꠸ꪀᦓꪻ᥅ꪊꪑꫀꪀꪻᦓ ꪮᠻ ᦔꪖ᥅ᛕꪀꫀᦓᦓ
Voldemort's attack on Hogwarts leaves destruction in its wake. Rifts deepen, both inside and outside of the castle grounds.
As the Ministry crumbles to the whims of outside forces, Harry discovers a silent enemy is moving against him, and an old transgression from which Ruby cannot escape surfaces. A masked traitor colludes with his pawn.
All eyes, of course, are on Tom Riddle. Freedom from choice is granted to no one; even less so when fate surrounds you.
ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴍᴇ,
ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʏᴇᴛ ᴇɴᴋɪɴᴅʟᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ,
ʙᴇꜱɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴀᴡᴅᴏʀ. ʙᴜᴛ 'ᴛɪꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ;
ᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡɪɴ ᴜꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀʀᴍ
ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴꜱᴛʀᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴜꜱ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜꜱ,
ᴡɪɴ ᴜꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴛʀɪꜰʟᴇꜱ, ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏ'ꜱ
ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴇQᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ.
— ᴍᴀᴄʙᴇᴛʜ, ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍ ꜱʜᴀᴋᴇꜱᴘᴇᴀʀᴇ
Chapter One: Increase of Secrets
The rain was maddening. It pattered violently against the windows, each drop an instrument in an orchestra conducted by a shattering rhythm. Outside, the recently-charred ground drank greedily.
The young wizard watched, shoulders slumped, frozen in place, as the late May rain thundered down the window in great sheets. A misty reflection gazed back at him impassively; a curtain of black, unruly hair obscured his saturnine face, yet revealed the sullen expression upon it. The remnants of smoke hung about him, a tar-tainted reminder of misery. His long-fingered hands fidgeted irritably, obscured by the long sleeves of his dark robes.
Here he drifted — out of the abyss of the diary but yet forever in its grasp — abandoned by his own self.
Lord Voldemort was always with me; he had told Harry Potter so confidently mere weeks ago.
So why did he feel so forlorn — so acutely alone?
Nothing to fight. Nothing to lash out at. In a half-hearted manner, he pinned for the petty struggles of yesteryear, for Abraxas and Mulciber and all of them.
Pour and pour — ever since the abyss, emptiness had been an unfillable cup.
"It is late to be wandering about the corridors, Tom," said a voice from somewhere behind him.
The wizard recognised it, though, disorientated as he often was, it seemed to come from far away, sound disjointed. He did not turn, only waiting as the Headmaster drew close. I've asked him not to call me by that name. Not that he seems to listen to any advice but his own. He never has. He always knows best, Dumbledore.
"I've been advised by Minerva to keep myself out of sight from the students."
Out of sight, out of mind. However, that did not even come close to representing the amount of vitriol in her voice when she had admonished him to keep himself well hidden.
Dumbledore drew level with him, gazing out of the window, too.
"Yes," he said. He avoided Dumbledore's keen gaze studiously, careful not to look his fellow Legilimens in the eyes.
He wondered if Dumbledore was somehow at a loss for words. If so, this would be highly uncharacteristic, not to say suspicious. Almost subconsciously, he fingered the heavy gold chain around his neck; Slytherin's Locket was concealed under his shirt. The weight of it was strangely comforting, and he had grown used to it.
A small mark under his eye, drawn in ink specially commissioned from Nicholas Flamel himself, prevented him from speaking Parseltongue (and thus from opening the locket of his own accord, although no one but him knew about that — or, worse yet and likely everyone's primary concern, the Chamber of Secrets). If he failed to redraw the mark if it had faded each morning and appeared in front of Dumbledore, thus ensuring that the basilisk would not be awakened, he would be confined to his room. No more midnight strolls for him.
He was already without his (stolen) wand, and Tee (T. M. Riddle) was reluctant to lose the privilege of (relatively) unfettered access to the school after curfew.
