ꪖ ᥴꪮꪑꪑꪮꪀ ꪖᦔꪜꫀ᥅ᦓꪖ᥅ꪗ
Mordred, the inhabitant of Slytherin's Locket, was defeated, but not before sowing his own legacy of chaos: forcing Ruby Potter to make a prophecy, grievously injuring Sirius Black, and destroying the artifice that keeps Hogwarts separate from the rest of the world. The Ministry of Magic crumbles further as Umbridge rises; a strange army emerges to snuff out the Order of the Phoenix.
Harry Potter is drawn to his fate; T. M. Riddle's remains uncertain. A confrontation approaches.
"ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴇꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ. ɴᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴀʀᴇ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇᴅʟʏ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅʀɪᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ."
— ᴀ.ɢ. ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ
Chapter One: Trial By Fire
The air in the Hospital Wing was deadly still, and filled with a thick, sweet herbaceous scent like the inside of a disreputable apothecary located in Knockturn Alley, to the point of being slightly nauseating. The beds cast long, slanting shadows against the floor, falling over the two professors who lingered there, discussing something in quiet tones.
Both looked up as the door was thrown open.
"The leaves are always burnt at the very beginning," the third professor directed, cane tapping on the cold, hard floor as he limped towards the other two figures. He held in his hands large, feathery leaves — belonging to a plant with many names — devil's plaything, woundwort, yarrow, to name a few.
"Quite certain, Black?" asked another wizard, dark-robed and sneering.
"It's the only thing we haven't tried," said Black, his tone strident and rising in volume, "so come down off of your high horse and help me, Snape!"
Snape had just opened his mouth to respond when footsteps sounded out in the hallway, causing the entire assembly to turn.
"May I be of assistance, Professors?"
The apparition at the doorframe cocked his head to the side, listening intently for the answer. No one looked pleased at the appearance of the young (and, depending on your interpretation of time, individuality, and reality, future) Dark Lord, no matter how innocent and helpful his countenance was.
"I think not," said Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration, tightly. She had taken off her witch's hat; it was now clutched like a weapon in her fist.
The glimmer of an expression of superiority had bloomed across Riddle's face as he gazed up at the moon, glowing silver behind the window.
"I was just going to say, what you're trying to attempt appears to be Taghairn, which involves the roasting alive of five to seven cats over a fire of yarrow leaves, preferably seven, to entice the Cat-Sith to bargain with you, in which one of the options is to trade Second Sight for a future horrible death. May I suggest the Seven Wyrt Charm instead?"
McGonagall had paled, perhaps at the mention of the torture of cats. To her right, Snape's face was unreadably placid.
"Might I suggest that you get lost," Black muttered under his breath. Louder, he said: "The Seven Wyrt Charm is used to treat venom."
Riddle shrugged and added, in his soft tenor: "No spell is specific, that is if you have the imagination."
And with that, he slipped from the hallway as quietly and quickly as he had come.
Finally, Snape begrudgingly said: "I believe the ingredients are in my office. If you will excuse me, Professors, I must retrieve them. I must admit, it is worth trying."
"You're actually doing what he says?" asked Black in a scandalised tone.
Snape gave him a contemptuous look but did not defend himself.
"With your extracurricular activities back when we were at school," Black sneered, "I can hardly be surprised you're taking orders from Voldemort Junior, Snivellus. You're both just lucky that Dumbledore likes keeping and watching you like bugs under a glass."
"Be quiet, both of you!" McGonagall's acerbic voice sliced through the air. "She is talking!"
The professors turned to the occupant of the bed — still, softly breathing, half-lidded eyes clouded with visions of other worlds. Her dark hair fanned out around her, like Ophelia drowning amongst the water lilies.
All leaned closer to hear as the Seer's lips moved frantically, mumbling something out.
"Dead…. Alive again…. Monsters… Blood… Returned."
Black straightened up last, his brow furrowing, and then sighed deeply, putting a hand to his face, thumb and index finger braced around his brow as if to conceal his expression.
"Another Potter as good as dead," he said, each word sharp around the edges.
"I must return to my office to assemble the ingredients for the charm," said Snape coldly.
Stepping forward, Professor McGonagall put a hand on Black's shoulder.
