"ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴏ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴀʟᴄᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀ ʜɪᴍ."
― ᴊ.ʀ.ʀ. ᴛᴏʟᴋɪᴇɴ, ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʙʙɪᴛ
Chapter Sixteen: A King and Queen Endgame
Deep underneath the Black Lake, the corridors were so silent that one could hear strange, subterranean noises, as if the castle were alive and whispering to itself. Time seemed to stop, or at least slow to a syrupy pace.
Wandering the corridors after dark was really starting to wear on Tee. There were only so many nooks and crannies to explore, only so many curious little passages and side-rooms in the dungeons to uncover. Most of these dungeon rooms, as he was familiar, had served as places to experiment with Dark magic, leaving many dangers and booby traps behind; it was the main reason why not even Slytherins cared to venture deep into the belly of the school. For that reason, he'd decided not to try any doors this time, simply continuing down the long, winding hallways, his right hand trailing on the stone wall beside them as his surroundings grew darker and darker.
Tee sat down against the wall in the near darkness, stretched his legs out, and shut his eyes. In the meditative silence, he could hear the soft, comforting sounds of Black Lake quite clearly, echoing all around him.
Both Legilimency and its sister art, Occlumency, had always come easily to him, before he'd even known the implications what what he could do, that magic existed within him. It felt natural to close his mind to the presence and concerns of others, to wall off the inconvenient parts of him.
Instead, in the lonely darkness, he unfurled, like a flower opening, gently trusting, probing the outside world. It was safe here. Empty. He felt only the uncomplicated minds of ants, mice, and other small, insignificant creatures focused solely on survival.
His mind brushed another human's.
Tee's eyes flew open.
It was the boy from the Slytherin common room standing over him—the boy who had lured Harry Potter into the dungeons, the boy who had known who he was, the boy who had called him the Dark Lord with a knowing smile—Thaddeus Nott's son, Theodore Nott.
"What," asked Tee uneasily, "do you want?"
The boy merely continued to smile. Tee found his overly-pleasant demeanour distinctly off-putting.
"Come with me," he said. And then, without waiting for Tee or glancing behind to see if he was following, he trotted off.
Should I go with him?
Why not? It wasn't like that boy could harm him even if he wanted to.
And, besides, Tee was bored out of his wits.
He got up heavily, squinting in the darkness, and followed, his longer strides quickly catching up to the boy.
"Where are we going?"
"Oh, you'll see, My Lord. Or, do you prefer T. M. Riddle?"
"Whatever you think is best," said Tee, but a strange, giddy flush had come over him when Nott called him 'My Lord.'
He pushed open the door to the Slytherin common room, and they went in. It was mostly empty, Tee noted, except for fifth- and seventh-year students busy studying for their upcoming O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.
Isn't it long after curfew? Tee wondered. Why was he so insistent on finding me?
Now, Nott did glance over his shoulder to make sure he was following as they headed down the stairs that led to the dormitories. A wave of nostalgia washed over Tee, a strange mix of longing and regret.
He snapped out of his reverie when Theodore Nott opened the door to his old dormitory — it was currently marked Fourth-Year Boys — and nearly just as Tee remembered it. Silver lanterns hanging from the ceiling cast a soft, glowing light, accompanied by the sounds of water lapping against the windows, the lake dark in the night. The four poster beds with their green hangings were the same, too; most with the curtains drawn and the occupants, he assumed, already fast asleep. What time was it, anyway?
Tee found himself standing in front of the single empty bed, staring, overcome with meaning and memory. This was where Abraxas had branded him — where he'd hidden that damned diary and written in it near enough every night — where he'd had countless nightmares — stayed awake into the wee hours of the morning self-studying Dark magic —
"It's been a while, Tommy."
The voice was familiar. He turned.
There, looking nearly fully corporeal in the dim light, Mordred stood, leaning against an alcove, his ringed hand hiding a smile, his dark eyes searching Tee's face intently.
Nott's face had lit up in interest, but not surprise, for some reason. So he had willingly taken the locket!
"You," spat Tee, rounding on the boy, who stared up at him with faux innocence.
Mordred's face twisted in a spiteful expression, his voice sounding frozen over.