Still, these weren't the worst circumstances he'd been in. But indeed the most difficult to wheedle his way out of. Dumbledore had him under a microscope, Minerva was ready to slit his throat at the slightest provocation, and the Potions Master looked the type to slip poison into people's food. The latter was why Tee made it a habit to share his food with the Hogwarts mail owls. That way, no one could have plausible deniability if he suddenly fell ill. Just in case.
"I'm tired," he told Dumbledore and turned on his heel, making a fast retreat.
It was best, he'd discovered over the past few weeks, not to engage. Everything that came out of his mouth seemed to be incriminating.
And the last thing he needed was a pair of green eyes on his back, too. Since their first two confrontations, he'd managed to avoid Harry Potter, if you didn't count the time a snake appeared in his room with a very threatening message to Stay away (to add insult to injury, because of the mark, he hadn't been able to reply and had had to content himself with seething and pacing. And breaking things, but let's not talk about that).
He trudged up three floors and made his way to the corridor where the professors' apartments were. His was at the dead end (so they heard him if he went creeping about at night, especially since the Potions Master kept frighteningly late hours; Tee had smelt the scent of boiling moonstone wafting through the hallways at twenty past three in the morning.
And why was he even awake at twenty past three in the morning? he thought, trodding down the corridor. The last door gave way as he turned the doorknob and shut behind him with a quiet puff.
He surveyed the contents of the relatively bare room.
The narrow bed against the window was neatly made — the sheets folded to a point. There was a small bookcase off to the side, a window overlooking the grounds, and a desk cluttered with scraps of parchment that had begun to float down to the floor, overdue library books, broken quills, an ashtray filled with cigarette stubs, and an open bottle of ink. The hard wooden chair had been left pulled out.
And though the room was sparse, nothing was white or otherwise blank. Green wallpaper with tiny, curling patterns, wooden floor with the knots and grooves still visible… and something about the room smelled like forest and home — something very relaxing but intoxicating at the same time.
There was an old-looking pewter cauldron off to the side. Beside it, a battered copy of Moste Potente Potions (complete with a disintegrating dust jacket) was open to somewhere in the middle. (Not that it mattered, as he didn't have a wand — yet).
A man in his late twenties, dressed elegantly in long, sweeping black robes over his dinner jacket, leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. A silver pocket watch dangled from his long, clever fingers. Silver rings adorned them — stolen baubles, most likely.
"It was taking you long enough," said the locket's long-time inhabitant. "Why didn't you call, Tommy?"
Tee scowled and ignored him, instead making a beeline to his desk and retrieving the ink bottle and quill. He scratched a small straif into one of the floorboards, concentrated very hard, and a small flame popped into existence. Next, he dove under his bed and returned from it with a small metal bowl, a can of something, a knife, and a piece of bread.
The wraith said nothing more but continued to watch him as he hacked the can open with a knife (so Muggle, Tee thought with an acid taste in his mouth — it reminded him of being at Wool's Orphanage over the summer) and poured its contents into the bowl, which he placed over the fire.
"It's past dinnertime," the wraith tried again. Tee chafed.
"Do you want me to smoke as well?"
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," the wraith sneered. "Listen here, ungrateful boy, you'd be dead—"
Tee jumped a little.
"—if not for me! Admittedly, it's a nicer prison than your last one. But what are you still doing here?" The question was not without a healthy serving of malevolence.
"I need Dumbledore to trust me a little bit." Then he could get his hands on a wand and escape. The thought was a half-hearted one. Hogwarts was the only place he had ever called home, and being within its walls again, even as a prisoner, was a comfort he could not bring himself to part with.
Vaguely, he wondered if the wraith would shut up and let him eat his miserable supper of baked beans (hot on the edges and cold in the centre) and charred toast.
"I only want what's best for us."
"Doesn't everyone," said Tee mirthlessly.