"Come," she said. "We will find a solution. It has only been a few weeks."
And she might be already long gone. Even in the moonlight, the thought was visible on all three faces.
No one said so, as the miserable little assembly made their way out of the room, spilling out into the dark hallway. Black leaned heavily on his cane, an offbeat tapping filling the corridor and fading down the direction to the Transfiguration Professor's office.
Unbeknownst to the trio of professors, T.M. Riddle had not slipped far away from the doorway. He waited in the darkness, listening closely pressed up against the wall, and then, without hesitation, opened the door and slunk inside.
Her bed was nearly all the way at the far side of the ward; Tee walked past a long row of neatly made beds, white linens glowing in the full, silver moonlight as the floor echoed quietly against his nearly-soundless feet like that of a cat-burglar, used to tip-toeing on the linoleum floors of an orphanage at night.
He stopped, reached into his pocket, and retrieved a knife, the whitish blade glittering in his long-fingered hand. Then, he stepped closer to the bed, observing its occupant, watching her fluttering eyelids, her eyes under them darting to and fro as if she were dreaming.
"Unfortunately," he said in an acidic tone, "I have come to the strange conclusion that my life debt to you is not fully repaid."
He knew that she could not hear him. Incomprehensible gibberish spilled from her lips.
With great hesitation, he removed a pure white, glossy stone from his other pocket, like the most perfect moonstone, the size of a fist.
Tee drew his knife quickly across the stone twice — it let out a sweet, ringing sound like a bell — and two slivers laid in his palm, pooling with milky liquid at the edges. He plucked them out and placed them across the girl's eyes.
All was silent.
The slivers bubbled as if they had been set on a lit fire, burning and melting into a white, milky slurry, then slowly evaporating.
Her eyes fluttered wide open — not the unseeing, cloudy eyes of a Seer entranced — but looking directly at him, fully lucid.
How strange that their positions in the Chamber had been swapped, thought Tee. Fate likes her inside jokes.
She started. "You!" Her clawed, bandaged hands reached for him; he could not tell if her instinct was to embrace him or to draw blood with her jagged fingernails. Tee did not welcome either.
"Alu," whispered Tee, leaning over her, like a fairy, or perhaps a thief, and the charm word stilled her. "Sleep."
For a minute, she struggled against the charm — or curse — but the fight was over. A great, black, dreamless sleep had washed over her, a sleep finally devoid of stars and planets and fate.
For his part, Tee replaced the knife and the stone in his pockets. With nothing more to say or do, he returned to the shadows.
Meanwhile, the Transfiguration Professor's Office had been thrown into chaos. Sirius Black, former Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, sat despondently in a chair, gazing at the fireplace; beside him sat Severus Snape, the Potions Master, irritably jabbing at the fire with a poker.
The Deputy Headmistress and owner of the office, Minerva McGonagall, was arranging papers on her desk — to help keep her mind busy, a skill she had long ago cultivated. Off to the side, the Headmaster himself, Albus Dumbledore, stared out of the window at the moonlit grounds.
"What," said Professor McGonagall finally, "are we to do about the Ministry? Now, we must answer to them. We have no choice."
"Voldemort has had his victory," Dumbledore agreed, turning from the window. "Somewhat pyrrhic, in that he lost Mordred, but a victory nonetheless, and a risk he knew that he incurred. How much of the Ministry is under his control? Narcissa Malfoy, of course, is his hands, but who are his eyes and ears?"
"Augustus Rookwood was once the Dark Lord's spymaster," said Snape, his eyes flicking up from the fire, the poker finally at rest. "His status as a high-ranking Unspeakable provided him an enviable network and a steady supply of classified information."
"What about slippery Lucius?" asked Black, stroking the stubble on his chin. "He always seemed to have his dirty fingers in any endeavour that might benefit him."
"Don't be so quick to judge," Snape reparteed. "Only a wise man believes he knows all."
McGonagall finally looked up from her papers, laying them flat on her desk and pushing them to the side.
"I believe Sirius, I mean, Professor Black, may be thinking along the right path. Lucius does exert a … spiderweb of control."
Snape scoffed. "Of course you think Black is right. You have always favoured him. Him and Potter."
