"ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜰᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ."
― ɴɪᴄᴄᴏʟᴏ ᴍᴀᴄʜɪᴀᴠᴇʟʟɪ
Chapter Six: Death Becomes Her
"Dumbledore said he was going to teach me," said Harry, on a chilly October night when everyone was starting to really appreciate the gargantuan fireplace in the Gryffindor common room.
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look — the latter had her feet tucked up, reading. Harry got the distinct and unpleasant impression that they had been discussing him behind his back.
"Maybe he forgot," said Ron.
"Maybe he wanted me to forget."
Dumbledore, forget anything?
Hermione snorted, the book snapping shut as she shifted in her armchair. "And why would Dumbledore want you to forget about his promise?"
Harry was quiet for a while, glaring into the red-yellow flames. It was enough that everyone in the wizarding world thought he was a paranoid idiot. It hurt that his friends apparently did, too.
"Maybe he thinks I can't handle it," he said finally.
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," said Hermione in a particularly huffy tone of voice. "Why wouldn't he think you'd be able to handle some extra credit work in Defence?"
Because what I asked him for isn't exactly extra credit, but of course, Harry didn't say that out loud.
"I want to learn to duel, Professor. Properly. If Voldemort's going to keep coming after me, which he clearly is, then I need to be able to defend myself."
"Look, I really, I don't want to talk about it anymore," said Harry in response to the question obviously forming on Hermione's face.
"Right, then what—" Ron started, breaking off as he noticed Ruby, Lavender, and Parvati coming down the stairs, quite loudly. "Why doesn't she just move in at this point?"
It was a fair point. Harry wasn't sure what was going on in Slytherin House, but clearly, Ruby wanted no part of it, and he couldn't blame her.
And maybe it would have been better off if she was in Gryffindor from the start.
To Harry's surprise, the trio was coming towards them, stopping just in front of Harry as Ruby reached into the pocket of her robes, producing a folded-up piece of parchment.
"Here, Hedwig gave this to me, but I think she got confused since it was from Dumbledore. It's got your name on it."
Wordlessly, Harry took it from her, wishing that he didn't have an audience as he carefully straightened out the creases in the letter, holding it up to the lamp sitting on the table beside him.
Dear Harry,
I hope this letter finds you well. Now that we have all begun to settle in for the autumn term, I would be pleased to revisit our topic of conversation in the Hospital Wing last term. I look forward to meeting you in the Clock Tower Courtyard after breakfast.
Best,
A.D.
Ruby was trying to peer over his shoulder to read the contents, and Harry swatted her away, crumpling the letter in his hand.
He'd gotten what he wanted. He should feel happy.
"Oh!" said Ron, startling Harry. "It's time for patrol, I'd nearly forgotten."
"We'd better go," Hermione agreed, regretfully shutting her book.
Harry mumbled out a goodbye before the two made their way out of the common room. Across the room, Seamus, Dean, and Neville were playing a boisterous game of Gobstones, and Harry was fleetingly thinking of joining them.
When he turned around, Ruby had disappeared, likely on her way back to the Slytherin common room before curfew — Harry, like every other non-Slytherin, had no idea of the exact location, but he knew it was somewhere deep in the dungeons. His Potions essay was only half-written, but Harry didn't think he was in the right mindset to write about the poisonous and medicinal qualities of hellebores right now. Imaging Snape's sneering face as he handed it back, criss-crossed with red ink, was the last thing he needed.
No, what he needed right now was to sleep. It was the only peace he ever got, after all, and it was always nice to use the bathroom earlier on when it was at least semi-private.
Thankfully, no one came in while he was in the shower, Neville sheepishly creeping in with a toothbrush (an odd-looking one at that; apparently, wizards weren't much given to nylon bristles) just as Harry was leaving.
Perhaps Harry was more tired than he had thought. Sleep seemed to come the moment his head touched the pillow. In the last lingering tendrils of consciousness, he relaxed gratefully in the warm darkness.
Or so he thought.
He saw the hallway from over James's shoulder, too sharp, too real, too shadowed to be a dream.
"Run!"
The sound tore through the air, slicing his heart with the pain of it.
"Lily, it's him, he's here, take Harry and run!"
Panicked. Pleading.
"GO!" James screamed, low, wounded, like an animal caught in a trap, a stag that knows that it cannot gnaw its leg off, cannot run from the wolf, but perhaps the herd will escape for his sacrifice.
