
Ruby shuddered. "You'd better knock on wood."
But, she thought, anything's got to be a step up from Quirrell.
"Well, with any luck, we won't end up with another dead body at school this year."
And with that macabre sentence hanging in the air, the adults rejoined them.
"What was the powdered moonstone for, Professor Snape?"
He was now carrying a rather large sack of the stuff; Ruby couldn't help but wonder if he had went back and bought the poor-quality product after all, or gotten it from somewhere else.
"Draught of Peace," he said curtly. "Come. Do not get lost."
Sharply, he turned into a dark, twisted alleyway, lined by shops that looked like they belonged in the Victorian era and filled with stale air that smelled like the inside of a smelting factory. Ruby felt a shiver go up her spine, and pulled up the hood of her cloak.
Shrunken heads and poisonous candles were being advertised in the grimy shop-windows. Aged witches, like hags from the fairytales, peddled baskets of human fingers and bottles of Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent.
There are Flesh-Eating Slugs? That's really disgusting...
Eventually, her curiosity started to get the better of her.
"What do you do with a snake's skull?" asked Ruby, pointing at a stall full of them.
"Stop asking questions, Potter," said Professor Snape.
They had stopped outside a particularly grimy shop window at number 13B; the brass knocker, shaped like a cobra's head, was covered in a dull green patina and the inscription in the window proudly advertised (in peeling brass-coloured letters):
Borgin and Burkes, purveyors of objects with unusual and powerful properties and confidential valuation service for unusual and ancient wizarding artefacts, such as may have been inherited by the best wizarding families. Est 1863.
It looked very much like a place One Should Not Go In If One Wishes To Keep All Of One's Organs, but of course, Snape went in and she followed.
Borgin and Burkes was just just as poorly-lit and grimy on the inside as it was on the outside. The rusty bells on the door jingled as it swung shut behind her and Snape.
The hinges, she thought, could do with some oiling.
Ruby stepped closer to one of the filthy, soot-stained displays to admire a delicate necklace set with milk-white stones that had all the colors of a fragmented rainbow shimmering within, like a pure drop of magical ice. Below it was the warning: Do not Touch! Cursed. Has claimed the lives of nineteen Muggle owners to date.
Another display, this one of a shriveled human hand, read: Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Ask shopkeeper for price.
"Do not touch anything," said Professor Snape, as if she couldn't read.
Ruby frowned, but stepped away from the displays nonetheless.
"Has that necklace really killed nineteen people? And the Hand of Glory... isn't that the dried and pickled hand of a man hanged for murder, the one that dealt the killing blow?"
Snape shot her a glare, but just then, the shopkeeper emerged from between the dark, greasy displays. He looked exactly as Ruby imagined Bill Sikes from Oliver Twist, right down to the black velveteen coat, dirty handkerchief around his neck, and scraggly facial hair.
"Oh, yes," he said, rubbing his grease-stained hands together and looking her and Snape up-and-down. "Correct on both accounts."
Then, he smiled.
"Good day, Mister Snape. Am I to assume this young lady is your charge?"
Snape did not return the pleasantry, nor introduce Ruby.
"Business appears rather slow, Borgin. I see you have not gained any artefacts since I last visited."
"Yes," said Borgin. "Haven't had good business here since right after You-Know-Who disappeared. And, then, hadn't had good business since I lost my assistant. And before then, right after Grindelwald."
"I suppose you will just have to wait until the next Dark Lord rises and falls," said Snape.
"My assistant—"
"No doubt, you will have to regale me with the story?" asked Snape.
Clearly, Borgin didn't get the hint that he was supposed to shut up. He began to tell a very dull story that went on much too long about some 'very handsome,' 'charismatic', 'polite young man' (Ruby wondered if he was 'Burke,' but Borgin never said) who had started working at the shop after he graduated from Hogwarts, was very good at getting people to part with their treasures for very little money (Borgin went on to describe some of them in excruciating detail), and deserted his position without notice of resignation.
"Chasing a woman, I expect," said Borgin, nodding meaningfully. "Or else fortune. Who knows? Might have gotten himself killed in the war."
Snape looked as if he were having his eulogy read. Borgin finally got the message, and turned his attention to Ruby.
"What can I interest you in, young lady?" he asked, producing several objects from a nearby shelf with a flourish. "A diary owned by Nostradamus? A bottle of the vapors taken by the Delphic Oracle? A book of Ogham runes?"
Ruby was just about to say that she'd like to see some of them when Snape interrupted.
"She will not be buying anything from you."
"O-Of course not!" said Borgin. "Of course not, Mister Snape—"
"Professor Snape."
"Of course, of course."
"Was that diary really owned by Nostradamus?" asked Ruby, pointing at the old, ragged-looking book in Borgin's hand. It had a cheap-looking, worn black leather cover, and although poorly-treated, looked like it was made much more recently than the sixteenth century.
"Let me see that," said Professor Snape, snarling. He snatched the book from Borgin, flipped through it, and waved his wand a few times, muttering incantations under his breath. Occasionally, a plume of colored smoke went up.
Borgin had a very pained smile on his face, and Ruby watched him take out a large feather duster and attend to the displays (not that it did much, or any good).
"It was purchased in a Muggle newsagents' on Vauxhall Road, in 1938," said Snape, chucking the diary back at Borgin and clipping him in the ear. "And it certainly did not belong to Nostradamus. There are a few commonplace enchantments on it, but nothing more. I would not think that you would presume to lie to me, Borgin."
The two wizards glowered at each other; Borgin didn't last long before he was forced to look down at the floor in defeat.
"Are we buying anything, Professor Snape?" asked Ruby, hoping to stay and look around.
"Certainly not," said Snape, shoving her in front of him and out of the shop. leaving Borgin clutching Not-Nostradamus's diary and stuttering. "Good day, Mr. Borgin."
Unbeknownst to Snape, Borgin, and Ruby, the diary was no ordinary book. It had been entrusted to Borgin by the Death Eater Lucius Malfoy sometime after the defeat of Lord Voldemort eleven years ago (and suspiciously, quite recently — virtually immediately after Voldemort's escape from Hogwarts — but Borgin and Burkes didn't become the premier dealers in magical artefacts by asking questions — their confidentiality policy was valued above all else), but it was no ordinary Dark artefact, either.
The diary must have had some memory of its original owner's magical skill, impulsiveness and particularly acute sense of self-preservation, because, suddenly desperate to escape, it disappeared from the shelf where Borgin replaced it, and reappeared in his hand.
Borgin did not quite know what he was doing as he strode forward, shutting the rattling door of the shop behind him and going out into the cobbled, dirty street.
The professor and his charge were slowly making their way back towards Diagon Alley; Borgin hurried after them, just catching up as Snape paused to speak to Thaddeus Nott, who he recognised instantly by the man's large golden monocle, magnifying a watery, pale eye with a broken pupil, splintered by an Auror's curse fifteen years ago.
The girl lingered a few paces behind Snape, gazing at a stall filled with emerald jewellery.
"Little girl?" called Borgin.
She turned slowly towards him, looking very cross.
"Here," he said, holding the diary out towards her with a trembling hand. "I thought you should have this, Miss Potter. A gesture of friendship. Perhaps, it will prove useful to you."
Potter took the diary from him, frowning slightly as she did. Unlike Snape, she did not open it, only placing it into her cauldron with the rest of her school things.
"Thank you," she said.
And without another word, Borgin disappeared into the crowd once more.