Sirius's face had transformed into a furious snarl, clawing at the arm of his chair, nearly baring his teeth as he leaned forward.
At that moment, Dumbledore crossed the room, stood beside the desk, and said, with a sage air: "No, Severus; Sirius's instinct is correct. Voldemort has always favoured the Blacks, and anyone close to them. Becoming the next spymaster may be Lucius's penance for his… slippery behaviour following Voldemort's disappearance. Or, on the contrary, it may be a test."
It was Snape's turn to look unpleasant. "Very well, Professor Dumbledore. Let us say Lucius Malfoy is spymaster. Then?"
"Then, a member of the Order will be assigned to him."
McGonagall cleared her throat, her expression expectant. "I take it that means that you have already decided on the identity of that unlucky soul."
No one could detect any flicker of emotion from Dumbledore. He merely nodded at McGonagall and Sirius, turned to Snape, and said, "Walk with me, Severus."
Snape's eyes darted furtively about the room before he got to his feet, and trailed the Headmaster out of the office. As the door shut and the warm glow of the office dissipated, they were greeted by the spring cold of the stone corridors; the windows had been opened to air the castle. Even in May, the night air was crisp and biting.
The two wizards walked in silence, the breeze blowing their cloaks and filling the quiet corridors with a soft rustle. It was only when the threshold of the Headmaster's Office was breached that Dumbledore spoke again, in an uncharacteristically tremulous voice.
"I am afraid that I must implore you to venture into the maw of the beast once more."
Snape's hand, in the process of pulling out a chair, gripped it harder, his knuckles paling. All of the colour had run out of his face. His jaw had unhinged slightly.
"Professor Dumbledore, you cannot be serious. What good do you think that will do?" His voice rose with indignation. "Do you really think he will take me back? Just like that? After years at your side? On your side?"
"You are on my side, Severus?" A faint look of amusement had come over Dumbledore. "Well, that is a great comfort."
"Do not jest!"
"I mean only to compliment you and indicate that I hold you in the highest esteem."
"Empty flattery," said Snape through his teeth, dark eyes hard and flinty. "Again, I ask you: what good can I accomplish that the Order cannot?"
Dumbledore sighed deeply. "You have met Tom, correct?"
In response, Snape shrugged a shoulder. "An unsurprisingly unpleasant boy."
"A troubled young man," said Dumbledore. "A wizard of great power with a Muggle father and therefore a name of little renown, impoverished and unprotected, Sorted into Slytherin and formed there in the crucible. Do you catch my meaning?"
"I am nothing like him!" Snape drew himself to his full height. "With the greatest respect, Professor Dumbledore, do not compare—"
"Why not? Why not state what is so clearly obvious? He always saw you as a boy of great promise, a man after his own mold. You cannot tell me that never awakened the slightest amount of curiosity." Dumbledore paused. "But yes. There is a stark difference between you. Tom Riddle would never come to me in the dead of night, with a heart full of anguish, begging mercy for someone whom he loved."
Snape's gaze hardened even further at the implication.
"So tell me, Professor. Why return to the man who killed Lily Evans?"
The small, knowing smile on Dumbledore's face was infuriatingly incongruous.
"Know thy enemy, Severus."
Snape was not impressed.
"At least think on it."
Yet another despondent soul lurked about the corridors of Hogwarts that night. Harry Potter was not quiet about his movements, but he was invisible — at least, for the time being. He looked over his shoulder, slipped into the Hospital Wing, and let the Invisibility Cloak fall to the floor in a silver pool.
He was well-practised. He'd been sneaking in here for weeks. Logically, Harry knew that if Ruby became lucid, Madam Pomfrey would make sure he knew immediately. But that didn't quell the frantic energy that insisted he had to see for himself.
After all, thought Harry to himself, one or both of us seem to find themselves at the brink of death every year.
He gathered up the Invisibility Cloak and began the almost unbearably long walk.
She hadn't moved. Harry didn't know what he had been expecting; he instantly felt small and stupid. Her hands were still wrapped in Dittany-soaked bandages, though less heavily than they had been before. The bandages around her eyes were gone, though the burns had left a faded red halo that Madam Pomfrey could not figure out how to heal.