Oh no. Not this dream again.
Here. Again. Trapped in this lucid nightmare, helplessly watching his parents' murder play out.
After all, it is October, thought Harry, feeling sick to his stomach.
Harry's vision filled with a wash of green light — and a cold, terrible presence. Then came the sound of James's lifeless body hitting the floor — and he wasn't sure if it was his or Lily's cry of anguish that left his lips, her frantic feet carrying them both up the stairs — why didn't she Apparate? The Fidelius was already broken.
"Apparate, Mum! GO! LEAVE!" Harry wanted to scream. "You can't outrun him! You're going to die!"
James, he couldn't save, all three of them had accepted that. But Lily had had a chance at escape, at survival. Why hadn't she taken it?
He'd watched from his crib, silent with shock. Had he known, understood that James was dead? Lily cupped his face in her warm hands, her green eyes like his own, welling with tears, her sad, earnest smile, her strange, frantic energy — "I love you, Harry, I love you." And it was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard — the reason he couldn't let go of this nightmare.
She waved her wand at the furniture around them, and a chair and boxes piled against the door.
Then, she tossed it aside, moving in front of the crib. She knew she was going to die. She'd committed herself. But why?
Harry saw only her back, her body heaving with emotion, her hands trembling as she braced herself against the railing of the crib.
And then, that cold presence was in the room, the piled-up furniture cast aside. He towered over her, a cloaked figure of fear, but Lily stood firm.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!" She spoke as if her lips were numb from a snowstorm, the fright clear in her voice.
Then, came that chilling tenor that Harry knew so well.
"You face me for the fourth time, Lily Evans," said Voldemort, his face yet obscured by his hood. "I am impressed that you have survived so long, and if you listen, you shall again. Stand aside."
"No!"
Voldemort twitched, seemingly with irritation, as if she were a particularly trying student.
"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now."
There was no hatred in his voice. His manner was absolutely clinical, if perhaps a little impatient.
And Lily lifted her head. Harry did not understand this. She spoke as if to someone unseen in the room, frantic still, pleading.
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—"
Voldemort had not taken his eyes off her, yet he had not noticed her change in demeanour or the strangeness about her. "Fool," he whispered. And louder: "Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"
She didn't move. She had no intention to.
He hesitated as if not sure whether to take the lethal shot or simply incapacitate her.
But it was coming. Harry knew it. They all did.
"Not Harry," Lily muttered under her breath, her eyes still fixed on the spot. "Please. Me instead. Do you understand? Spare him. Spare him. Please."
And then she was gone in a haze of green light, dropping like a stone, and Harry was alone in the world.
And then he woke.
It was morning again, the light streaming through the windows and stinging his eyes. Yet, Harry did not feel as if he had rested a bit. If anything, he had a faint headache in addition to the lingering exhaustion. The dream was still fresh in his mind; he felt off-kilter.
But that's the thing, thought Harry. It wasn't just a bad dream. It really happened.
He reached for his glasses, and his hand brushed the crumpled letter from Dumbledore. He'd better get out of bed, then, if Dumbledore was planning to teach him.
All of the beds were empty and unmade, Harry realised as he got up reluctantly, the sting of the autumn air biting through the thin fabric of his pyjamas. It must be late, then. Stumbling to his feet, he wished there was some way to forget that dream.
"I love you, Harry, I love you." Harry could still feel the lingering warmth, still see Lily's face so close to his, the soft halo of light that seemed to surround her.
And all the same, he wished he'd remember it for the rest of his life.
When Harry reached the Great Hall, it was almost empty, with only a few students still lingering over the cold remains of breakfast.
"Hello, Harry Potter," said a soft, whispery voice, like the wind in dead leaves.
He turned mid-reach for a cold piece of toast. The girl standing before him gave off the appearance of being, in Aunt Petunia's words, of being 'not all there' between her long, dirty hair, her dirtier bare feet, the necklace of old corks strung about her neck, and her protuberant, unblinking eyes.
"Er, hi, Lovegood — Luna, I mean."
Harry had only spoken to Luna Lovegood on one other occasion, and it was a conversation about him being poisoned that had left him distinctly unsettled. She was better known for being the first to spot the Dementor's siege, and being… odd.
Was she, again, the bearer of bad news?
