"ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴜꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴡ," ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴀʟɪᴄᴇ, "ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ! ᴡʜʏ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅʟʏ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ!"
— ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ᴄᴀʀʀᴏʟʟ, ᴀʟɪᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ
Chapter Four: The Pawn, Once More
"You know, my dad always says you shouldn't trust something if you can't see where it keeps its brain," said Theodore one night in the Slytherin common room.
Ruby frowned. "What about the Sorting Hat?"
"Touché."
Theodore shrugged, sitting back in his chair. He cast a critical glance at Pansy, who was sitting close to the centre of the room.
"It's probably cursing her as we speak. Do you still want it back?"
Ruby sighed. It was strange... but in some way, she did want it back. There was no way to describe the feeling of watching Pansy holding the diary as anything but covetous.
"I think we should wait and see how this goes," said Theodore. "It might have some kind of allure charm on it if Pansy wanted it so badly."
"Allure charm?'
"Veela magic," Theodore explained, although Ruby didn't know what a Veela was, so it wasn't particularly enlightening. "Maybe we should find out who T.M. Riddle is, first, before we do anything rash."
How does he know, anyway? What does he know?
"And why are you so interested in it?" asked Ruby. "Is it the allure charm, too?"
"No," he said with a shrug. "I suppose, when I see a good mystery, I like to get to the bottom of it. I missed out last year."
"Is that so." Ruby wasn't sure if she believed him. "Is your father friends with Borgin from Knockturn Alley, by any chance?"
Theodore only laughed.
"Give it until Halloween," he said. "Then we'll see. Let's go watch the Quidditch tryouts."
"Spying, Potter?" asked Pansy shrilly, once she noticed Harry sitting by himself in the Slytherin stands.
"I don't need to spy, Parkinson. I'm just here to talk to my sister, that's all. Unless I need your permission for that?"
Harry couldn't say that he'd taken particular note of most of the Slytherins in his year; Pansy and Draco tended to overshadow them all. He recognised Theodore Nott, however, a clever, dull-looking boy who seemed to carry a cloud of misery around with him but could not for the life of him remember the names of either of the girls standing behind Pansy. The girl with dark hair was fixing the blonde girl's hair and fussing over the creases in her robes, who wasn't paying attention to anything and giggling.
"Oh, look at Blaise!" said the blonde one, laughing as she pointed down at the pitch, where the row of four trying out for Slytherin Seeker were standing, all dressed in the house's colours of green and silver... except for one.
One of them, a tall, dark-skinned second-year whom Harry assumed was Blaise, was decked from head-to-toe in Gryffindor red and gold.
"I told him I'd hex him when he wasn't looking!" said Ruby, giggling at the ridiculous sight. "Oh, hi Harry!"
"Hi," he muttered, shifting further down the bench to give her room to sit down. Harry didn't think Ruby's little practical joke was all that funny for everyone, even Pansy, to be laughing at him.
"So what brings you here, Potter?" asked Theodore Nott, sitting down on the other side of Harry.
"Nothing much. I was just bored."
"Ah."
There was something about Theodore, something Harry couldn't quite put his finger on yet. But he reminded him strangely of Quirrell, and so, Harry was instantly on high alert.
After all, wasn't Theodore's 'uncle from Albania' Voldemort? Wasn't his father, who Harry had seen in old editions of the Daily Prophet at his trial, a stooped man with a splintered pupil, a Death Eater who had escaped Azkaban, like Lucius Malfoy, by pretending to be under the Imperius Curse? He looked at Theodore and wondered what that pale blue eye would look like if it was splintered, too.
"Do you take bets, Harry?"
"Depends. On what?"
Theodore simply smiled. "On the events of today, Harry. I'll put two Sickles on Blaise becoming your rival come November. You?"
Harry thought of Uncle Vernon's opinions of gambling and felt strangely reckless.
"Raise it to three. I'll bet on the girl."
"Flora Carrow," Theodore clarified. "Everyone loves an underdog. Well, we'll see, won't we?"
Despite his uniform, it was Blaise who flew best in the end.