With a heavy sigh, Harry sat down at the foot of the bed, folding his arms and leaning against the bedpost.
Nothing to do but watch… and wait.
Hermione, after all, had already turned the library upside down, with Remus Lupin's help. But for all their efforts, they hadn't been able to find a documented cure for osculum divinitatis. Harry knew everyone was avoiding discussing it around him, but he did know that the professors were running out of options.
So, he did the only thing he could, as was his nightly custom. Pretend everything was normal.
"Zabini fell off his broom in the Quidditch match; I thought you'd like to hear that. You should have seen Parkinson's face. Luckily it wasn't from very high, and—" Harry reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small, golden, winged object "— I got the Snitch while he was distracted. Everyone says Snape's enjoying teaching Defence a little bit too much, especially the hex-deflection practical. He even sent Neville to the Hospital Wing with a Knee-Reversal Hex; I thought Madam Pomfrey was going to explode when I explained what happened, and honestly, I wouldn't blame her."
"Oh, and I almost forgot. Ron was looking after Hephaestus—"
"You let Ronald Weasley look after my cat?"
Harry scoffed. "I was just about to say he's doing a pretty decent job, actually."
Then, it dawned on him. Slowly, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, he turned around and looked at her.
Yes, there was still something grey about her face, her skin tinged red about her eyes — her wide-open, seeing eyes, that stared, though sleepily, directly into his.
"You — You're—" Harry's brain could hardly form the words, much less his mouth.
"Still mostly sane," said Ruby, wriggling into a sitting position and grinning ear-to-ear.
Harry felt the same expression spread across his face, strangely giddy.
"So Mordred didn't get his way," said Ruby softly.
With a jolt, Harry realised that she had been unconscious for the whole latter part of the altercation.
"No, Dumbledore took care of him."
"And…" There was a strange, guilty expression on Ruby's face, though she was clearly trying to keep her voice as level as possible. "Riddle — is he dead? You know, our Riddle."
"I'd be so lucky," Harry groused.
Ruby leaned back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed. The seeming return to her unconscious state filled Harry with a cold spike of fear until she spoke again.
"Maybe it's for the best. He wasn't on Voldemort's side — or Mordred's—"
"And what makes you think he's on our side?" Harry was still affronted by her referring to Riddle as 'our'. "Riddle's on his own side, as far as I can tell."
Ruby sighed heavily, tilting her face up at the moonlit window. For some reason, she looked a great deal older — like Anthony had after the basilisk. "Harry, he — he killed our parents. He saved your life. I don't know how; I don't even know how to begin to put those things together. I'm so confused."
"It's simple," Harry insisted. In his mind's eye, he saw Riddle during the Siege of Hogwarts, his expression delicately sincere, hand laid over his heart.
Harry... Lord Voldemort was always with me.
"He's Voldemort. He told me himself, he always has been."
Now, she looked directly at Harry — it was a warm, rushing relief to see her so alert, her mind moving behind her eyes. "Then why isn't he trying harder to kill us?"
"I don't know, maybe Voldemort's life revolves around things other than us?" Harry scowled. He was getting angry at her, and he didn't want to be. Not tonight, not after what had happened, not after nearly losing her.
"Maybe."
"You're reflective tonight."
Ruby smiled wryly. "A lot of things have been put into perspective."
Still, Harry found himself vexed. "Let's stop talking about Riddle." He's already maddeningly underfoot as it is.
Her smile fading a little, Ruby settled back against the pillows again. "How long was I out?"
"It's the end of May, so about a month. We thought—" Harry attempted to school his voice into impassivity, but it still wavered "—I thought we'd lost you."
He reached out for her hand, forgetting they were bandaged.
Ruby snorted. "How can I go anywhere, especially when my idiot brother lets his famously cat-hating best friend look after my cat?"
"Alright, alright, you don't have to rub it in! The minute you wake up, you start acting insufferable."
Harry kicked off his shoes and stretched out. The floor was cold, but the lumpy wool socks Ron had gifted him were warm.
"I missed you," he said quietly. Parts of him had been getting used to her being gone — especially during third year — and those parts felt cold and empty, voids of despair like the effects of a Dementor.