"Oh, he's not the one who tossed me away like yesterday's rubbish."
"So, it was the cold shoulder, then? Punishment?"
"A little." Mordred sighed. "I need a favour, to be frank."
"If you're looking for a body, you've got one right there." Tee gestured at Nott. "You seem to be getting along on your own."
"Possession is messy," said Mordred. "Besides, young Nott is on our side."
Tee was suddenly reminded of Harry Potter's bushy-haired friend.
"Obviously, he's working with someone. That's what that house-elf told you, Harry, isn't it? That Voldemort's not alone?"
He had been convinced that Theodore Nott didn't have the locket.
As if guessing what he was thinking, Mordred explained: "Oh, it's quite simple. A diet of deepest fears, darkest secrets... it was enough to make me close to the living world, to strengthen our bond enough that we became indistinguishable. To understand is to become."
Tee's gaze flicked to the boy beside Mordred. There didn't seem to be anything particularly unusual about him, but then again, Tee had no idea what he was like normally.
"So it was you in the Chamber — you both — you didn't think to tell me, at least?" His voice rose in indignation.
"It was indeed," Mordred admitted, his eyes glittering with eagerness in the wan light. "Who else could milk basilisk venom? And to tell you would be to risk Dumbledore knowing of our activities." He leaned forward, his expression earnest. "I wanted you to get rid of me, Tommy. We accomplished so much more apart than we ever would together. Whilst Dumbledore and the others were wasting their time suspecting you, they hadn't the slightest idea of what was really going on under their noses."
The cogs in Tee's brain were already turning as he processed that confirmation of what he had already surmised.
"So the poisonings were a distraction." But what for?
"Exactly," said Mordred, nodding his head. "One measure of basilisk venom-derived poison in the Gryffindor Quidditch team's broom polish, absorbed through the skin and eliminated in the liver and kidneys in five hours unless pumpkin is consumed before that time. I must say, I thought the so-called genius Potions professor would have figured it out by now."
Tee thought he sounded much too smug about what was not a particularly complex plan. After all, he wasn't the first to devise a two-part poison.
"So, again, if you've got it all completely under control without me, what am I here for? To congratulate you?"
As if that were a cue, Nott flicked his wand towards Tee. "Accio albedo!"
Before he could react, the white stone zoomed out of his pocket and into the boy's clutches. Tee snarled and lunged for it; he had no use for it, but that albedo was hard won, all he had to show for fifty years of whitewashed purgatory, but he met with an invisible shield, pounding his fists on it.
But wait. Something was strange. No one else stirred in this room. Surely, the commotion must have woken at least one of the other occupants?
I wish I had my wand. His fingers itched for the warm, smooth wood between them, for the blazing power of the phoenix feather within that mirrored his own. All he could do was watch as Theodore Nott offered Mordred the albedo, glowing softly in the darkness of the dormitory like moonlight given shape.
"Incomplete," Mordred said of it. "A lesser version of the philosopher's stone. But I appreciate your gift nonetheless. It is stronger than salt."
He took it up in his ghostly fingers, seeming to become more solid where it had made contact. And then, under Nott and Tee's watchful gaze, bit into it, the albedo emanating a strange, ringing sound, dripping milky tears. Mordred glowed brighter and brighter, a pure white that seared through Tee's mind — it was happening all over — he was trapped again —
And then the light receded, Mordred just as solid as him, but odd, shimmering treacherously like a selkie, eerily pale, his lips bloodless and his fingernails translucent and white when he lifted a hand to his face, gently inspecting the curve of his nose, his cheekbones, his eyelids.
The eyes are different, Tee realised with a jolt. Just as the Philsopher's Stone — rubedo — had stained Voldemort's irises red as blood, the pale result of the lesser work had leached the pigment from Mordred's, leaving them a pale silver colour like moonlit glass.
"Should've picked the winning side, Tommy," said Mordred.
But I didn't! I haven't picked a side! I don't want to! I don't want to be involved in any of this mess! I'm not even supposed to be here!
And then, everything went black.