"Can't win it all," said Theodore, though he sounded pleased. "You can pay me later. Besides, it doesn't really matter. In terms of skill, Diggory's your real rival."
With that, he got up and walked off with the others to go congratulate Blaise, clattering down the stairs leading out of the stands.
"You shouldn't've taken the bait," said Ruby, once they were alone. "He won't let you pay him back; he wants you to feel like you owe him something. It's a favour he wants."
"Then why didn't you warn me?" asked Harry, annoyed.
Ruby sighed. "I only just thought of it," she said crossly. "Snape was talking to his dad in Knockturn Alley; he's got a monocle. I think it helps him see through his broken eye."
"And?"
"I don't know," said Ruby. "It's interesting. First, when they thought Voldemort was gone forever, they were interested in you because they thought you were the new Dark Lord. But Thaddeus Nott's known maybe longer than anyone that Voldemort was still alive."
Harry exhaled loudly, feeling frustrated by everyone's apparent need to spoon-feed him information.
"Nott Senior's a real blood purist," she continued, hurried by his glare. "He's friends with Lucius Malfoy and everything; he can't possibly like the fact that his son is making friends with a half-blood. If he likes you, he'd have to like you despite our mum being Muggle-born... and that just can't be true."
She paused, and Harry could almost see her brain clocking overtime.
"But you're Harry Potter. What's more, you're an Obscurial, and you're alive. So if Theodore's trying to get close to you, either he's defying his father, or... or what, I don't know. Maybe..."
"Maybe what?"
Ruby looked almost embarrassed. "Maybe they think that they can bring you round to their side. Maybe they think you could be a real Dark Lord, after what happened."
"Their side?" Harry repeated, aghast. He gripped the wooden seat, staring out at the grey, overcast sky. "They really think I'd come round to their side?"
"Voldemort didn't kill you, did he?" asked Ruby quietly.
"It wasn't the priority. He wanted the Stone first, then he'll come back for me. He told me so."
"Maybe I could talk to Dumbledore?"
"No," snapped Harry. "The last thing I need is more meddling."
"At least he's a grown-up who doesn't want you dead and has the power to keep both of us safe."
Harry crossed his arms and glared at the Quidditch hoops on the other side of the pitch, sparkling faintly in the weak light.
"Right. No Dumbledore. Just don't let anyone hear you speaking Parseltongue, then. Especially not Theodore."
"No," Harry agreed, fiddling with the ouroboros ring. He could feel that it was becoming less effective by the minute; that outburst in Lockhart's class should not have happened. "Definitely not."
Once Ruby left, he pointed his wand at a stray piece of dried-up grass and said, "Wingardium Leviosa."
Obediently, it rose a few feet off the ground, held steady, and floated down instantly once Harry released his hold on the spell.
Well, it looks like my magic is finally starting to settle down.
This is very bad, he thought. This is not a good sign at all.
"You have to tell Flamel," he heard Ruby saying. And on some level, that might be the right thing to do.
But he didn't think he would.
Decisively, he placed his boot over the dried grass, twisted it, and heard it break.
"Ooh, it is true that you defeated the Wagga Wagga Werewolf with only one spell, Professor Lockhart?" asked Lavender Brown, trailing behind the emerald-robed professor, whose silky blond hair flopped into his face as he strode down the corridor, signing Parvati Patil's copy of Wanderings with Werewolves with an enormous peacock-feather quill.
Wagga Wagga Werewolf. Honestly. You couldn't make this stuff up if you tried.
Harry also spotted Susan Bones from Hufflepuff, Colin Creevey with his camera, and, to his surprise and disappointment, Hermione, in the little procession that had formed behind Lockhart to watch the show-boating.
"...I put my wand to his throat — I then screwed up my remaining strength and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm — he let out a piteous moan, the fur vanished — the fangs shrank — and he turned back into a man. Simple, yet effective..."
Harry rolled his eyes and tiptoed in the opposite direction towards the Great Hall, his fingertips skirting along the stone walls.
"There you are," said Ron, grabbing his elbow unexpectedly.