And now everything prickled and burned, Harry thought, shifting to look over at Ruby as she gazed up at the ceiling, as if he were finally getting warm again.
A violent clatter snapped Harry out of his slumber. Blinking in the brilliant light, he slowly realised that this wasn't the Gryffindor dormitory.
Madam Pomfrey, the conscientious and ever-so-slightly neurotic school Healer, was hastily levitating the potion vials that had rolled off of the tray she was carrying. Harry slid down onto the floor, pointed his wand at the glass shards, and said, hopefully, "Evanesco!"
To his chagrin, the shards seemed to phase in and out of reality, as if they were glitching, but inevitably decided to stay.
"You gave me quite a fright, Harry," said Madam Pomfrey, Vanishing the shards herself. "Have you been sneaking in here all this time?"
Her face fell. "I suppose I cannot blame you."
"No," said Harry giddily, "she's alright now, she's really alright."
Last night hadn't all been a dream, had it? Harry glanced over his shoulder — Ruby seemed to be sleeping normally.
"Are you certain?" A look of suspicion had come over Madam Pomfrey, her eyebrows drawn tight. She set down her tray of potions and went around to the side of the bed, then lifted her wand, muttering spells with an air of great concentration.
After a few minutes, Harry asked, "What's wrong?" Madam Pomfrey did not respond.
Finally, she gingerly touched a finger to the corner of Ruby's eye, coming away with something luminescent and glittering, like liquid moonstone.
"Were you the only one in here last night?" asked Madam Pomfrey sternly.
"Yeah, I think so. Why? What's wrong?" Harry repeated. He was beginning to feel a little sick. Maybe it had been too good to be true.
"Nothing, really," said Madam Pomfrey, rotating her finger in the light. "It's just that… it looks like a very rare substance."
Harry was sceptical.
"You can tell from just looking?"
"Of course not. I shall have it sent to Dr. Flamel for further testing."
Flamel!
The last thing Flamel was here was when Harry was facing certain death. Surely, it couldn't be…
As if she had sensed his worry, Madam Pomfrey patted Harry's arm, smiling comfortingly. "It is nothing to worry about. The important thing is that she has recovered from the worst of it. I just… simply wonder how."
Harry smiled back, but now he could not forget the worry that had lodged itself in between his ribs.
"Why don't you go to the Great Hall?" Madam Pomfrey suggested lightly. "She'll likely still be asleep by lunch, poor thing."
Poor thing. Harry bristled. However well Madam Pomfrey meant, he didn't want to think of Ruby as a poor thing, and she didn't either.
"Right, er, thanks."
Harry reached over to retrieve the Invisibility Cloak and hurried out of the Hospital Wing. As he emerged in the hallway, he realised that he needed to head up to Gryffindor Tower to find his uniform.
No one paid him much mind as he hurried in the opposite direction of the usual morning migration — as far as the average Hogwarts student was concerned, Harry Potter doing or saying something bizarre was as natural and common as a fish swimming.
He ignored the Fat Lady's rib as he leapt through the portrait hole, then dashed through the empty common room, up the stairs, and into the fourth-year boys' dormitory.
The beds, as usual, were all freshly unmade, orphaned socks, scraps of parchment, and other debris littered across the floor. Harry narrowly avoided knocking over Neville's Remembrall — how was it even possible to forget a device that helped you remember things? — sprung the clasp on his trunk and felt around for a clean shirt.
Once dressed, he hurried out of the common room and through the far-less-busy corridors, bursting into the Great Hall.
"Where were you last night?" asked Ron as Harry neared the Gryffindor table.
Slightly winded, Harry nodded vaguely and then retrieved the Remembrall from his pocket, offering it to a flustered Neville.
"Thanks, Harry! Really wasn't looking forward to telling Gran I'd lost a third one."
"Good morning," said Hermione pointedly, nudging a stack of books out of the way. "Are you alright, Harry, you look a little bit—"
"I'm fine," said Harry, sitting down between Ron and Neville. "Great, actually — Ruby's awake."
"Oh that's amazing—"
"Can we visit?"
"That's great," said Neville weakly. Harry didn't think Neville, like a lot of people at Hogwarts, had ever gotten over Theodore Nott's revelation, or the suspicion that Ruby had been the one poisoning everyone.