Harry's eyes flew open, meeting the deep reddish darkness of the curtains around his bed, open only a sliver to let the moonlight leak in. He rubbed his eyes, staring blearily up at the ceiling.
What had woken him? Probably Ron's snoring, he thought, and Harry turned over and pulled the covers over his head, intent on going back to sleep. Potions was tomorrow, and Snape had hinted that he might be poisoning one of them to see if their antidote worked for the final practical next month, meaning his work had to be perfect.
Just then, he shouted in pain, his scar aching like he'd been stabbed through the forehead. Harry clapped his hand to his scar, but the pressure did nothing to distract himself from the pain.
Groaning, he pulled himself into a sitting position, his head spinning. He felt faint. His limbs trembled, and his face felt bloodless and numb.
"Ughhhhh."
This was bad. It was worse than it had ever been. Why did it hurt so much? He couldn't stand it. Maybe something was really wrong. Maybe he should go to Madam Pomfrey.
As a minute of stabbing pain oozed by, Harry was beginning to find that to be a better and better idea by the second. He really had to go to the Hospital Wing. Now.
He reached over and grabbed his glasses, hooking the stems around his ears with shaking hands.
His curtains parted with a harsh SHHHHINKKKK! and Harry started, his eyes smarting as bright light stung them.
A figure loomed over him.
Harry's blood ran cold, and he froze like a deer in headlights. He wished he could scream, reach for his wand, run, or do anything, but he was paralysed by the moonlit scene before him.
The man standing over him smiled, a too-wide smile, devoid of happiness and full of greed, stretched across his face, a face Harry recognised even in the haze of pain. And that intelligent, predatory gaze; he knew it all too well.
Riddle.
But this wasn't the Riddle that Ruby had brought back to life, the Riddle who skulked around the castle followed by the scent of cheap cigarettes. Nor was it the Riddle who tormented Harry in his first year, who fought Dumbledore on the grounds.
Who is he?
This was some malevolent ill-between incarnation. And something was very off about him.
His skin was pale and luminescent but strangely bloodless. Uncanny.
Harry panicked and dove for his wand, but the strange, older Riddle snatched it up first, twirling it between his long fingers. A very ugly look had come over his handsome features.
"So I finally meet the great Harry Potter," said Riddle in a mocking tone. He looked at Harry's wand with great interest and gave it a deliberate, tentative swish, trailing silvery-blue light through the air like a lightning strike. With another swish of his wand, Harry's curtains changed colour from red to green and back again.
All the while, Harry's heart had started up a shuddering, shattering rhythm, the blood rushing in his ears.
Finally, Harry found his voice. "Give me my wand back, Riddle. What do you think you're playing at? Dumbledore—"
The man cut him off, laughing. "Dumbledore is incapacitated."
With a jolt, Harry realised the dormitory was quiet. He couldn't hear Ron's thunderous snoring, and the room felt strangely empty and cold without it.
Did he... could he... how? They can't all be dead.
Cold sweat slipped down his back, and Harry shuddered. Sleeping... they must be.
Older Riddle flicked Harry's wand, and ropes bound themselves around Harry's ankles like shackles.
"Come on." The man grabbed him by the back of his pyjamas, hauling him to his feet. "We are on a schedule."
Harry screamed, but Riddle Silenced him. He could do nothing but stumble forward as the man dragged him out of the dormitory, the unbearable pounding in his head sending him back to the warm, dark embrace of unconsciousness, but not before his fingers found Hermione's silver compact in his pocket, and pressed the big, round button.
Hermione Granger woke from her sleep with a start. She began to push aside the curtains in order to investigate, but her head lolled forward, and she felt strangely sluggish, but not in a sleepy way.
The silver compact on her nightstand was pealing loudly, the sound going through her brain. Mindlessly, she reached a hand out to shut it off.
But this wasn't her alarm clock. It wasn't the holidays. It was April still, and she was at Hogwarts, where there were definitely no alarm clocks.
Wait a second. That's the danger alarm.
Maybe one of the boys had set it off on accident, thought Hermione with a twinge of annoyance. But that seemed unlikely.