"Do you want my heart to stop working?" spluttered Harry, gasping for breath and stumbling back.
"Sorry. I need to show you something, though. Come on!"
Shaking his head, Harry glanced down the corridor. Lockhart and his retinue were gaining on them.
"Fine. Let's go."
He followed Ron quickly up the stairs and into the Gryffindor Common Room. Luckily, it looked like Lockhart was continuing towards the Great Hall.
"What do you think of this?" asked Ron, holding up a short, mousy-coloured hair.
Harry shrugged. He didn't see what was so interesting about an unremarkable strand of hair.
"I realised I hadn't taken out my last set of robes since last year, obviously. And I put Scabbers' cage on top of it, and I had the trunk open the day we were leaving, all this time. Dad said he must've died, but he was just gone. Maybe someone stole him! Nobody in here's got hair this colour!"
"Hang on a second," said Harry. He dove in his trunk, removed a spare vial from Potions, dropped the hair in, and stoppered it. "There. Then you won't lose it."
"Couldn't it have come from Scabbers?" asked Harry, studying it critically.
"No, it's got to be from a human," Ron insisted. "Scabbers' hair doesn't grow that long."
Harry shook the vial, frowning at the hair. Nothing happened, although he hadn't expected it to.
"Could it be Fred and George?"
"No, it's too subtle for them," said Ron, sitting down beside Harry, who passed him the vial. "If it was some kind of prank, we'd be covered in paint or Dungbombs already."
"It's too dark for Neville and too light for Seamus. It almost reminds me of..."
"Who?"
Harry shook his head.
"Never mind." He set the vial inside Ron's open trunk.
It... it almost reminds me of Theodore Nott.
No, why would he have killed Scabbers? I'm being paranoid.
"How do we find out who a hair belongs to?" he asked Ron.
The other boy shook his head. "No idea. There's probably a spell for it; I'm sure Hermione's happy to go to the library."
"Yeah, one problem," said Harry, cringing at the memory. "She's following Lockhart around."
Ron whistled lowly.
"Too bad... Ask Anthony, then."
About half-an-hour and many, many stairs later, Harry and Ron were standing in front of the door to Ravenclaw Common Room. The wind whistled loudly around the tower; there might as well have been nothing else in the world.
"Are you going to knock?"
"I'll knock," Ron offered, stepping closer to the door.
As he did, the brass eagle-head shaped knocker opened its beak and began to speak in a cool, cultured voice.
"Greetings, stranger."
"Blimey," muttered Ron, his eyes widening in shock. "I thought Anthony said the Ravenclaws didn't use passwords."
"Worse," said Harry. He'd been informed of the eagle knocker already from Ruby's recollections of Anthony's early-morning rambling. "They use riddles."
"If Rowena's daughter is my daughter's mother, what am I to Rowena?" asked the eagle.
"You've got to be joking."
"I assure you that I am not," said the eagle calmly. "If Rowena's daughter is my daughter's mother, what am I to Rowena? Answer my riddle if you wish to pass."
"We can't give up," Harry insisted.
"We could just wait for the next Ravenclaw to come by."
"Yeah, because they're just going to let two Gryffindors in, aren't they?"
"Well, they're not very security-conscious."
"They are," Harry pointed out. "Look, the riddle's put you off already. To get in, you've got to use your brain."
"Right," said Ron. "Have at it, then. We'll guess until we get it right. You're Rowena's grand—"
"Stop!" yelped Harry. "You only get one go; it's got to be right the first time. We've got to think it through carefully like a Ravenclaw would. If Rowena's daughter is your daughter's mother..." He trailed off.
"Then your daughter is Rowena's granddaughter, yeah?"
"Right. So that means... you're Rowena's daughter?"
"Well-reasoned," said the eagle, and the door swung open.
"It's nice in here," said Ron approvingly, looking around at their new surroundings. It was quite nice, Harry supposed — arched windows hung with blue and bronze silks, a midnight-blue ceiling painted like a night sky with sparkling, bronze constellations, wooden bookcases, and several chairs and tables. All around them was still the sound of the wind whistling past the tower; it gave the sense of a very nice, semi-private library. The common room was packed but very quiet, and no one seemed to notice their entrance.