Well — that, and the fact that the events of a few weeks ago had been hastily covered up. There was no way to explain what had happened with Mordred without explaining that Voldemort had Horcruxes, and so, Dumbledore had left his explanation as vague as possible.
A few years ago, I stood before you, and said that dark forces were attempting to penetrate Hogwarts — the defences that surround us, as well as those within us. Since that day, we have faced many grave threats. And it was a grave threat indeed that we faced last night.
Dark forces are at work within this school—Voldemort's forces. A servant of his was thwarted last night.
Harry recalled looking out across the silent, anxious crowd. His eyes had been drawn to the Slytherin table, to Theodore Nott, staring up at Dumbledore.
And everything in him had filled with hate.
This servant, this instrument of darkness, attempted to drive wedges between us, to weaken us. Know this — if we do not stand together, regardless of House, regardless of blood status — we shall surely fall.
"Harry?" someone breathed, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were standing behind him, both fidgeting, their eyes as wide as saucers.
"Is it true?" asked Parvati. "That she's awake?"
"Yeah, er, right now she's asleep, though, so I'm not sure if Madam Pomfrey—"
Lavender let out a high-pitched squeal, grabbed Parvati by the arm, and started towing her in the direction of the Hospital Wing.
Oh, well. As long as he didn't get in trouble.
"Has anyone told Anthony?" asked Hermione, craning around to get a better view of the Ravenclaw table.
The boy in question was miserably poking at the yolk of his egg until it bled, seemingly impervious to the lively chatter around him.
"Don't know what's wrong with him," said Ron. "He's been mopier than Moaning Myrtle ever since it happened."
"I suppose I've been mopey too," said Harry irritably.
"Cantankerous would be more accurate, I think," Hermione suggested. "We've got Ancient Runes in a bit, I'll tell him then."
The thunderous sound of wingbeats filled the Hall, owls soaring in through the open windows.
Mail delivery at Hogwarts had been spotty in the past few years—actually, practically nonexistent ever since the Dementors descended on the school during Harry's third year. Morning deliveries now held a strange significance, a reminder that they were once again connected to the world.
A clumsy-looking Great Horned Owl landed right in front of Harry, wings nearly knocking off his glasses. When it took off again, Hermione had a Daily Prophet in her hands, frantically leafing through the pages.
Harry's snowy owl, Hedwig soared in, making a much more dignified landing than the delivery owl. As she didn't attempt to steal from Harry's plate, he assumed she had likely been out hunting.
"So, is Umbridge Minister?" asked Ron after a few minutes.
Hermione put down her newspaper, and sighed. "No, not yet, but soon. Can't — can't people see she's on Voldemort's side?"
"You-Know-Who," Neville corrected in a shaky voice. "And Gran says that people don't care as long as she can make the Dementors stop. It's terrible out there."
The subject of the Dementors put an instant chill on the conversation; the rest of breakfast was had in stony silence.
Afterwards, Hermione hurried off to Ancient Runes, leaving Ron and Harry to revise for their exams.
"Can't believe finals are almost here," Ron griped as he followed Harry out of the Great Hall.
Harry made a noise of assent. To tell the truth, he was relieved to finally go back to being worried about things of a mundane nature.
"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore," he heard Ron say, and Harry's head snapped up.
Dumbledore was indeed striding towards them, wearing a determined expression.
"I understand you both have this hour free? Shall we pay Ruby a visit?"
The Hospital Wing, white, clean, and scented with fresh linens and morning air, was nearly empty. It was a peaceful scene, the soft breeze blowing at the white, floor-sweeping curtains, the pale light twinkling on the shiny marble tiles. It had none of the magic air it did at night; in the day, it was peaceful, fastidiously clean, and remarkably ordinary.
A voice rang out, disturbing the halcyon atmosphere.
"Why are you still here?"
"I haven't got anything better to do," T. M. Riddle pointed out, a large grimoire propped open in his hands and balanced precariously on his foot, which was crossed over his knee. His plain black robes gave him a scholarly air, accentuated by his habit of irritatedly pushing away the obsidian lock of hair that kept falling into his pale face and distracting him from his reading.