Furthermore, she felt weird. Her head felt blurry, and the room seemed to spin around her. She tried to sit up, but her limbs were leaden. Her fingers and toes tingled with a pins-and-needles sensation, and her whole face was numb. She wasn't just sleepy; therefore, this was...
Poison.
It seemed ridiculously overdramatic, and if not for the previous incidents, Hermione would have immediately dismissed it as the most improbable option. But, as she'd told Harry and Ron — Sherlock Holmes's deductive reasoning never failed — when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
Reaching towards her nightstand again, Hermione clumsily patted at the cluttered surface until her hand brushed the rough, planed surface of Harry's Christmas present, a single measure of Antidote to Uncommon Poisons hidden in a hollowed-out crystal.
What if it's not the right antidote? Sometimes the cure itself can be the poison — that was even in her Potions notes.
Whatever happened to her as a result of the potion-antidote interaction, Hermione assumed, Madam Pomfrey could counter. And she trusted Harry's brewing skills. The antidote was her best bet.
Screwing her eyes shut, Hermione drank the medicinal, bitter-tasting potion. As soon as it hit her tongue, she felt it start to work — her vision cleared, her brain felt less foggy, and her limbs less heavy.
Now fully alert, Hermione shifted in the darkness. She checked the compact by wandlight. No message.
What's going on? Something eerie was in the atmosphere. Then again, maybe it was her imagination.
When had she been poisoned? At dinner?
Hermione shoved her curtains aside and slid out of bed, slipping her feet into a pair of shoes. The room echoed silently around her. Hermione couldn't hear Lavender talking in her sleep, which usually annoyed her no end. She went to the bed beside hers and gingerly parted the curtains.
More silence. Hermione pushed through the curtains, encasing herself in darkness once more.
"Lumos." The tip of her wand flared with light, casting strange shadows on the sleeping girl's face.
Lavender lay like a corpse embalmed in her pink pyjamas, her curls fanned out around her head and her arms crossed over her chest, which was rising and falling, but only just.
"Lavender," said Hermione, a sickening feeling beginning to spread cold, squeezing tendrils around her abdomen. She reached out and shook her shoulder gently. "Lavender. LAVENDER!"
The girl did not stir, and nor did anything else in the room.
Hermione's head spun with questions. It can't be Dreamless Sleep Potion, she reasoned, that doesn't make people dead to the world. That means…
She's been poisoned too. Everyone in this dormitory has.
So, Harry and Ron? The danger alarm?
Panic blossomed in Hermione's ribcage; she shut the curtains and dashed towards the door, tearing down the stairs into the common room and up the ones that led into the boys' dormitory. When she reached the door to the fourth-year boys' dorms, Hermione noticed it was ajar.
Strange.
She stepped cautiously into the dormitory, the darkness almost swallowing her. Her heartbeat in her throat, she crept forward, every so often rotating in place to flash her wand light around. The same eerie quiet pervaded this room, too. She almost felt as if she were being watched.
Hermione found herself in front of Harry's bed and noticed that the curtains had been pulled open. Peering past them, she leapt back in shock and horror.
The bedsheets were all rumpled, and the pillows had an indentation in them. She touched it; still warm. Harry had been sleeping there until very recently. His glasses were nowhere to be seen, and nor was his wand. Had there been a struggle? Or had he, like her, woken up and realised he'd been poisoned? That alone was ample reason for a danger alarm.
Maybe he was looking for Dumbledore? He was probably perfectly fine.
But what if he's not?
"What do you think?" she asked out loud, and then, realised that she was waiting for Ron to answer with something contrary.
Ron!
She turned to the bed next to Harry's and shoved the curtains aside. Like Lavender had been, he was lying on his back, alive but breathing shallowly and dead to the world.
This time, she didn't bother with the shouting or the shaking, grabbing a handkerchief from the nightstand and soaking it in the antidote, then prying his jaws open, which was more difficult than she expected, and forcing it into his mouth.
"'Mione?" asked Ron blearily, sitting up, rubbing his eyes, and spitting out the handkerchief. "Whassamatter?"
"Something's wrong, Harry's gone missing! And everyone's been poisoned — well, all the Gryffindor fourth years, at least!"