"Do you see Anthony?"
Harry shook his head as he scanned their surroundings.
"Let's go find him," he said and led Ron past a white marble statue of a stately woman wearing an intricate tiara set with an enormous star sapphire.
Rowena Ravenclaw, maybe? For the first time, he wondered what the Founders might have looked like.
The dormitory staircase led them into one of the turrets branching off the central tower; they went into the door marked as the second-year boys' dormitory, both feeling guilty for intruding, but neither saying anything as the door creaked open.
The dormitory itself was circular, like the common room, decorated in blue and bronze, and one of the large windows was open to let in the autumn breeze.
All three of the inhabitants turned towards them, and Harry began to shut the door.
"Wait!" said one of them, grabbing the handle. "Aren't you two Gryffindors?"
"Yeah, we are," said Ron. "We're looking for Anthony—"
"He's in here," said the boy who had grabbed the handle. "I'm Michael — sorry, never mind, you know that — I don't know if you know that — we've had lessons together for a year, so—"
"I'm Ron."
"That's Terry back there, and Anthony obviously under the cloth — bloody hell, you're Harry Potter — nice to meet you, well, properly and everything," said Michael. "Come on in, then, sit down. Terry, could you move the stuff on the chair so Anthony's friends can sit down?"
Slightly embarrassed by Michael (wasn't he overdoing it a bit?) Harry followed him and Ron inside.
"Are you sure it's a good idea, bringing you-know-who in here?" asked a curly-haired boy whom Harry assumed to be Terry, giving him a suspicious look. "I've been talking to Justin and Ernie about these things, you know—"
"Oh, get off your high horse," said Michael grandly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the subject. "Anthony, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley are here to see you."
"Er, what are you doing under there?" asked Harry in an attempt to change the subject, pointing at the black velvet cloth that had been thrown across two chairs and from which an ominous red light was emitted.
From the cloth emerged a familiar Ravenclaw, his shirt sleeves messily rolled up to his elbows, his tie undone, and hair limp with sweat.
"Hiya Harry, Ron!" called Anthony cheerfully. He wiped his ink-stained hands on his trousers, leaving black smears, and wiped his forehead, leaving another black smear. "Colin Creevey asked me for help with developing his pictures into proper ones — magical ones, I mean. It's hard going, I have to say. I'd show you, but—" He looked regretfully back at the cloth "—but I barely fit under there by myself without knocking things over."
"Yeah, well, could we borrow you for a second?" asked Harry. "We need your help."
As Ron took the vial of hair out from his pocket, Harry scanned the room. It couldn't have belonged to anyone in here, either.
"Of course," said Anthony, taking the vial from Ron, handling it carefully. "Cool, what kind of animal is it? Looks kind of like Demiguise hair — how did you get a hold of this stuff? It costs like an arm and leg! Unless you bought it on the black market, in which case it's probably Hag hair—"
"Human," said Ron. "Well, we think."
"Anthony's knowledge of normal human behaviour is somewhat lacking, so he might not be much help," said Terry nastily, and Harry shot him a glare. For once, he was glad of being an Obscurial because Terry shrank back in fear.
"To the library, then?" asked Anthony, scratching his nose and smearing yet more ink on his face in the process. "I'm guessing you want to know who it belongs to."
He glanced back at the pile of work on his desk and sighed.
"Professor Snape won't give me extra time for the work I missed," he griped.
"You didn't have to leave on holiday last week," said Terry, crossing his arms. "If you skive off class, you'll get behind."
Anthony looked like he wanted to shout at Terry, so Harry interrupted:
"Yeah, brilliant. Let's go. If your pictures are going to be okay..."
"I'll deal with them," said Michael. "Go with your friends."
There was not an efficient way to search the library, unfortunately. Unlike Muggle libraries, the Hogwarts library did not have a catalogue; Madam Pince recommended the east side of the library, but that was only so helpful.
"This is pointless," said Anthony after two hours of fruitless searching. "Let's try the Restricted Section. Maybe the stuff they won't teach is just the stuff we need."