"I must confess I was quite disturbed, Tom, though I hoped and believed that it was possible that you felt sorry for what you had done, for you to grow up to be a decent young man. I felt I ought to keep an eye on you," said the wraith in a mocking tone, mimicking Dumbledore's words from fifty years past.
"Shut up," snarled Tee, a little off-put by his inability to punctuate his rebuke with a name. He paused. Hives had begun to erupt on the back of his neck.
So did the wraith, his silver pocketwatch chain looped around his finger.
"So it's a name you want from me, is it?" he asked slowly. A tense grin played on his lips. "Call me Mordred."
As if heeding the wrath's desire for a moment of drama, a clap of thunder struck.
A laugh escaped him. "Really? Mordred!" He had known himself to be perhaps a bit overdramatic at times, but this much!
"It seemed fitting," said Mordred with utter seriousness. At Tee's blank expression, he continued, with a raised eyebrow, "Oh? You don't know?"
"Don't know what?"
Mordred shut his eyes with a pleased hum. In the shadows, he looked almost wholly corporeal; Tee knew that if he reached out and touched him, he'd be cold and immaterial to the touch, like frozen gossamer.
Above all, Tee knew this bothered Mordred immensely. Though not quite like he had been in the diary — more miserable than Ariel in their cloven pine — the inability to fully interact with the material world must be frustrating.
"You ought to find me a permanent home," Mordred prompted.
Tee regarded him, then said viciously: "I don't think I'd wish your company on anyone."
"You'll regret that, you little twat," said Mordred, straightening up, but there was ease in his shoulders, and he didn't sneer. If Tee strained to hear, his voice almost sounded fond.
Feeling a treacherous smile pulling at his own mouth, Tee turned away, regarding his reflection (which he didn't like to do often) in the small mirror set on the desk critically.
He looked like what he was — a wayward boy dragged kicking and screaming into adulthood. Tee couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered to run a comb through his hair; his shirt was crumpled, and his expression wary, haunted and wild.
Suddenly, he understood why Tom Riddle had been so much easier to trust. Tom Riddle hadn't skulked around the castle like a ghost, like a mad ghost, unkempt and wild-eyed.
There was a pair of scissors lying on the desk. He picked them up and deliberately placed them just above his jaw. The blades closed with a satisfying click, and hair wafted down to the floor around him.
The weight — or, to be more exact, the lack of weight when he turned his head felt strange. Mordred had clicked his tongue in disapproval and informed him that he looked as if he'd cut it in the middle of the night with a hatchet (not far off from the truth) and promptly disappeared.
Tee didn't think it looked so bad. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and with a practised hand, re-drew a silvery naudiz under his eye.
Then, he got into bed and stared at the ceiling. Sleep did not come. There was a sickening, nagging thought in the back of his head that refused to go away.
What if I'd gone with him? Despite his harsh words, Voldemort was the best incarnation of him, was he not? If perhaps he'd just sucked it up.
All that he asked me was why I was here. I didn't have to respond with hysterics. The regret was bitter in his throat. Expecting him to be some sort of father figure is childish. Enough.
"My father is dead," said Tee finally, too softly for even Mordred to hear, if he was even listening from inside the locket. "He died the moment he left us."
But his own words were not convincing. After all, he could not bear to get rid of everything that he had taken from the house and was now under the bed; the cufflinks, the pocket-knife, the diary, and the pilot's cap all lay there, unused and collecting a protective layer of dust.
We all make mistakes. His existence was proof. But he did not like to admit his fallibility; even to himself. There was once a time when he had been maddeningly, blood-boilingly sure he would not live a meaningless, insignificant, and powerless life; yet, as he stared up at the ceiling, Tee thought with a pang of misery that his life was just that. Yes, he'd gotten out — out from under a red sky, burning houses, and the Thames blanketed in smoke, out from being Mudblood Tom Riddle, and even from mortality.