"Harry? Missing?" Ron stared past Hermione at Harry's empty bed. "Knew this year was going too bloody well." He glowered. "My money's on Riddle."
Could it be? She remembered running into him outside of the Great Hall at Christmas. Hermione knew he was Lord Voldemort, but he didn't seem to share the older wizard's bloodlust when it came to Harry. There were plenty of times he could have tried to kill him. Why now?
The poisonings.
Someone had tried to kill Harry, someone very good at covering up their tracks. Could it have been Riddle? He seemed to be the most likely suspect, having motive, means, and opportunity. The simplest explanation is usually the best, after all.
Ron was pulling a jumper on over his pyjamas, and then leaning down to put shoes on.
"Let's go check," he said.
"Check what?"
"If anyone else's awake."
Yes, that made sense. Why only the Gryffindor fourth-years? "What if it's the whole school? What do we do then?"
"Hermione, are you a witch, or aren't you?"
"Snape might have antidote," she thought aloud, tapping her finger to her chin. "Actually, Snape might be awake. I'll ask Nearly-Headless Nick."
A slow grin spread across Ron's face as he stood. "You know, I've always wanted to raid Snape's storeroom."
The dark ceiling of the Slytherin dormitory greeted him.
It's too dark. It must be three or four in the morning.
He lay awake, staring into space. The familiar soft, near silence of the dormitory greeted him. Was it all somehow a dream—the murder, the diary, the Chamber, the battle—one rotten, horrible nightmare? The unpleasant and unusual result of a poorly brewed batch of Dreamless Sleep Potion? Could it be?
"Avery," he said under his breath, hope on his tongue, trying to rouse the lightest sleeper in the dormitory. Then again, louder. "Avery. Wake up."
He sat up, his body aching strangely, and pushed the curtains aside. In the dim light, as he stood, his eyes met his reflection in the floor-length mirror. No such luck.
Tee felt a headache coming on, too. He massaged his temples. Then why am I here? Here, in the places he'd stood, in the very bed he'd slept in fifty years ago. Why?
In his mind's eye, he saw Ruby Potter tilting a teacup in the sunlight — M for Mordred.
Mordred. Mordred and that boy. It was all coming back to him now. Mordred and that boy and the albedo—
He dropped to his knees, searching for it. It had been somewhat carelessly abandoned and had rolled under the bed. The milky liquid that had dripped from it had crusted over, like dried pus from an old wound.
Tee sat down on the bed to collect his thoughts. The back of his neck was starting to sting with hives.
Mordred had consumed the albedo. It wasn't perfect enough to give him an immortal body like Voldemort. He was still as vulnerable as an ordinary human, not indestructible as the locket had been.
So why? What was the use of an imperfect body when he had Theodore Nott to do his bidding?
I'll have enough strength to be seen by others too, hold a wand.
He meant to accomplish something with magic that was beyond the boy's capabilities.
And what might that be?
Tee almost laughed aloud when it dawned on him.
To finally kill Harry Potter.
Just then, the door swung open, the handle hitting the wall with a loud clatter.
"Nott!" snarled a familiar voice, her dark figure silhouetted against the light flooding the doorway. "I know this was you! You won't get away with it this time!"
"It appears he already has," Tee pointed out in a dry tone.
Ruby Potter tensed as she swung around to face him, stalking closer and closer with her drawn wand. Tee didn't even flinch as it hovered inches from his throat, the tip smouldering with flame from the dragon heartstring inside.
He narrowed his eyes, wincing at the heat of the flame, moved her hand out of the way and said, in a low, soft voice, "Don't threaten me. We both know you're not going to burn me alive."
Ruby wrenched her arm out of his grip and pressed her wand to his temple. "Just start talking."
He laughed, his shoulders lifting up and down, jostling her hand slightly. "I've never cast the Killing Curse, but I hear you really have to mean it. Do you?"
"Try me," said Ruby angrily, but it was an empty threat. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"Our mutual friend lured me here. He wanted to get his hands on something. And, I suspect, get me out of the way."
Even in the dim light, he could see her frown. She still didn't trust him. He could tell. He knew these things.