"But the Restricted Section is where the Dark magic textbooks are," Ron protested.
"That's why Harry's got an Invisibility Cloak in his bag."
"But the— the Dark Arts are evil."
"The Dark Arts are evil," repeated Anthony, with something between confusion, disdain, and frustration. "Ron!" He shook the vial of hair. "We're finding out who a hair belongs to, not committing mass murder!"
"Okay," said Ron. "Fine. I suppose it's not like all the books in the Restricted Section are about Dark magic."
"Ron, your best friend is an Obscurial," said Anthony, nodding at Harry. "Is he evil?"
"No, how can he be? He's... well, he's just Harry, isn't he?"
"Yeah," said Harry sarcastically, slumping against the bookshelf. "Nice one, mate. Just Harry. Very flattering. You can put that on my gravestone."
Having had enough of the debate, he took out the Invisibility Cloak, glanced behind him to make sure that Madam Pince wasn't looking their way, shook it out and beckoned at the other two to squeeze in.
"It's definitely a tight fit," whispered Anthony. "Ouch, Harry, your elbow's in my eye."
"Sorry," said Harry. "Yeah, it always is. Let's go."
Quietly, the three tiptoed past rows of deserted bookshelves, which was easy going, and across the densely-populated middle of the library, which was difficult. There was not much noise to cover the sound of their footsteps, and people did not look where they were going, making it hard to avoid bumping into someone. But eventually, the danger passed, and they reached the velvet rope that cordoned off the Restricted Section from the rest of the library.
Here goes nothing, thought Harry. Can we get through?
He reached for the hook; the touch set a jolt up his arm like a small electric shock, but nothing happened as he unhooked the rope, and Harry allowed himself to let go of the breath he didn't know he was holding.
"So, where do you think we should start?" asked Anthony, stepping out of the cloak. "Potions or spells? We need to triage."
"Potions, maybe," said Harry. "The worst we can do is blow a cauldron up."
For about an hour, they sifted through any potions books that they could get their hands on until Ron picked up Moste Potente Potions.
"How's this? The Polyjuice Potion, which is a complex and time-consuming concoction, is best left to highly skilled witches and wizards. It enables the consumer to assume the physical appearance of another person, as long as they have first procured part of that individual's body to add to the brew (this may be anything — toenail clippings, dandruff or worse — but it is most usual to use hair). We could feed it to, oh, I dunno, a newt or something."
"Just one problem," said Harry, tapping a paragraph lower on the page. "You can change age, sex, and race by taking the Polyjuice Potion, but not species."
"So one of us will drink it," said Anthony.
"Is that a good idea?" asked Harry. "Drinking a potion that is 'best left to highly skilled witches and wizards'?"
"Confronting You-Know-Who alone and surviving is also best left to highly skilled witches and wizards," said Anthony archly. "Come on, you are supposed to be a Gryffindor."
Harry sighed. "Let's look at spells, then."
Ron bravely grabbed the nearest spellbook, but it let out a terrible, piercing shriek when he opened it.
"There's no way someone didn't hear that," Ron whispered; he looked so pale that Harry could count his freckles.
"Take the book and go!" said Harry, snatching Moste Potente Potions and the Invisibility Cloak off the table. They ran out of the Restricted Section and stopped short of running into a very irritated-looking Madam Pince, continuing on while she went inside and found no one there.
"That was too close," said Anthony as the three of them gasped for breath. "We escaped detention by a hair," he added, holding up the vial.
Harry and Ron both shot him unimpressed looks.
"This had better be worth it," said Harry, shifting Moste Potente Potions so that it was hidden inside his robes, then casually dropping it inside his bag once he was confident that they were alone. "Come on, act normal. We just need to copy everything down later, then sneak back in. Madam Pince won't even realize it's gone."
"It says here that there was a prefect called T. Riddle in the 1940s," Theodore pointed out as he stopped on the index page of Hogwarts Records, 1940-1949.
