Lightning Amongst the Stars
Chapter Eight – Whiplash
Beta-writer: Aeoncs
"You're wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. Someone needs to look into you, because that's bloody awful."
Vince laughed at the face Harry pulled. "Oh, c'mon Harry – it's not that bad!"
"Say it again. I want to hear exactly how deranged you are."
Vince laughed. "Harry-"
"Say it, Vince."
"Real-"
"Say it."
Vince sighed. "Fine, fine. Cold, okay? It's better cold."
They stopped walking and Harry fixed Vince with a withering stare. Vince rolled his eyes.
"Oh, it's not like it's the crime of the century. We're allowed different opinions."
"Yes," said Harry, "but yours happens to be disgustingly, offensively wrong." He emphasised each word with a poke to Vince's chest.
"Harry, it's not that-"
"Vincent Pinner, you do not eat treacle tart cold."
They resumed walking. The crisp night air bit at Harry's ears and raised goosebumps on his arms as he and Vince made their way back towards Hogwarts, the castle a jagged, ink-black silhouette against the star-dusted sky. The grounds were deserted, eerily silent save for the crunch of their boots on the gravel path, and the occasional wistful hoot of an owl. Harry shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, hunching his shoulders as his breath misted in the cold air.
"I cannot believe you, Vince. You're committing a sin against all that's good and holy in the world of desserts. There's only one way to eat treacle tart and it's-"
"Cold, obviously. What kind of maniac eats treacle tart warm?"
"Literally anyone else?" Harry cried, sounding genuinely appalled. "You're mad. Warm treacle tart with a dollop of clotted cream – it's like a hug for your soul."
"Cold treacle tart is crisp and refreshing. It betters the texture and taste completely. Warm treacle tart is just goo," said Vince.
"Warm is a religious experience, Vince. You've been doing it wrong this whole time."
"It's a sticky, sickly-sweet mess," Vince countered, wrinkling his nose. "It hasn't got the same bite to it."
"Bite?" Harry scoffed. "You want bite? Eat a bloody gnome. Warm treacle tart is all about taste. It's about the ooze. The glorious, molten, treacly ooze that coats your mouth and sends your taste buds into a state of ecstatic delirium. You're a barbarian."
Vince stared at him for a moment, his expression amused and exasperated. "Alright, Harry," he said, throwing up his hands. "You win. You've officially won the 'Most Ridiculous Treacle Tart Argument' award. But mark my words, one day, you'll see the light. You'll experience the transcendent glory of cold treacle tart, and you'll beg for forgiveness for your heresy."
"And if I ever catch you eating treacle tart cold, I am going to hex you."
"Duly noted."
Harry just laughed, shaking his head. "Maybe next time, we'll just skip the treacle tart altogether and go straight for the firewhisky."
Vince groaned. "Oh, low blow, mate. I don't want another drop of that poison for as long as I live. That party was something else. My head felt like a troll used it for Bludger practice. Let's just say I'm avoiding anything stronger than pumpkin juice for a while."
They continued their walk back towards the castle. As they approached the entrance, the large oak doors looming before them, Harry felt a familiar sense of comforting warmth spreading through him. Despite the strangeness of this altered timeline, one constant remained: Hogwarts was home.
"You reckon they'll have any of those cauldron cakes left in the common room?" Vince asked suddenly. "The ones with the exploding sugar plums? Those things are lethal."
Harry chuckled. "Lethal to your teeth, maybe. But yeah, I wouldn't mind one – or five."
They pushed open the heavy oak doors, stepping into the dimly lit Entrance Hall. The usual evening quiet had settled over Hogwarts, the sounds of distant chatter and the occasional echoing footsteps creating a peaceful, almost soothing atmosphere. As they made their way through, they heard voices coming from a nearby corridor.
"Sounds like someone's still up," Vince commented, his brow furrowing slightly as his gaze shifted towards the corridor. He tilted his head, listening. "Probably just prefects on patrol."
They rounded the corner and saw Professor Bodie talking with Lily Evans. Bodie, his back to them, seemed to be gesturing towards something in his hand, while Lily listened intently, her face animated, her red hair catching the flickering torchlight, making it look like a halo of fire around her head.
"Wonder what they're talking about," Vince whispered, his voice filled with curiosity.
Harry shrugged, his gaze fixed on Lily. "I've no idea."
As they drew closer, inadvertently, they heard the tail end of Bodie's instructions.
"—directly to me," said Bodie.
"Of course, Professor," Lily said steadily, despite the obvious concern in her eyes. "I will."
Bodie nodded. He turned as if to leave, and saw them. Harry and Vince, frozen in the middle of the corridor, caught like rabbits in a headlight.