Still, Harry thought it might be rude to ignore her.
"Do you want to sit?" he asked.
She did so, still watching him as if he were an interesting bug crawling across a blade of grass.
"A lot of people think I'm mad," said Lovegood, in a matter-of-fact tone, or as much matter-of-fact as that elfin voice could be. "I do know that. But I don't really mind it, because often people forget I'm listening and say things around me that are quite interesting…"
Lovegood trailed off, looking up at Harry as if to evaluate his reaction. After all, he did have his own experience with being judged a mad child — but he, unlike her, hadn't been able to see the silver lining in it, if there was any in his case.
"I wanted to tell you about Theodore."
"I know your cousin works for Voldemort," said Harry icily. "Who knows, you might as well."
To his surprise, Lovegood nodded sagely. "You're right, Harry, that's a good point. I might work for the Dark Lord. So you'll just have to decide whether to take this seriously or not, what I'm about to say. But, my, you do have a lot of Wrackspurts floating around your head. You're all confused and discombobulated."
As far as Harry was concerned, the veracity of what she was about to say was completely in question. Perhaps she only had brief flashes of clarity, and now she had fallen back into her strange ramblings.
All of sudden, she was too close to him, whispering into his ear.
"You should make sure you keep your blood to yourself," Lovegood muttered. "Lots of potions it can be used for."
And with that, Lovegood disappeared as abruptly as she had come, the soft scuff of her bare feet drifting away across the hall.
What did that even mean, keep his blood to himself? Harry wasn't exactly in the habit of dripping blood wherever he went. Was it some kind of code for something?
He hardly had time to worry about it further, anyway. Dumbledore gestured for Harry to follow him out of the Great Hall. He jogged a little to catch up to the Headmaster, who smiled when he saw Harry.
"I had just remembered that you might not know the location of the courtyard," said Dumbledore pleasantly.
"No, I've been there before, Professor," said Harry. "It's a good place to, you know, clear your head."
But why are we going to the courtyard instead of your office?
"I find fresh air a balm for most troubles of the mind," said Dumbledore, as if he surmised Harry's question. "And I have noticed that you seem troubled recently, Harry."
He shrugged, silent for the rest of their walk until they stepped out onto the Clock Tower Courtyard.
It had been a cloister hundreds of years ago, but the ceiling and the stone walls were slowly crumbling and overrun with tangled climbing ivy, causing the light to have a fay, almost hyper-real quality, enhanced by the bits of grass, moss, weeds, and bits of drab little flowers growing in the cracks and spaces between the flagstones. In the very centre was an old fountain decorated with stone cherubs and a spindly tree.
On the lip of the stone fountain sat a young man reading, his back turned to Harry and Dumbledore.
"Well," said Dumbledore, "I shall take my leave. Hagrid had asked me for a favour, and I hope I have not kept him waiting too long."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Dumbledore was already gone. For a minute, he debated going after him, but before he could make up his mind, Riddle closed his book and stood, drawing his wand in one fluid motion.
"Impedimenta!"
All Harry saw was Riddle's murderous gaze, the turquoise burst of light; and he was thrown painfully backwards into the stone wall of the courtyard. The blow made his head spin — the air had been knocked out of him, as if Riddle had physically slammed him into the wall, leaving Harry gasping for the next breath.
"What—"
He was trying to kill him. Riddle was really trying to kill him.
"Incarcerous!"
And Dumbledore had left him to die.
Ropes shot from Riddle's wand, and, still fumbling for his own wand, Harry ducked out of the way, heart racing.
On your feet, he'd been told in Duelling Club. Always on your feet. The surest way to lose a duel is to end up sprawling on the ground without your wand.
He scrambled to his feet, wand finally in his hand.
"Protego!"
That should give him a second to breathe, at least.
Riddle whispered something, and Harry didn't know what it was, but it made the world go silent and his mind utterly blank.
It was the best thing he had ever felt in his life. Everything that troubled him melted away. He felt warm and content, blissfully relaxed. Perhaps this was what Dumbledore had brought him up here for. That was very thoughtful of him. A smile spread across his face, his heart light and head empty.
And then, he heard Riddle's voice as if through a fog, no longer cold and harsh, instead soft and kind, like an older brother he'd never had… On your knees, Harry. On your knees. Put your wand down.
Harry took a step back without thinking, the back leg starting to bend.