But to what end?
In the dark silence of the earliest morning, tears formed in his eyes.
An unusual quiet hung over the hallways of Hogwarts Castle. It was as if ever since the walls had been breached, so had some sort of secret contract between it and its inhabitants. Students regarded their school with a newfound wariness.
Harry Potter thought none could be warier than he; it was he who had been lured and manipulated by Quirrell, he who had heard the basilisk's whispering, and he who had been hunted by Voldemort so recently. He rarely moved about the halls without glancing over his shoulder every so often.
There was only one thing that emboldened him; the Invisibility Cloak. It was under its cover that he had sent snakes to threaten Riddle; under its cover, he'd tried to open Riddle's door a few nights ago.
Why would Dumbledore protect him? Harry shifted the weight of his satchel, rolling his shoulder, and gazed down the remaining length of the hallway. He knew Dumbledore's personal distaste for putting down monsters well enough; he himself was a beneficiary of this.
Not that he'd seen much of Riddle since the incident. Occasionally he would catch a flash of dark hair or a pale hand trailing up a faraway bannister; but nothing tangible.
He had to let Riddle know that he didn't scare Harry; that he couldn't get at him so easily. Riddle was the one who deserved to feel scared; Harry didn't care about crimes he had or hadn't committed yet, or at least the boiling anger that had taken up permanent residence within him didn't care. Tom Riddle was simply the most current guise of his eternal tormentor.
"I'm scared of you, all right, Potter! That's what you want, isn't it!"
Harry flinched reflexively at the recollection of Cedric's words.
Maybe that is what I want. But Riddle's just sick, he thought with disgust. He's not scared of anyone or anything.
Harry breezed into the library, waved at the librarian, Remus Lupin, as he passed the first few rows and into the mostly abandoned stacks; Hermione's voice wafted through the room towards him.
"Ehwaz and eihwaz are different runes."
From here, Harry could see the three miserable pupils; Ron, who was glowering at his Charms textbook, Anthony staring into space, his head resting on his arm, copper metal glinting in the weak light that managed to make its way into the stacks, and Ruby last of all, eyes downcast.
Since she'd taken it second year, Ancient Runes had become her de facto elective. She'd also picked Muggle Studies (an easy Outstanding) and Divination (given she'd had some practice with it, Harry surmised). Even with all the cramming, Harry wasn't sure if she'd manage to pass her third-year final exams, certainly not with flying colours.
"It's not like her life depends on it," griped Ron from across the table, desperately re-reading his Charms textbook. "You've been at it for hours, anyway."
"It might," said Hermione in a dark tone. "Eihwaz?"
"The yew is a tree with rough bark,
hard and fast in the earth, supported by its roots,
a guardian of flame and a joy on native land," Ruby quoted robotically, her eyes flicking up from the table to Hermione's.
Harry pulled up a chair; it squealed against the bare floor.
"Ehwaz?"
"The horse is a joy to princes in the presence of warriors.
A steed in the pride of its hoofs,
when rich men on horseback bandy words about it;
and it is ever a source of comfort to the restless."
"Hi," said Ron morosely, propping his head in his hands with a miserable expression. Harry returned the greeting and opened his own textbook, longing to have finals behind him and the long, sunny days of June ahead.
"Hypothetically," said Harry, "what would you recommend if I wanted to open a locked door, Hermione?"
"Alohomora," suggested Anthony.
"Tried that."
"No," said Hermione empathetically, crossing her arms.
Ruby had perked up, clearly glad to change the subject from runes, but still, a darkness was cast over her face. "Is this about T— Riddle?"
"No." Harry glared at her and slumped in his chair. Perhaps he had said it a little too harshly because her face fell even further. It wasn't fair, he knew; she already felt guilty enough about it already. It was Riddle who deserved to be snapped at.
"Of course it's about Riddle," groused Ron. "You talk my ear off about him every night."
