Author's note: Hello friends, I hope you are doing well. For the record, I absolutely did not re-read this chapter, so please, bear with me! I just really wanted to post tonight and I'll probably do some editing later. I am so so grateful to those of you who are still sticking around despite how long this fic became, and how slow I am at updating lately.
January 1945 - The Serpent Queen
"There is no such thing as day drinking when it's about celebration"
The man was beaming, his round face radiant with joy as he filled his glass generously, before he turned to the others: towards Headmaster Dippet, whose semi-bald head was glistening in the afternoon light, and Dumbledore, who stood quietly near the desk.
The four of them were gathered in the Potion Master's office for a spontaneous meeting the latter had orchestrated. It was the end of the Christmas holidays, and hundreds of students were expected to regain the school in just a few hours. It was also the day the Selwyns had chosen to spread the word, and on Slughorn's desk lay the Ministry's Official Gazette, opened on the page that read the publication of banns, and right there in bold stood his name, next to hers, public disclosure of their upcoming union.
Tom stared at the newspaper, and at the three invitation cards that stood right next to it. On an eggshell background, the coat of arms of the Selwyn family was embossed on top of a short text that indicated the place and date of the ceremony. Regarding such pompous invitation cards, they had not been consulted. Just like everything else. All went like clockwork, for every single detail obeyed an ancient tradition - or a thousand-year-old ritual that had to be observed - and he and Annabel had only very little control over the organisation of their own wedding.
One the one hand, he was pleased not having to bother about the colour of napkins, or whether they should prefer a Pinot Noir over a Sangiovese to go with the pheasant, but this lack of control over his own life was beginning to bother him.
He felt trapped, and this impromptu meeting only added to his strain. He longed for some intimate time with his closest friends, whom he knew were awaiting him with another bottle, in another room, and he dearly wished he could simply enjoy the calm before the storm.
For Tom was certain about one thing: the announcement of his marriage would not go unnoticed. And if he could count on the Slytherins' loyalty to accept Annabel as his rightful consort, he could not say the same about the others: those who coveted her, or him, and who could cause some unwanted rowdiness.
He had already been closed to drinking a love potion on Christmas, sent to him by some mysterious stranger, but because Tom never drank nor ate anything that was gifted to him without having it tried first, he had luckily avoided the worst. The poor Malfoy he had asked to be his taster had ended up all besotted in a Fourth-Year from Gryffindor, whose identity had finally been revealed and who - sadly - seemed to share half of her DNA with a troll.
The Potion Master cleared his throat, and the repeated "hum-hum" pulled him out of his reverie. He glanced up, and when he raised his glass, he caught Dumbledore's eyes. The latter was watching him, with that ounce of suspicion that he always had whenever he was around.
Yet, he toasted just like the others:
"To love"
—
The throbbing of the train resounded in her ears when she arrived. Shades were moving through the smoke like grey ghosts, but the corporeal shapes were nothing else than hundreds of parents who were peeking through the train's windows. They waved at their offsprings with a handkerchief in hand, already wistful of the joyful Christmas time.
Annabel weaved in and out the assembled people, and as she reached the closest carriage, she felt butterflies in her stomach. Inside her coat, the stack of envelopes was pressing against her chest, like a constant reminder of the announcement she was about to make. However, given the few heads that had turned the very moment she had arrived on platform 9 3/4, Annabel guessed the word had already spread.
She boarded the train, baggage in hand, and she began to search for her friends. A hysterical "what?" that she attributed to Margaret raised from the end of the wagon.
Annabel stepped onto the corridor until she reached the right compartment and she stood on the doorstep, observed her friends who were stooped over a newspaper.
"The lawful union of Miss Annabel Sybil Selwyn, born 28 June 1927, daughter of Zeena Noor Selwyn, née Shafiq, and Amsden Bolton Selwyn; and Tom Marvolo Riddle, born 31 December 1926, son of Merope Riddle, née Gaunt, fatherless, will be officially solemnised on 30 June 1945 in Castle Combe, Wiltshire, South West England, Great Britain" read Violet out loud.
"It must be some kind of joke" stated Margaret with wide eyes, before Annabel finally jumped in the conversation.
"It's not"
All heads turned to her at the same time.
"I have invitations too" she whispered with a racing heart, and soon enough, she was pulled inside the compartment by four pairs of hands, and welcomed by a single outcry.
She was assailed with questions, which she answered to the best of her capacity. She had agreed to keep quiet about certain things, such as Tom's proposal - for such effusion could perceived as weak - and all that she had learned about his family. Outside of those two things, she acceded to all the other requests, partly because she felt guilty of having kept such major information secret for so long, and there she was now, replying to the most intimate questions.
No they hadn't have sex yet, but yes, she had seen him naked - which had triggered a collective yell - and yes, he had met her parents, and would work with her father, and of course, of course, they were invited to the wedding.
At that one, Annabel turned her words into deeds, and pulled out the small pile of invitation cards from her coat that she still had not the chance to take off.
"Where is Sophia?" she asked suddenly, once she noticed the last envelope she had in hand and silence fell onto the group as the girls exchanged some bothered looks with a solemn air.