Kneel.
Don't, said a stronger, clearer voice. Harry pushed it away irritatedly, almost without thinking.
Go on, you want to. Kneel. Kneel before me.
This isn't right. Something's not right!
Kneel!
I don't think I will, said the voice, a little sardonically. I don't really fancy it, the floor's cold after all.
And he tore himself away — from the false, wonderful happiness, to the cold misery of reality.
There was the bright, fay light again, stinging his eyes. The courtyard burst into full focus and colour around him, and Harry's gaze focused on Riddle, on the piercing expression in his dark eyes, the wand between his fingers dangling almost carelessly as he studied Harry in return.
"Needs improvement," said Riddle, with a shrug. "But resisting the Imperius Curse… I was impressed."
He turned away, producing an apple from his robes and taking a large, noisy bite as if the fight; or rather, Riddle's attack on Harry, hadn't happened.
Harry had a sudden, shattering reminder of Voldemort's words to his mother. I am impressed that you have survived so long.
"When Dumbledore finds out you tried to kill me," Harry seethed, brushing dust off his robes.
Riddle cut him off, swinging around again, laughing, his lips wet and glistening with the juice from the apple, brilliantly red in his pale hand.
"Tried to kill you," he repeated incredulously. "If I was trying to kill you, Harry, I promise you I would succeed. Dumbledore asked me to train you, to find your weaknesses and strengths, to help you learn to survive. That is what you asked for, isn't it?"
"You?" It was Harry's turn to be incredulous. Surely, Riddle must be lying. Snakes spoke with forked tongues, after all. "Why you?"
"I've told you before. We're more similar than we are different. It's easy for me to understand you. Would you rather, let's see, who's available, Snape? Or, God forbid, Minerva?"
"What's wrong with Professor McGonagall?" When Riddle didn't answer, Harry said: "That's it? That's your idea of training? Trying to curse me a couple times?"
Infuriatingly, Riddle didn't respond, instead choosing to continue to eat his apple. Growing frustrated, Harry drew his wand.
"Expelliarmus!"
In a spray of red sparks, the apple flew out of Riddle's hand, landing on the dusty flagstones and tumbling amongst the weeds, dirtying the white flesh.
"That was rude," said Riddle, but he did not seem affronted, only surprised.
The wand flashed so quickly in Riddle's hand that Harry didn't know he'd been cursed until he opened his mouth to utter the incantation of a hex and gibberish came out.
No!
"Speaking nonsense, Potter?" asked Riddle, almost gloating. "You're completely helpless … I could do anything to you and you wouldn't be able to stop me, would you?"
He raised his hand, ropes shooting out the end of his wand again, but this time, Harry was too slow, and the binds shackled his hands and feet together, leaving him writhing on the floor, as helpless as Riddle had said. He shouted at him as Riddle stalked closer, but only incomprehensible babbling came out.
Riddle crouched down next to Harry, peering at him, a lock of dark hair falling almost demurely into his face. He felt the warm point of Riddle's wand against his forehead, a tiny circle of phoenix fire.
"I could kill you right now, Harry. I could take your life. What will you do to stop me?"
In that moment, Harry didn't doubt that he would. He saw not Riddle as he was, but instead the cold, cloaked figure towering over his mother.
It was as it had been with Mordred, he was hopeless, useless.
Burning with anguish, grief, hatred, a strangled yell escaped from Harry. He wouldn't, he couldn't let him win.
He was just—
So angry.
His vision went black, and the next thing Harry knew, the ropes had been sliced through, singed at the breaks, and Riddle was bleeding from somewhere, dark crimson splattered on the stones.
"That's enough for today," said Riddle, holding his wand in a blood-streaked hand. His back was turned to Harry.
Harry pulled himself into a sitting position, strangely winded. His headache had gotten worse since this morning.
"I said, you can go," said Riddle, the words like shards of ice.
What happened? wondered Harry, but nonetheless, he got to his feet, and made his way out of the hallway, very unsettled. As he made his way down the stairs, he wondered if Dumbledore had quite thought this idea out.
The more he thought about it, the more Harry was sure that he had. And begrudgingly, he agreed that Riddle was, in fact, the best person for the job.