"Why would Theodore want you out of the way?" asked Ruby, drawing back and finally putting her wand away. "How does he even know about you? Everyone's supposed to think you left after the battle, if they even noticed you then."
"I ran into him in the common room." It was, in his defence, half of the truth. Tee paused. He sighed. "You might want to check on your brother."
The blood seemed to drain from Ruby's face.
"He's gone after — you mean — he's been—"
"Abducted? Attacked? You suggested it yourself," said Tee.
Ruby nodded solemnly and began to march off towards the exit. At the doorway, she hesitated.
"Aren't you coming?"
Oh, fuck's sake. Tee felt the vice grip of the life debt that bound their fates tug at him.
"I need a wand."
Something long and thin sailed through the air, landing miraculously unbroken at Tee's feet. He bent over to retrieve the item. It was familiar the moment his fingertips brushed it — Lockhart's wand. The feeling of it in his hand was sweet relief after so long without a wand; Tee dragged it in a figure-eight loop, trailing golden sparks. Ruby was regarding him with a wary expression, as if half-regretting her decision to hand him a lethal weapon.
He pocketed it, and she relaxed slightly.
"You carried it around?" asked Tee, walking briskly past the row of beds and towards the doorway.
"Just in case," said Ruby irritably. "You never know when you might need help from your worst enemy."
Tee shut the door behind him as they entered the hallway.
"Where did Nott take Harry?"
She was trying to keep the panic out of her voice, force it to be level, but it was a futile endeavour.
Thinking of his earlier encounter with the two boys, Tee suggested: "The dungeons are a good place to start looking."
Tee wondered if he should tell Ruby about Mordred.
Probably not. He could always pretend, he thought, with a flash of spite towards his older self, that he was as ill-informed as she was.
"No luck," said Ron grimly on his way down the stairs. "Everyone's dead to the world."
For her part, Hermione was anxiously chewing on the inside of her cheek and awaiting Nearly-Headless Nick's return to the common room.
"I've been trying to think who could have done this," said Hermione as Ron came to sit beside her on the armchair. "Snape checks all the food... unless it is Snape."
"Which it might be."
The common room was deadly still, except for the clock hanging above the mantel, which had just begun to chime out the hour.
Nearly-Headless Nick phased through the portrait hole, a grim look on his silvery face.
"Professor Snape was impossible to rouse; I am afraid he, too, has been poisoned," he said delicately. "However, I did hear voices in the dungeons."
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look.
"Think someone beat us to the storeroom?" asked Ron.
Hermione shook her head, her left foot tapping out an anxious rhythm. If someone else was in the storeroom, it wouldn't matter, they'd be on their side anyway. If not... better not to answer that question.
"Let's go."
Solemnly, they got up from the armchair and hurried towards the portrait hole. The Fat Lady admonished them for being out of bed at such a late (early, really) hour, but Ron and Hermione ignored her as they set off towards the dungeons. At their rapid pace, it wasn't long before they reached the main Potions classroom and were standing before a narrow, padlocked door inside of it.
Hermione tapped her wand to the lock. "Alohomora." To her irritation, the mechanism inside it jingled a little, but when she tugged on the lock, it was clear the spell hadn't worked.
"Fred and George always say those Muggle tricks are handy," said Ron, producing two hairpins from his pocket. Hermione raised an eyebrow in surprise but said nothing as Ron stepped forward, fiddling around with the pins and lock, his expression strained. To her surprise, after a minute more of anxious jingling, the lock came free of the chain and dropped to the floor.
The door creaked open invitingly, letting a pungent, unpleasant scent leak out into the classroom. Hermione could only compare it to the smell of a cat her Science class had once dissected at Muggle school.
Ron gulped. "I'm game if you are. Ladies first."
His gaze was darting about, likely searching the dark space before them from spiders. Undeterred by this, Hermione stepped forward, the old floorboards creaking uneasily under her feet.
Snape's storeroom, unsurprisingly, was a dingy and dusty affair, a small, narrow space filled to the brim with tall shelves packed closely with ingredients and already-bottled potions. There was even a small cabinet for light-sensitive ingredients, and another for flammable potions.