"Mmmm." Ruby followed his gaze, pushing her own book of records aside. "Slytherin Prefect, 1942-1945 and Head Boy, 1944-1945. He also got an Award for Special Services to the School in June of 1943."
Theodore leaned forward, suddenly interested.
"Doesn't it say what for?"
"No," said Ruby, frowning. "That would be too easy, wouldn't it? Well, at least we know T. M. Riddle was a he. And a prefect. And a Head Boy. And a Slytherin. That was around the time Professor McGonagall would have been at school, I think."
"Doing some research?"
"Ron!" yelped Ruby, turning to glare at the Gryffindor standing behind them and making Madam Pince glare at her. "You can't just sneak up on people like that!"
"Whoever he is, sounds like a right swot," said Ron, peering over her shoulder. "History lesson?"
"Ugh, don't, you're making me think of the essay for Binns."
"Hello, Weasley," said Theodore smoothly. "What brings you here? You can't possibly be studying, can you? Or perhaps you're looking for a textbook to borrow, makes sense, the ones you have must be ancient."
It was an insult, to be sure, but very cleverly worded and much better than Draco Malfoy could manage. Ron's face went as red as his hair, but he could say nothing in response.
"Well, Harry and Anthony are in the other section too, if you need us."
With that, he marched off, clearly upset.
"Honestly, Weasley's such an idiot," drawled Theodore. "Still, I wonder if he knows anything about T. M. Riddle. The Hat wouldn't put a Mud, a, uh, Muggle-born in Slytherin, but Riddle's not a wizard's name, and so his mother is sure to be a blood traitor. Wouldn't it be funny if she was a Weasley?"
"Blood traitor?" snapped Ruby. "You mean like my dad, Nott? And don't forget my Mudblood mother while you're at it. Besides, Ron's not an idiot, and you can't make fun of people just because they don't have much money."
He shrugged.
"I meant no harm, Ruby. You weren't brought up here, so you don't understand; the Weasleys are the laughingstock of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Besides, we still have work to do."
"People like you are why Slytherin's got a bad reputation," Ruby grumbled, but she got back to work, anyway. Still, she couldn't help but wonder how her fellow Slytherins would have treated her had she come to Hogwarts as Ruby Evans instead of Ruby Potter; or how they would have treated Mafalda Prewett had she been Muggle-born rather than the child of two Squibs.
What must it have been like, to be T. M. Riddle, all those years ago? Despite Theodore's dismissal, he just might have been a Muggle-born himself.
To have to walk past the painting of Elizabeth Burke that always gave her the shivers, not because it was scary in the least, but because the ancient Headmistress would whisper, "Be nasty to Mudbloods!"
And what about her mother? What was it like to be Lily Evans during the rise of Lord Voldemort?
"I was only joking," said Theodore. "Some wizards, like the Weasleys, love Muggles so much that they go all the way with it, you know—"
"Stop it!" shouted Ruby, not caring that she was in the library. "You don't have any right—"
"Like you love Muggles so much." Theodore shook his head. "You know, some people say you killed them, the Muggles you and Harry used to live with."
She froze.
"It's just gossip," said Theodore, his tone light and sardonic. "I'm just repeating gossip like you do. So let's get back to work."
"Besides," he whispered, "even if you did really kill Muggles, I wouldn't care, between you and me."
"You should care."
"I don't." Theodore tapped the book. "Back to work."
"Right," said Ruby, but she could not shake the feeling of revulsion.
A while later, Daphne and Lavender came by, mercifully, without Pansy. Lavender interrupted the study session without a second thought, babbling on about Lockhart non-stop for twenty minutes. Once she was quite out of breath, Daphne said:
"Haven't you heard, Lavender? Lockhart's as good as washed-out; his last three book deals all fell through, one after another. Why do you think he came here? A Hogwarts' professor's salary is—" she waved her hand dismissively "—passable at best. In fact, he's only here because, well, one, he thinks teaching Harry Potter might boost his popularity, get his name in the papers a couple times, and two, he's being sued."
Now, this was the good kind of gossip.
"By who?" asked Ruby, leaning forward.
Daphne shrugged.
"For libel, probably."