Ruby stared, as she had been doing for the past several minutes, at the roll of parchment, blank save for 'Ancient Runes Project Proposal' written at the top. To tell the truth, she hadn't thought much about it all summer, and she supposed she should have. She hadn't even decided whether she was doing a spell, or an artifice. Hermione had already designed a working prototype since last term; but that was to be expected, of course.
Still, there were worse places to spend her weekend than the Hogwarts library, and worse company than Anthony Goldstein. Today, he seemed unusually focused, his quill flowing quickly across the page, his dirty-blond head, combed neatly for once, shining dully in the soft light.
It was something about magical creatures, Ruby would guess. After all, he did flush every time she'd asked about it.
The trouble is, there are only three things you apparently have a knack for: poisons, setting things on fire, and Divination.
At first, she'd thought of a crystal ball, but what to enchant it with? When she had first heard of the project, her original idea was to create something to replace Nott's monocle, that would protect her from Legilimency, but it seemed far too ambitious. The first book she'd picked up on artificing for the mind arts was utterly incomprehensible, and loaded with theory that made Ruby felt stupider with each sentence that she read.
The Ancient Runes class had been granted special one-time passes to Hogsmeade to gather necessary supplies, under close supervision, of course, so she needed to make her mind up quickly.
If I don't finish this by next week… Well, she just couldn't afford that.
"Done already?" asked Ruby, as Anthony laid his quill aside, yawning.
"I think so," he said, strangely and uncharacteristically almost meek, as if he could not quite meet her eyes when he spoke. "I am trying to take things seriously and apply myself."
"I'm jealous." Ruby rolled up her still-blank parchment with a huff, stowing it in the depths of her bookbag. "But that's why you're the prefect."
"I'm sure you'll come up with something, you always do."
Together, they made their way out of the library and towards the grounds, waving to Lupin on their way out. It was a while after lunch, and quiet in the hallways.
"So," said Anthony, after a long moment of silence, sitting down under a gnarled oak tree.
"So?"
Ruby was absentmindedly dragging a gloved finger through the patch of dirt under the tree, studying a red-and-orange streaked leaf, and then an unbroken acorn. She realised that she was staining the white satin, and scowled, dusting her hands off.
"So, do you want to talk about what happened in the dungeons last year?"
"What about it?" asked Ruby, trying to sound casual.
"Look," said Anthony, his voice unusually firm. "I might be stupid when it comes to people, I know that, but I can tell something's bothering you."
Ruby turned towards him just as the wind gusted, whipping through the oak's branches, bowing and rustling. Anthony looked strangely bewildered, mouth slightly open, face reddened from the wind, cowlick sticking up again, blue-and-bronze scarf swaying.
"I haven't even told Harry," she said, infuriated and embarrassed for some reason, and it probably came out ruder than she was intending. "Why would I tell you?"
"I don't know — I thought — never mind."
Ruby got up, and the scuffle behind her told her Anthony had gotten up too and was following her now. A small tree overburdened with fruit caught her eye. Standing up on her tiptoes, almost without thinking, she reached up and pulled one down, the heavy bough recoiling back as it released the apple into her hand.
It was one of those dull, greenish-gold, speckled, sweet apples with dry, papery skin, a little dry inside, too, as she bit into it.
"Any good?" asked Anthony, obviously trying to lighten the atmosphere.
Ruby wordlessly passed him the apple — he took it with his left hand, but for some reason, the contact felt ice-cold, as if she'd touched his bronze hand instead, and that same ice-cold feeling shot up her arm like an electric current.
Indirect kiss? said a mischievous voice in the back of her head as Anthony chewed his bite of apple thoughtfully, and then she immediately felt like a complete and utter idiot for even letting that thought cross her mind.
"Yeah, it's alright," said Anthony as he passed the apple back to her. And then, he added: "You know, I won't think any less of you or anything about what happened down there. Not that you have to tell me or anything."
"There isn't anything to tell." Why did people always want some kind of salacious story out of her? Were they expecting it now, now that they knew what had happened to Vernon Dursley? "It's just like Madam Pomfrey said. Scrying damage."
"Okay." But Anthony still seemed unconvinced. As if unable to stop himself, he barrelled on. "But it's not just the scrying damage, you saw something, didn't you?"
For the first time, Ruby thought of how good, how relieving it would feel for someone else to share the burden of foreknowledge. But she couldn't force that on Anthony — Anthony, who fed unicorns sugar cubes out of his hands, Anthony, who rambled on about magical creatures and riddles without making eye contact, Anthony, her first real friend, Anthony, who trusted her, Anthony, who only wanted to help.