"What are we looking for again?" asked Ron, wincing as the pungent scents of the storeroom assailed his nose with full force. The door swung shut behind them with an ominous clang, making both students jump as they were suddenly surrounded by darkness on all sides.
"Wiggenweld, bezoars, Antidote to Uncommon Poisons are a good start," Hermione rattled off. "We don't know what the poison is, and we've got no way to find out, so we've got to start with general antidotes. And then we can figure out how much we have to make."
"Right. Is there a light?"
Hermione felt along the wall and flipped something that felt suspiciously like a light switch and heard the rumblings of an artifice, and then a corona of white light sparkled above them.
"That's handy," said Ron, staring up at them. "How'd'you know to do that?"
"Oh, I have my methods." Hermione folded her arms, staring at the crowded shelf in front of her. Remembering that, if Nick's report was anything to go by, possibly everyone had been poisoned, she added: "We'd better get to work."
The stale storeroom grew even more solemn and still as Ron and Hermione carefully retrieved their ingredients, silently thanking Snape's neat handwriting on the labels and meticulous cataloguing. Arms laden, they re-entered the classroom and began to organise their haul.
"Thirty bezoars," Ron announced after having separated out the misshapen stones, "ten doses of Wiggenweld and seven doses of Antidote to Uncommon Poisons. That's not anywhere near enough for the entire school."
The part he left out didn't need to be said. So we have to make more. And fast.
Right. Hermione slid her slippery palms down the sides of her arms, the plush fabric of the cardigan she had hastily pulled on helping to calm her.
Just think of it like the Potions practical.
She stepped behind Snape's desk, where a large, empty cauldron stood.
"Better leave it on the floor," said Ron, exchanging a nervous glance with Hermione. "What do we need?"
Picturing the textbook page in her mind, Hermione responded: "Fire seeds, graphorn horn, billywig stings and... chizpurfle carapaces. Fire seeds have a tendency to spontaneously explode, Ron, don't drop—oh!"
Ron hadn't noticed that the packet of seeds he was holding was slightly open, and a small trickle of seeds hit the floor with a thunderous BOOM and accompanying burst of flame.
Taking in Hermione's half shocked, half cross expression, he apologised and carefully resealed the packet.
"I was about to say, don't drop them."
"Yeah, I've got that," said Ron in a harassed tone. "The other ones?"
"Billywig stings need to be powdered, and so does the graphorn horn and the carapaces. You can do the preparation; I'll take care of the cauldron."
They worked in silence, apart from the occasional "Pass that please" or "Do you need more Billwig?"
Hermione thought to herself, as she forced herself to take shallow breaths so as to smell as little of the noxious vapours emanating from the cauldron as possible, that Ron might actually be half-decent at Potions if he put some effort in. Every ingredient he handed her was powdered as finely as flour, and the potion itself was turning the exact right colours through each stage.
About an hour later, both were exhausted from the mental and physical effort, but the cauldron in front of them was filled with the emerald fruit of their labours.
Wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand, Hermione said: "Do you think Harry's alright?"
"Oh, I'm sure he'll turn up," said Ron in a placating tone. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as well. "He's probably gone for a walk; he hasn't been sleeping well."
Hermione nudged the cauldron with her toe, a sinking feeling in her stomach. A thought had just occurred to her.
"How are we going to get everyone the antidote? We can wake up all the Gryffindors, but not the other Houses, or the professors." Which is who we really need.
Just then, the classroom door started to creak open; both Ron and Hermione jumped back, shivering, wands at the ready. But no one entered, or at least, no one human.
The door swung closed again as a little black shadow emerged from behind it, mewing slightly.
"It's just Hephaestus," said Ron shakily, lowering his arm.
Hermione watched the cat stalk across the room, feeling almost as if she were floating outside her body. She rubbed her eyes. Would this horrible night never end?
Laughter rang out, and Hermione seemed to gain possession of her body again, glancing over at Ron, who, for the first time that night, had a hopeful look gleaming in his eyes.
"The animals haven't been poisoned!" He turned to her, grinning. "They haven't been poisoned, Hermione; that means we can get everyone the antidote! We've got—"
Hermione caught on, laughing too. "The mail owls, they've got access to everywhere in Hogwarts! I can — I can make the potion into a gas!"