"And you still manage to fall asleep."
"If I could just frame him for something—"
"Harry!" Hermione snapped, making everyone jump. "No revenge — at least until after exams!"
"You know, Hermione," said Ruby in an utterly severe tone, "if you weren't a witch, you might have had a promising career as a drill sergeant."
Everyone but Hermione and Ron erupted into fits of laughter; Hermione looked ready to combust, and Ron simply looked confused.
"A drill sergeant teaches new Muggle soldiers," Anthony explained. "They do quite a bit of screaming."
As the mirth died down, Harry felt his thoughts drawn to Riddle once more.
Ice settled in the bottom of his stomach. He scratched off a wad of ancient gum wedged under the table with his fingernail.
"Penny for your thoughts?" asked Anthony. Harry watched him rolling his quill absentmindedly between his prosthetic fingers.
"Nothing," said Harry darkly, and then he applied himself to studying his notes from Charms. Yet, his thoughts quickly drifted away, despite the impending exam.
He had resolved not to talk to Ruby about Tom Riddle since he'd lost his temper at her the night of the battle. She knew, of course, about Harry stalking him around the castle, as they'd settled back into old routines as much as they conceivably could, but nothing about the previous months was fit for discussion.
They'd discussed Tom Riddle in any relevant capacity but once, and it had made Harry feel strangely ill.
"Why did he save my life in the Hospital Wing?"
"Because I begged him to," Ruby had answered simply.
Needless to say, Harry was loath to learn the details of their Faustian bargain. Maybe that was something he disliked about himself; it wasn't the first time he'd permitted Ruby to do the dirty work whilst reaping the benefits of her efforts.
"She's changed," Anthony had said one day, walking past Harry on his way to the Ravenclaw table. He'd lifted his head and glanced over at the other end of the Great hall to see if he could see it, too. But Harry wasn't sure if she had changed, despite his initial fright upon her return with Riddle and Sirius Black in tow. Ruby had always been vicious at her core; in a way few had glimpsed and only he had ever truly known. And no one should ever know.
No, Harry thought to himself, noting how glassy-eyed Anthony's stare had been then and how similarly bright and fixed it was now; she hasn't at all. But no one will ever have to know.
No one would have to know about Vernon Dursley, and no one would have to know about Tom Riddle's future self.
And anyway, we've all changed.
Since Umbridge's rule, there'd been a new strictness to Hermione; a silent terror. They'd not talked about her time squirrelled away in the Room of Requirement with the other Muggle-borns, although Harry gathered she had with Ron. There hadn't been much levity left in Anthony after the basilisk's attack to be drained.
"Hello, Harry," said a voice from behind him. It had the icy quality of a shard of frozen glass, and was instantly recognisable as belonging to one of Harry's least favourite people.
"Hello, Nott." He swivelled around in his chair. "How long were you lurking?"
"I don't lurk," said Theodore evenly.
Theodore Nott was a creep and a lurker, and there was no telling how much of the conversation he'd overheard.
"Ruby... Weasley... Goldstein... Granger." Theodore acknowledged each of Harry's companions with a deliberate nod of his head. When he got to Hermione, he was met by a slight snarl, her eyes flashing contemptuously.
"Ill met by moonlight," said Anthony under his breath. Hermione offered a tense smile.
Nott hesitated but stepped forward and opened his mouth nonetheless.
Can't help himself, thought Harry snidely.
"I'm studying for Ancient Runes, too. And Charms, of course," said Theodore.
No one moved.
"Consider this an olive branch," he continued.
An olive branch wrapped in poison ivy, most likely. Harry was infinitely wary of whatever prickly gifts Theodore Nott had to offer. Furthermore, it was quite possible that he hadn't been forgiven for the Weedsoros incident.
It was a notable observation that the pro- and anti-Umbridge factions had separated as if by an iron curtain. But Harry did not think even Nott would think imposing himself on the study group would mend old wounds.