Ruby Potter turned her head and glared. If she could, she would have made a rude hand gesture, but her fingers were still sore from the burns, peeling and flaking. Most disturbingly, the flesh there was turning crimson, as if her hands had been permanently stained.
"I wish," she said, to no one in particular, "that you would go away."
To tell the truth, she was sick of seeing his face in her dreams. They were not nice dreams; instead of nightmarish content and epic proportions, although Ruby thought it might be even more unsettling if they were. And worst of all, he'd frightened off Lavender and Parvati.
"Life isn't about getting what you want," Tee responded almost instantly, turning a page. "To answer your first question: I've been in that room all year and I'm tired of it, I can't read in the library, because Remus Lupin's glowering and passive-aggressive shelf-stocking is distracting, I don't fancy the dungeons, and the Hospital Wing has the best light."
He clicked his tongue, his face a mask of displeasure. "Satisfied?"
Both looked up as the door to the Hospital Wing swung open, three sets of footsteps ringing out across the floor. The first set belonged to a tall, elderly wizard in bright purple robes patterned all over with constellations, with a pair of half-moon spectacles perched on his long, crooked nose. The second also belonged to a bespectacled wizard; notably, his school robes were too short for him and needed to be let out, since he had recently grown quite considerably. The last wizard was slightly gangly, frowning at Tee (who was paying him no mind), with a truly unlikely shade of red hair.
"I hope we are not interrupting?" called Albus Dumbledore, his serene voice seeming to float in the air.
Tee had grown even paler. He shut his book with a loud snap, sending up a visible plume of dust, and scrambled to his feet.
"Of course not. I was just leaving."
Dumbledore laid a hand on Tee's shoulder, causing him to flinch. "Do stay, Tom. I wished to speak to you as well."
Ruby watched as they shuffled off to a corner of the Hospital Wing, speaking in low tones. There was no point in straining to hear.
Ron gaped. "So you really are awake?"
"Did you think I was making it all up?" asked Harry crossly, eyes narrowing.
"No! It was just weird the way she was lying there."
"How's Hephaestus?" Ruby put in, raising an eyebrow.
At that, Ron blanched a little. "Fine — alright — good, I think. Can never tell with cats, can you?"
It was all just so frustrating — sitting here with her hands still bundled up in bandages, sore, raw, and useless. At least she wasn't completely delirious like she had been for the first few weeks. And at least Mordred, the once-inhabitant of Slytherin's Locket, was dead.
Then, there was, of course, the matter of the prophecy.
The shadows douse, but yet the fire burns. But Death shall not be satisfied until he has crossed his waters. Bound by mother's blood, he and Death walk side by side. Should it come, the end of the eldest at the hands of his brother will be his pride.
There were so many possible explanations, yet at the same time, no making heads or tails of it.
It could, of course, be absolute and utter rubbish, the ravings of her delirious mind pushed to the brink by Mordred.
That was why Ruby hadn't told anyone about it. Well, that and the fact that prophecies, in her experience, ended in tragedy for the individuals involved. However, this one was much murkier than the prophecy that bound Harry and Voldemort's fates together. It seemed to talk about Death as if Death were a person. And the 'he' — did Voldemort have a brother? It was impossible. Tom Riddle Senior was the last Riddle, and the Gaunt girl, Merope, died giving birth to his namesake.
It had to all be gibberish.
An uneven, offbeat tapping snapped Ruby out of her thoughts. It was Sirius, leaning heavily on his cane — Dumbledore and Tee had long since left.
"I thought Madam Pomfrey said you weren't supposed to overexert yourself," said Harry archly as Sirius sat down, clearly holding back a grimace of pain.
"This is hardly overexertion," Sirius insisted, stretching out his legs as if to emphasise the point and leaning his cane against the wall. "Besides, I expect we'll all be feeling a great deal of discomfort when Umbridge becomes Minister and once more descends upon Hogwarts. Oh, sweet ignorance of the outside world, thou art missed."
He paused, glancing curiously between Harry and Ruby.
"And between the fact that Ruby's had a miraculous recovery and we're all still alive, there's much to celebrate, in my opinion."
"Aside from the soul-sucking monsters roaming the streets, yeah, there's a lot to celebrate," said Ron in a sour tone.