"No," said Ruby coldly, hating herself as she did. "And don't ask me again."
And then she turned her head so that she didn't have to see the wounded look in his eyes.
The heavy, sickening feeling of guilt was still coiled tight around her stomach when she shuffled into the Slytherin common room. Ruby made an attempt to tiptoe past her yearmates, and she'd just managed to sneak halfway past the black sofa the boys were sitting on when Blaise called out her name.
"Potter! Not trying to avoid us, are you?"
Ruby spun around, her hands balling into fists. "Would I ever?"
He patted the sofa next to him, gave her a winsome smile, and it was clear that there was no getting out of this. With her head held high, Ruby marched around the sofa and sat down. Bulstrode, sandwiched between Daphne and Pansy opposite, looked empathetic. Nott was on Blaise's other side, and, in order, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle to her right.
We've forgotten Tracey so quickly, thought Ruby. Her own memory of Daphne's best friend was starting to fade. Tracey had never said a kind word to Ruby, but still, she didn't wish the Dementor's Kiss on anyone but her worst enemy.
Who knows. Maybe we could have been friends.
"Draco's challenging your spot on the Quidditch team, did you know, Blaise?" asked Pansy.
"That's great," said Blaise, his face twitching quickly in a false smile. "May the best Seeker win."
Oh, thought Ruby. That's why Blaise called me over. He wants a buffer between himself and Malfoy, and I looked like a willing victim.
Clearly, Blaise couldn't stand to even sit next to him.
Maybe I could at least get something out of the situation. Why sit back and let them make her miserable? Shouldn't it be the other way around sometimes, too?
"Well, if there's a bet, I'm voting on Blaise," said Ruby evenly, and she thought Malfoy made a face.
Pansy snorted. "Since when do you care about the Slytherin Quidditch team, Potter? The only time you bother to come to a match is when your brother's playing."
To her chagrin, Ruby couldn't argue with that. She sank back into the sofa and resigned herself to silence.
"You don't even know that Draco was going to replace Viktor Krum as Seeker back at Durmstrang," Pansy went on, clearly determined to win her non-existent argument. Since when did she care so much about Malfoy? He hadn't been mentioned at Hogwarts for three years.
Besides, Ruby had no idea what a Viktor Krum was, and nor did she care.
"Viktor Krum is not 'all that,'" said Blaise. "Bulgaria lost against Ireland in the World Cup last year, and this year, they didn't even make it to finals."
"And I suppose you think you're better, with being, what, third and possibly fourth worst Seeker at Hogwarts, behind Potter and Diggory?" spat Malfoy, a few strands of hair falling into his livid face as he leaned around Ruby to glower.
Blaise returned the glare; everyone leaned forward, rapturously interested. Ruby could only wish she was anywhere else.
"Yeah, well, Diggory's a seventh year, and Potter's practically a twig, of course he flies fast."
"Not so much of a twig anymore, so let's test that theory, or, should I say, excuse, that is, if you make it back on the team."
"After all," Blaise shot back, "you can just use the Dark Arts to cheat, isn't that right, Draco?"
The silence had turned almost gleeful. Even Daphne's composure had broken.
"What do you think, Potter?" asked Malfoy, his voice low. "I hear you have the Second Sight."
Every vein in her body ran to ice. She twitched towards him, meeting his pale, cold gaze, and for a second, she saw far more inhuman eyes, staring out of not Malfoy's, but Mordred's face, eerie pools of molten silver.
But this wasn't Mordred. Wasn't Lord Voldemort. Wasn't even Tee. She wasn't scared of a boy her own age, no matter how many curses he knew. Whatever he got up to at Durmstrang, he wasn't Tom Riddle.
"I wouldn't waste it on you," she said venomously, staring back at him with her permanently red-rimmed eyes, clenching her stained palms in her lap, hidden under her gloves.
He should be scared.
"Ooooooh," said Crabbe, chortling. Blaise smiled triumphantly. Pansy looked infuriated.
"Shut up!" snapped Malfoy, whirling on Crabbe, even more hair loosening from its coiff.
Ruby allowed herself a small, inside smile.
"Don't worry about it, Draco," said Theodore. "She's been funny since the incident last year."