Hermione drew herself up to her full height. "And what makes you the head of the delegation?" she asked imperiously.
"He's not," said another voice. "We are."
Someone else was coming towards them, two someones, Harry realised. The first was a tall, lithe girl with dark brown hair set in princess curls, and the second a dark-skinned boy who moved with calculated grace, his sombre presence disrupted only by his mischievous expression.
Upon reflection, Daphne and Blaise were a much more natural choice for peacemakers. Not that Harry liked the look of a triple ambush any better.
At least, he thought, Pansy Parkinson's nowhere to be seen.
Ruby had gotten up, Ancient Runes forgotten for now, and had crossed the space between the table and her Housemates.
"Daphne."
"Potter."
An uncomfortable silence followed. Daphne stood, hands clasped in front of her, expectant. Neither of the two girls seemed to breathe or move a single muscle. Suddenly, Blaise stepped out from behind Daphne and looped an arm around Ruby's shoulders; Harry saw her stiffen in shock.
"Easy, girls," murmured Blaise. "Nothing's worth fighting over. I know we've had our differences in the past—"
"Get out," Hermione ground out, her eyes shining with anger — Harry swore sparks were coming off her hair like a great, bushy brown storm cloud. Ron put a placating hand on her arm, but she brushed him off, furious and bristling. "GET OUT!"
Daphne was the first to spin on her heel and retreat, Blaise following with a quick "See you, Potter" and a grin. Theodore lingered, though.
"This means war, Granger," he whispered. "Same goes for the rest of you blood traitors. And Ruby—"
She was startled at the sound of her name.
"—pick a side, and remember our conversation second year. I'm not the sort of wizard you want as your enemy."
"Whatever you say," said Ruby haughtily; though Harry still couldn't see her face, she still looked rather tense. "See you in the common room."
With that, she marched back up to the table and sat back down, clearly in a huff. Harry wondered what she would do once she returned to the common room.
"Ehwaz," Hermione repeatedly half-heartedly, but there was an uncharacteristic dullness behind her eyes.
Or perhaps in Slytherin, you'll make your real friends...
Ruby could not help but find that just a little bit ironic. Draco Malfoy (during his short tenure at Hogwarts) had turned his nose up at her as the consolation prize, an attempt had been made with Theodore and Daphne, and whilst Alastair, Gemma, and Mafalda had been cordial enough while they'd been at school, the identity of the Slytherin she'd gotten along with most of all truly disgusted her.
"Philia," she muttered. With a quick glance behind her to ensure no one was lurking about, she turned the handle of the camouflaged door and emerged into the gloriously-adorned Slytherin Common Room. In hindsight, it seemed that either the Blacks had been inspired by the common room or vice versa.
She shrugged off her cloak, folding it over her arm. The heat from the fire was sufficient, even in the drafty dungeons.
If only someone bearable had been sorted into Slytherin her year.
"Going to grace us with your presence, Pyromaniac Potter?" asked Blaise, throwing an arm over the back of his sofa and pivoting around.
"I'm going to change before dinner," she said sharply, annoyed at being accosted.
"Come to dinner with us," Blaise reparteed.
She floundered, trying to figure out a response that would shut him up. Then, she felt a familiar pair of eyes on her back; Theodore Nott, who else?
And Theodore would not be quieted until her had exactly what he wanted.
"Fine."
Ruby stormed off downstairs to the empty dormitory; most of the beds remained unmade from earlier in the day, except for Daphne's, whose sheets had been refolded to neat, delicate points.
A familiar scratching sound emanated from under her bed; Ruby knelt down and lifted the edge of the dark green quilt, grinning.
"Heph," she cooed, and a slender black cat sprang out and into her arms, purring like an old heater, his whiskers twitching in delight as she scratched him under the chin. Slowly, she felt herself start to relax, too.