The threat of the Dementors sounded so far away, Ruby thought, as if she'd blocked the memory of the Siege of Hogwarts entirely out of her mind.
Sirius was staring off into the distance.
"Dementors walking the streets… Voldemort's taken Azkaban to the masses."
And what, wondered Ruby, has he done to us?
"And now," said Dumbledore, steepling his fingers, "what to do with you?
What to do, indeed. I turned my back on Salazar. I fought Mordred. I repaid the life debt, and yet I still feel mad.
Here am I again, at the whim of Death. Tee felt the bombs rushing over him again, the abject fear he'd felt, curled up under the bed, cheek pressed to the floor, shuddering.
"I know what you want to do with me," he said. "You'll kill me the minute I outlive my usefulness."
Dumbledore had the temerity to look offended. "You understand the position I am in—"
"I understand that I'm nothing more than a pawn in your games with the Dark Lord!" Tee interrupted, fury twisting his face and his voice.
"Games, Tom? Is that all this is to you? The world hangs in the balance, and as the Ministry has abandoned us to our fate, I must do all I can to ensure the best outcome."
At that, Tee only scowled. What do I care about the world? Let it all burn, for all I care. It makes no difference.
"All the same," Dumbledore continued, "I would much rather have you in our hands than Voldemort's. You are no mere pawn — you are a far more valuable piece, one I suspect I cannot afford to lose. If not for you, Mordred may have completely succeeded; I have not, and will not forget that."
"Thank you for your honesty," Tee bit out.
Dumbledore regarded him with a lifted eyebrow over the top of his half-moon glasses.
"Gladly," he said. "May I rely on… similar assistance in the future?"
The proposition was absurd. "You trust me to protect your precious Potters?"
"Oh," said Dumbledore lightly, "I know your price, Tom."
"What—"
As if his words had been a cue, Minerva stepped out of the shadows, hands folded over her wand.
"This is a ridiculous plan, Dumbledore," sneered Phineas Nigellus Black from his painting, stroking his beard. "And I have seen some truly shocking goings-on in this very office."
All three ignored the ex-Headmaster. Tee turned towards Dumbledore with an accusatory glare.
"Is this an ambush?"
Tee's hand went to his left pocket, but to his dismay, he realised he was unarmed.
Smiling, Dumbledore extended his hand, palm up. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"Shall we shake on it?"
An Unbreakable Vow. A rush of cold horror went through him as he realised what Dumbledore was suggesting.
"I will swear to you that you are wholly and completely under my protection. Surely, that should be enough."
Enough to assuage his worries — enough to get out from under a red, burning sky.
As if an invisible force had guided his hand, Tee felt himself place his palm against Dumbledore's. A serious, focused expression on her face, Minerva lowered her wand to their clasped hands. The two Legilimens gazed into each others' eyes, all secrets and all pretences laid bare.
"Will you, Tom, watch over the Potters?"
He could only think of what Salazar would have to say about this.
"I will."
A wisp of scarlet flame issued from Minerva's wand, wrapping around their joined hands.
"And will you, to the best of your ability, protect them from harm?" Dumbledore's blue gaze seemed to glow with the intensity of his stare, boring through Tee's head as if seeing through to the wall behind him.
"I will." The words tasted like bitter medicine on his tongue.
Another tongue of flame leapt from Minerva's wand as she stared almost disbelievingly between the two of them. Phineas Nigellus Black shook his head, tutting under his breath.
"Will you swear to never act against the Order?"
"I will," said Tee resignedly, as the third flame licked at his fingers. Dumbledore had well and truly manoeuvred him into putting on his own leash and collar.
Tee found his voice, staring back at Dumbledore. "Will you, Dumbledore, guarantee me your protection, including from yourself and those who follow you?"
"I will," said Dumbledore after a moment's hesitation, and Tee felt the prickle of the next wisp of flame.
The wizards stared at each other, as if trying to adjust to the new understanding between them.
"It is done," said Minerva, her stern expression lit and shadowed by the fire.
The flames blazed brighter, and brighter, and then snuffed out.
Better a soldier and safe, Tee told himself, than a man who is marked for execution. There is no use in freedom when it leads to the grave.