"She's in the prefects' compartment"
—
Tom slightly bent forward as he thanked Slughorn over and over again, showing courtesy for the congratulating drink. He had finally managed to take his leave after the second glass, and Dumbledore had followed him on his heels once he had left the room.
The two of them were now walking down the corridor quietly, without even bothering to make small talk. It was not antagonism, simply the absence of collusion, for Tom had long understood that his magnetism had no hold over the wizard.
He had tried, of course, to charm his Transfiguration teacher, to have him wrapped around his finger like he had all the others in school. But Dumbledore had resisted him. And after a while, Tom had simply stopped trying, offering nothing but polite greetings, a masquerade that seemed to suit both of them.
Part of him enjoyed it, somehow, this lack of pretence, for he felt they could talk to one another as equals, and also because all the efforts he had to deploy to please the others exhausted him.
They walked down the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the empty hallways, until they finally reached the lower storeys.
Dumbledore excused himself, said he had to pay a visit to Mrs Runereader, and he headed towards the library while Tom made for the first floor.
"Tom" called the wizard, and the young man turned around.
"Yes Professor?"
Long minutes passed, during which Dumbledore observed the young man through his half-moon glasses. He was looking at him the same way he had looked at him earlier, in Slughorn's office, with a circumspect, watchful glance.
Unblinking, the two of them stood quietly in the middle of the corridor, until Dumbledore's mouth opened once more.
And if Tom knew the wizard was famous for his whimsical tricks and eccentric saying, he also knew how to recognise a warning when he saw one.
"I've known Annabel Selwyn since she's a child, Tom. Her heart is in the right place. Do not forget that"
—
The compartment was shaking every so often, gently making their bodies sway each time the Hogwarts Express changed track, drove over a bridge or rushed into a tunnel.
"Since when do you know?"
Annabel had found Sophia in the prefects' compartment, locked behind a door on which she had knocked repeatedly - despite her friend's stubborn ostracisation - until the latter was given no other choice than to step out of the confined space once the other prefects had begun to curse at her, and urged her to please open the door.
"August"
Sophia's mouth turned into a grimace and her friend's gaze moved to the window. She stared at the scenery that went by, the moorlands, and the snow-capped mountains in the distance.
Silence stretched, but Annabel tried not to fill the blanks despite the growing urge she felt to explain herself.
"August" repeated the Head Girl in a whisper, and her eyes darkened while Annabel looked down in shame.
She had prepared for such conversation, what words she would use, with what intonation, but like always, theory differed from practice, and all of her diligent training had vanished the very moment she had met her friend's accusatory glance.
She knew that Sophia would be, of all of them, the one who would not congratulate her, who would not hug her and yell ecstatically. That the announcement of her upcoming marriage would sound like nothing but betrayal. Yet, she had had a glimmer of hope, assumed she could change her mind. She aimed to comfort her, brush the girl's shoulder with a gentle touch, but the latter shirked, and stepped away.
"I hope you'll forgive me" she whispered with a lump in her throat and placed the invitation card on the console table near the window. She disappeared in the corridor, let her friend alone, for there was some ordeals to life that only time only could fix.
—
The hubbub of conversations and the jingling of silverware resounded in the ground floor, all the way to the marble staircase. All students had regained the Great Hall by now, and she would have been sitting with her friends, enjoyed a delicious meal with lightheaded conversations if it had not been for Slughorn to corner her the very moment she had set foot in the castle, and compelled her to celebrate her engagement with a drink. Which - she had learned - he had already done previously with her betrothed.
Annabel plodded towards the wooden door, her heart racing with each step. She would have preferred to hide inside the crowd, enter and leave the dining room anonymously, like she had done the past six years of her stay in school.
She had considered shutting herself away in her dorm, but this would only postpone the issue, for soon enough, the news would spread like wildfire, and everyone would know that she had stolen the school's Golden Boy.
She took a deep breath before she stepped inside the room, and all at once, the conversations shushed.
She had expected this.
The bewildered gazes, the taken aback frowns.
Yet, she found herself paralysed, impaired by the mixture of confusion and hostility that stemmed from the other students, from girls mostly, to whom she now became the prime competitor, the common enemy.
She stood there for a while, incapable to move, like if her body had taken root and firmly held her in place.
She wished she could flee, step back, go back to her dorm, anywhere, for even Slughorn's office now seemed more hospitable than the Great Hall.
Her heart began to race, and she felt her cheeks redden under the stares while she asked Merlin for a miracle, anything, that would get her out of that situation. Until Tom finally appeared before her eyes.
There was something celestial about the way the lights had created a halo around his face, as if he had been sanctified.
He seized her lips, her saviour, claimed her in front of the entire school, like the Quidditch captain had done once, for a kiss that contained not an ounce of virtue, for it was not about love but ownership, and yet, in such sinful embrace, she took pride, just like he did, and it was with his chin high that he led her towards the green and silver table, under the circumspect glance of her friend Sophia - and Albus Dumbledore - to which she did not pay any attention, for she knew where she belonged: she was one of them now.
She was one of them.