Bodie's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Sayre," he drawled, "and the ever-present Mr. Pinner. What is keeping you two out of your common room at this late hour?"
Vince stepped forward, offering a charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Evening, Professor," he said, his tone light and casual. He jerked a thumb towards Harry. "Just heading back to the common room. Well, after this swot gets a book from the library needed for a late-night study session, you know?"
Vince gestured vaguely in the direction of the library, a nervous twitch in his smile. Bodie's gaze lingered on Vince for a moment, then shifted his probing scrutiny to Harry.
"A study session?" Bodie questioned.
"Yes, Professor," Harry said evenly. "We were going there just now." He hoped his racing heartbeat wasn't as obvious as he feared. He could feel the weight of Bodie's stare on him.
Lily, who had remained silent during the exchange, was watching Harry intently, her green eyes narrowed.
Bodie studied him for a long, tense moment, then gave a curt nod. "See that you get the book and then get back to your common room immediately," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And I suggest you both focus harder on your studies, rather than wandering the corridors right before curfew." He looked pointedly at Harry. "We wouldn't want any more incidents, would we, Mr. Sayre?"
"No, Professor."
"On second thought, you don't need me to accompany you," Vince said, clapping Harry on the back. "I'm off to the common room. Those cauldron cakes aren't going to eat themselves. See you later, Harry. Professor Bodie, Miss Evans." He gave them a cheerful wave and headed off down the corridor.
"I'll get going too, Professor," Harry said, turning towards the library, eager to escape the intensity of Lily's staring.
"Actually, Sayre," Lily said softly, stopping him in his tracks, "could I have a quick word?"
Harry hesitated for a moment, his heart fluttering. He nodded slowly, his eyes meeting hers, trying to anticipate what she wanted to talk about.
Bodie raised an eyebrow.
"It won't be long, Professor Bodie. I promise," said Lily sweetly.
Bodie's stare flicked between Harry and Lily, before he gave a curt nod. "See that it doesn't."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Harry and Lily alone in the dimly lit corridor. A sudden, awkward silence descended, punctuated only by the distant echo of retreating footsteps. Harry could feel Lily's gaze on him, and he shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. He wasn't used to this, to seeing her as just Lily Evans, his mother, not a legend. He desperately tried to remember that this Lily was not his mother. Before he could formulate a coherent response, Lily broke the silence.
"I wanted to thank you, Sayre," Lily began hesitantly, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere just beyond his shoulder, her cheeks flushed with a delicate pink that made her eyes even brighter. "For what you did for Remus in Hogsmeade — with Lestrange and his cronies."
Harry felt that familiar wave of self-consciousness washing over him. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor, suddenly fascinated by the intricate patterns of the stone tiles. "It was nothing," he mumbled.
"It wasn't nothing," Lily insisted, her voice filled with gratitude. There was something else there too. Concern? Disapproval? "Marlene told us what had happened when the boys refused to. It was brave of you to do that, and above all else, decent… having said this, it was also dangerously reckless – you could have been seriously hurt."
"I can handle myself."
"I'm sure," said Lily, "but that doesn't take away from the fact that you helped them, when you didn't have to. And it wasn't just Remus and Sirius, was it? Marlene heard from Penny Warrender that you also stopped James and Sirius from hexing Snape."
"Mm," Harry grunted noncommittally.
Lily, however, seemed determined to continue the conversation. "Why did you do it, Sayre?" she asked, gently but persistently. "Why stop them? Snape… well, he's not exactly well-liked, even amongst Slytherins, is he?"
Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, weighing up his answer. It was clear Lily still cared for Snape, even if the greasy bat treated her poorly.
"It wouldn't have been right," he said finally, choosing his words carefully. "Fighting's one thing, but ganging up on someone, it's not fair. Even if it's Snape."
Lily studied him for a long moment, those green eyes searching his own, as if trying to unravel the mysteries that lay hidden beneath the surface. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "You're a strange one, Sayre," she said.
Before he could respond, however, a loud clang echoed from down the corridor, followed by the unmistakable sound of Peeves' cackling laughter.
Lily sighed, rolling her eyes. "That's my cue," she said, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Curfew is almost here, and I'd rather not face Filch's wrath tonight." She paused, then added in a softer voice: "Thanks again, Sayre. For everything."
Lily offered him a small, genuine smile. Then, she turned and walked away, her red hair a disappearing flash of colour in the dim light, leaving Harry alone in the corridor.
"Bye," said Harry, his eyes not leaving her slowly shrinking form. As he watched her go, a strange mix of emotions swirled within him: gratitude, confusion, and a lingering sense of unease that he couldn't quite shake. He also felt a pang of something else, an emotion which he was quickly getting used to — loneliness.
Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had planned to go to the library, to grab a specific book on ancient runes that might, just might, hold a clue about altering timelines. He had found a reference to it in a different text, and he was eager to delve deeper into the subject, but a glance at the grandfather clock in the hall showed that curfew was fast approaching. He would not have enough time to find the book, let alone skim through it, before Filch started his rounds. And getting caught out of bounds after his recent exploits would not be wise.
Harry sighed. The library would have to wait. He was better off heading back to the common room, avoiding any further trouble. He could always try again tomorrow. Harry turned away from the direction of the library and started walking towards the dungeons.
As he neared the entrance, a figure emerged from the shadows, blocking his path. Harry stopped short, hand instinctively snapping towards his wand. The shadows soon gave way to the familiar form of Bellatrix Black, her grey eyes framed by the long, lustrous curtain of her black hair, which seemed to shimmer in the dimly lit corridor. She held a small, cream-coloured envelope in her hand, its surface unblemished, sealed with a heavy, dark wax.
"Sayre," she said cool and measured, devoid of any warmth or inflection. It came out not as a question, but a statement.
"Black," Harry replied cautiously. He moved his hand towards the wand hidden within his robe pocket, his fingers brushing against the smooth wood, giving him a small measure of comfort. He did not trust Bellatrix, not after their duels, not after the thinly veiled threats and the constant undercurrent of animosity that flowed between them. "What do you want?"
Bellatrix rolled her eyes, a dramatic gesture that seemed almost theatrical in the dimly lit corridor. "Relax, would you?" she smirked, as if his caution were humorous to her. "I'm not about to curse you. Not here, anyway."
"Forgive me if I'm not entirely comfortable in your presence," Harry said dryly, his focus on her unwavering. "You're not exactly known for your friendly demeanour, nor for friendly actions for that matter." He allowed a touch of sarcasm to creep into his voice.
Bellatrix's smirk vanished, replaced by a tight-lipped, humourless smile. Her grey eyes narrowed, a flicker of something predatory flashing within their depths. "You have a sharp tongue, Sayre," she purred. "It would be wise to learn when to keep it behind your teeth." Then, she extended her hand, offering him the sealed envelope. "This is for you."
Harry hesitated, his eyes fixed on the envelope. He could sense no magic emanating from it. No hidden jinxes or curses. Still, he was wary. He knew better than to trust Bellatrix Black. He also knew better than to underestimate her.
"What's it for?"
Bellatrix's lips curled into a slow, enigmatic smile. "Take it. Open it. Find out," she said, sending a shiver down his spine. He reached out and took the envelope, his fingers brushing against Bellatrix's. Her skin was surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the cold, hard glint in her eyes.
"Thank you, I suppose," he murmured.
"You are welcome. Oh – don't be late, Sayre. My family do not tolerate such disrespect." Bellatrix scrutinised him, the barest hint of something unidentifiable flickering in her dark eyes, before entering the common room. Harry watched her go, a strange feeling bubbling within him.
Alarms rang inside Harry's head. "Late? Late for what?"
Bellatrix did not answer. He watched her go, following the sway of her hips as she disappeared through the common room entrance. Harry shook his head and stood there for a moment longer, alone in the corridor, the weight of the envelope heavy in his hand. Then, with a sigh, he headed towards the entrance to the common room. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and spoke the password, the Slytherin common room entrance grinding open. Harry stepped inside, the muted hum of conversation washing over him.
The common room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth burning low, casting flickering shadows across the green and silver decor as it hummed with the usual subdued level of noise and activity. A few groups of students were clustered around the fireplace, their voices an indistinguishable murmur. Others were clustered over tables, studying, or playing games of Exploding Snap and Wizard's Chess.
He scanned the room, searching for a familiar face until he spotted Vince sitting alone, absorbed in a book. Harry walked over and sank into an empty armchair next to Vince, the subdued sounds amplifying the sudden and inexplicable pounding of his heart as he ignored his friend in favour of the ominous letter. He broke the seal of the envelope, his fingers trembling slightly, and unfolded the thick parchment. The elegant, flowing script, written in shimmering emerald ink, was unmistakably that of a formal invitation. He scanned the words, his stomach plummeting as they sank in.
By Request of the Ancient and Noble House of Black,
You are hereby summoned to attend the Annual Yuletide Celebrations, to be held at the ancestral seat of the Black family, Grimmauld Place, Number Twelve, London, on the eve of the Winter Solstice, the twenty-first of December, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and seventy-seven.