"Like Dungbombs?"
"Exactly like Dungbombs!"
We can do it. We've got to. Everyone's counting on us.
Ruby wasn't sure how they were ever going to find Harry, if he was indeed hidden somewhere in this labyrinth. A sinking, cold feeling of despair had begun to come over her, as if she was in the presence of a Dementor.
In front of her, Tee was glancing cautiously around each corner they took, his wand at the ready. Ruby watched as he eased open a door, seemed to pale at the contents, and shut it again.
"Do you think he's not in the dungeons?" asked Ruby in a small voice.
Tee did not even turn to look at her. "They're here."
How can he be so sure? With a twinge of guilt, Ruby recalled that the last time Tee had been so sure about something, it had involved a meeting with his older self. Was that it again? Could Lord Voldemort have somehow found a way into Hogwarts?
But Voldemort couldn't harm Harry, not as long as they called Hogwarts home. Lily Evans and Albus Dumbledore had made sure of that.
Voldemort couldn't harm Harry, but Theodore might. Theodore Nott, working under Voldemort's orders, might be killing Harry at this very moment.
He might be dead.
The thought snagged behind her heart and caught at her throat like a fish-hook, ripping and aching and pulling.
They had to find him, and fast.
"If they're here, then where are they?" she demanded of Tee, jogging to catch up to him. Ruby still didn't trust that he wasn't the one masterminding everything, puppeteering Theodore Nott and who-knows-who-else; he was Lord Voldemort, after all. But she had no choice but to once again, as he had predicted, ask for his help.
He condescended to glance down at her.
"We'll find them," said Tee evenly, but he did not quicken his pace.
Actually, Ruby realised, he had slowed down to match hers, and there was a deliberateness to his footsteps.
Then, it dawned on her. She recognised this corridor.
The Mirror room is here.
Tee stopped in front of the plain, nondescript door, looking a little on edge. For her part, Ruby could hear the blood rushing in her ears, her fingers growing slick against her wand, and she gripped it tightly to stop it from slipping.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
As the door swung open, Ruby summoned all the nastiest curses she'd learnt in Duelling Club to her mind.
A muffled shout echoed in the dimly lit stone room. Ruby couldn't stop herself from crying out.
"Harry!"
Their eyes met. He was propped up against the Mirror of Erised, bound and gagged, but otherwise, unharmed. Everything in her flooded with relief.
But how did Theodore overpower Harry? I've seen them both in Duelling Club, Nott might know more spells but Harry's beaten him every time they fought.
She took a step toward Harry, but Tee reached out and grabbed her arm, forcing her to stumble back.
Someone cleared their throat as the sconces lining the room flickered to life, illuminating a man with his back turned to them. He stood before a towering artifice, something like the insides of a Muggle engine, but seeming to defy physics and infinitely more complex, the parts within it spinning, floating, and shimmering.
The man looked over his shoulder and met Tee's fixed gaze. His grip on Ruby tightened, despite her best efforts to wrest her arm from his grip. Another muffled sound emanated from Harry, his eyes wide as if he were trying to signal something to them.
Now, the man smiled and turned around fully, his face finally visible in the warm firelight.
Just then, Ruby was hit with a crushing, incredible sense of déjà vu. She had seen him before, in a vision, standing with her in a rune circle drawn in blood, a rune circle she knew, a rune circle on the floor before her feet.
Quirrell's runes. The runes in the Mirror room!
The man, Tee's mirror, but slightly older, his face sharper and features stronger, took three long steps towards them, echoing out on the stone floor. He tilted his head, studying Ruby and Tee with the exacting gaze of a Legilimens.
No one in the room moved. It was as dead and silent and cold as a tomb.
Then, the man spoke.
"Finally, we can begin," said Tom Riddle. "I've been waiting for you."
The door swung closed behind Ruby and Tee, and the sound of the locking mechanism filled the stone room with an ominous series of clicks.
...to be continued...
The year finales are always pre-planned, of course, but sewing up all the loose ends and making sure everyone is in the right place at the right time is always a logistical nightmare.