You oily, greasy little sneak. Bile rose in her throat.
"By the way, not sure if any of you noticed, but there's something far more important than Quidditch this year, and that's O.W.L.s," said Daphne primly, and Ruby was grateful for the redirection.
"And some of us," she said, with a pointed glance at Crabbe and Goyle, "might need additional help."
"Oh, and are you volunteering as tutor, Daph?" asked Pansy, turning towards her with a simper. "That's so admirable. I suppose that's why you're the prefect."
"Durmstrang's level of teaching's far more advanced than Hogwarts'," Malfoy bragged. "I'm sure I must be at N.E.W.T. level by now. We started Conjuration fourth year."
Then I wonder who Crabbe and Goyle forced to do their homework.
"If only you could conjure a gag, to keep that running sore in the middle of your face shut," hissed Blaise through his teeth, his high-fashion-model features twisting in disgust.
"You sound like you're warming up to challenge me to a duel, Zabini," said Malfoy, spit flying from his mouth, "which is a really bad idea, because I'll have a lot to explain about your condition to Madam Pomfrey, and we'll both be expelled."
He's never been good at keeping his temper.
"Really—" Blaise started, but Daphne cut in over him.
"You two should be ashamed of yourselves!" she thundered. "How old are you, eleven?"
Malfoy flapped a hand at her rudely, and Daphne looked ready to explode with fury.
"I'm writing to your mother," she snapped finally, before storming off.
Malfoy blanched.
"You know what, I'm bored of this conversation, too."
Blaise got up and left, and then everyone else started to follow. To Ruby's utter misery, she found that she was, all of a sudden, alone with Malfoy on the sofa.
"I'm sorry," he said, as she moved to get up. "I shouldn't have asked."
"No," said Ruby, turning around to glare. "You shouldn't." And then, for good measure. "I see you haven't changed a bit, Malfoy, you're still a puerile, whiny twat."
She'd looked up puerile in the giant dictionary in 12 Grimmauld Place, and she was glad that she had.
The corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
Feeling as if she'd won, Ruby turned around again, and marched out of the common room and down the stairs to the dormitories.
Hedwig, Harry's regal snowy owl, was perched on her nightstand, regarding her dolefully with yellow eyes. Maybe Hedwig was sick, Ruby wondered. It didn't make sense why she kept getting what she assumed what Harry's mail. Hedwig was usually so clever at her job.
As if she had heard Ruby's doubtful thoughts, Hedwig hooted softly, and extended a spindly leg, with a small, folded up piece of paper secured to it with grey twine. The moment Ruby undid the knot, the letter falling into her hands, Hedwig took off in a clatter of wingbeats, her white form stark against the dark surroundings.
Alone again in the dormitory, Ruby sat on her bed and studied the letter. It had been carefully and evenly folded, none of the edges sticking out. She opened it gingerly, like a Christmas present or exam results.
Dear Ruby, the letter in her hand read, in a curving, old-fashioned cursive that made her heart skip a beat and drop to the bottom of her stomach. She'd know that little tail on the 'e' anywhere, an ominous, black swoop.
It took a Herculean effort to keep reading.
I don't know if you're aware, but Dumbledore asked me to train Harry how to fight.
Earlier, I saw something very worrying, and I think you should know about what happened.
You know where to find me if you want to talk.
Sincerely yours,
T.M. Riddle
"As if," Ruby seethed, already holding the edge of the letter to the flame at the tip of her wand, the parchment catching alight, then turning from pale brown to deepest black, curling in on itself and filling the room with the scent of charcoal.
If something was really wrong, he'd have told her in the letter. Or showed up in the common room tonight. Ruby knew he was well capable of finding her if he wanted to.
No, he thought he knew her weakness, just as he'd said in the corridor in 12 Grimmauld Place, "You think Harry's the most important person in the world, and anything, for him, is justifiable? I understand you perfectly. You're no innocent. Don't forget the diary. I know your deepest secrets, your greatest fears."
Yes, he knew her. He was right. He knew what she'd move heaven and earth for, the reason he was here in the first place.
But she'd be damned if she let him use Harry against her, ever again, thought Ruby, as the last of that duplicitous letter turned to ash. Wordlessly, she studied the ashes, observing the faint imprint before dashing the heap to the ground, sinking forgotten into the plush emerald carpet.
That's a book move, Tee. And one I've already studied.