What did Theodore mean about being my enemy? she wondered. Was it all bluster? Ruby brushed it off. She'd find out soon enough, she supposed.
Cordoning off the darkest thoughts swirling in her mind came easily. It always had; with Vernon, with Tee— Lord Voldemort, she refused to call him by that childish, blindly trusting nickname any longer. She got to her feet, deposited a disgruntled Hephaestus on the bed, and straightened her clothes. As she did, her hands brushed her mother's necklace, which had been silent since its massive expulsion of power mere weeks ago. Now, it was just an ordinary bauble, nothing more than a golden necklace in the shape of a Time-Turner.
How will I find my way in this place without you?
She'd not talked to anyone about it, but the thought of the loss was unbearable, but for the knowledge that their mother's protection lived on in her and Harry's blood.
Will that be dissolved, too, when it's tried? Will Voldemort only need to make two more attempts?
A knock resounded, and Blaise's muffled voice after it. "Coming, Potter?"
"Coming," she agreed and got to her feet.
Blaise, Theodore, Daphne, Pansy, and Tracey had, unsurprisingly, formed a small mob outside her door.
"Looks like the same clothes to me," Blaise commented as she breezed past him. "Not trying to avoid me, are you?"
"Would I ever?" asked Ruby dryly. She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling of Theodore's keen eyes glued to her back. And to think I tried to be his friend once! I felt sorry for him because of Malfoy!
Malfoy's disappearance had irrevocably shifted the power dynamics in their year, she realised. Theodore, despite his initial meekness, was the natural successor.
Arrogant, two-timing bastard! I should have known he was a Death Eater pawn from the start! Now, how do I get him off my scent?
Ruby considered this further as they left the common room and began to make their way to the Great Hall.
Or, perhaps, this is an opportunity. She stole a glance at Theodore. Maybe I could feed him false information. Would he be able to tell if I lied to him?
I could start with a little one and see if he bites.
They filed into the Great Hall and took their places along the Slytherin Table. Anthony waved at her on his way in and almost walked into a wall, causing Blaise to jeer at him; Ruby marshalled her resolve and resisted the urge to stamp on his toes. Lavender and Parvati looked like they wanted to come over, but Ruby shook her head. It wouldn't do for them to get caught in whatever trap Theodore was presently laying for her tonight.
"Thought about it much?" asked Theodore casually as he helped himself to mashed potatoes. He cocked his head to the side. "Can I pass you anything, Ruby?"
"No, thanks."
"You really should consider it," Daphne added. "Slytherins versus Gryffindors has always been a friendly rivalry. We don't want a serious falling-out with your brother and his friends."
No, it's been blood purists and everyone else, thought Ruby. Out loud, she said: "Well, I've been gone for the whole year."
"Exactly," said Theodore. "That's why you should be the one to make peace. You're unbiased."
"I'm uninformed." Informed enough, however, to know that Theodore and Daphne had fought Harry and Ron in order to sell the Muggle-borns out to Umbridge.
Theodore sighed, as if he were Atlas, carrying the world on his shoulders. "You're being contrary."
Ruby bit her tongue. He's as good as poisoned the next words to leave my mouth. The rest of the third years were peering at her expectantly. There was nothing to do but concede.
"What do you want?"
"To put this all behind us."
Harry won't like this, she thought uneasily. Nevertheless, she stuck her hand out.
"Done," said Ruby grimly. Daphne's smile was flickering, though she was clearly struggling to hold it back.
"Done," Theodore agreed, and shook her hand firmly.
Endnotes:
#1: I don't know about you, but I was tired of referring to Locket!Riddle as 'the wraith' especially with THREE Riddles running around (help is this a multiverse?), so he had to get a proper name to save us all a headache! I put 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' through an anagram generator to see if any interesting combinations would show up - and I was very pleased to see 'Mordred' appear in some of the anagrams, as given its origin in King Arthur lore, I felt it fits him quite well.