The festivities shall commence promptly at seven o'clock post meridiem with a formal reception in the Grand Salon, followed by a sumptuous repast prepared by the esteemed culinary artisans of Maison Dubois, flown in directly from Paris for this auspicious occasion.
Thereafter, guests shall be entertained by a curated selection of refined amusements, including Madame Evangeline DuMortier of the Vienna Opera House and a display by renowned magus, Mr. Septimus Selwyn. A formal cotillion, conducted according to Madame Zabini's exacting standards, will also be performed.
Dress is strictly formal, adhering to traditional attire, and befitting one's station. Garish displays are discouraged.
Attendance at this gathering is not merely a social occasion; it is a demonstration of your respect for the traditions and values of the pure-blood community, and your commitment to upholding the ancient and noble ideals that have guided our society for generations.
Your presence is both expected and required. Kindly RSVP to the Mistress of Ceremonies, Walburga Black, no later than the first of December, stating your intentions.
Toujours Pur.
Walburga Black
Mistress of Ceremonies, Lady of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black
"Oh, for Merlin's sake."
Harry sank further into the plush, emerald green velvet couch, the invitation clutched tightly in his hand. The Black family, notorious for their fervent belief in pure-blood supremacy and their clandestine association with the darker arts, were not exactly known for their warm hospitality. Attending their Christmas Ball was the furthest thing from Harry's mind, a prospect that filled him with a deep sense of foreboding.
Vince, who had been sprawled across a nearby armchair, his long legs draped over the side, straightened up, his curiosity over the letter all over his face.
"Oh, you're back already. What did Evans want?"
Harry sighed. "Nothing major. She thanked me for helping Lupin and Black the other weekend."
"And conveniently forgot I was there too, I suppose?" Vince heaved a self-depreciating sigh and smiled.
"She might have," Harry laughed.
"Typical."
"You can't charm them all, Vince."
"No, but I can try. Anyhow, what's this then?" Vince enquired with a playful inquisitiveness. "A love letter from some besotted witch, finally succumbing to your irresistible charms? Not from Evans, surely?" He made a grab for the invitation, his fingers outstretched.
Harry pulled it away, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Er – no, definitely not from Evans. And not quite a love letter," he replied, his voice dry. "It's an invitation to the Black family Christmas Ball."
Vince's jaw dropped. "The Blacks? An invitation to Grimmauld Place? Blimey, Harry, you've somehow pulled a blinder! How in Merlin's name did you manage that?"
"How?" Harry asked, confused.
Vince sat down heavily beside him. "Listen, Harry, this isn't just some school dance. The Black family Christmas Ball? That's a different league. Strictly pure-blood high society. Ministry officials, influential families… the works. They don't invite just anyone."
"I'm aware of that, but I am a nobody, Vince," Harry said, exasperated. "I'm nothing special. Why would they want me there?"
"You're a Slytherin," Vince countered, "an excellent duellist – you practically vaporised Bellatrix, twice, don't forget – and a damn good Quidditch player to boot. You've got their attention, and in our world, that means something. You absolutely cannot refuse this invitation. It would be a social faux pas of epic proportions and that, my friend, could have serious repercussions." He lowered his voice, leaning closer to Harry. "Trust me, Harry. You don't want to get on the wrong side of the pure-blood families. Especially not the Blacks. They can make life very difficult, very unpleasant, if they perceive you as an enemy. Look at dear Bellatrix."
"So, what? I just go?" Harry asked, frustration creeping into his voice. "Smile and nod and pretend I belong there?"
"You play the game, Harry," said Vince. "You go. You're polite. You're charming. You observe. You listen. And you figure out what they want. And, for Merlin's sake, don't punch anyone else."
Harry sighed. "Easier said than done, Vince."
But Harry knew that Vince was right. The labyrinthine intricacies of pure-blood society were a treacherous minefield, and he was still fumbling his way through the darkness, unsure of where to step next. He looked at the invitation again, a sense of dread creeping into his heart. He was walking into the proverbial lion's den, and he had a feeling he was not going to like what he found there.
Vince's expression shifted to one of sympathy. "Look on the bright side," he said. "At least there'll be good food, right?"
Harry managed a small, forced smile. "Yeah," he said. "Good food." He doubted he would be able to stomach a single bite.
"And fancy witches," Vince continued with a straight face. "You might even find yourself a nice, pure-blood heiress to warm your bed."
Harry snorted, shaking his head. "I doubt that, Vince," he said. "I'm not exactly their type."
"You never know," Vince said with a shrug and a smile. "You've got that brooding, mysterious foreigner thing going for you. And you're a Quidditch hero now. That's got to count for something. Maybe you'll find a nice, evil witch whose heart you can melt."
Harry laughed, a genuine laugh this time. "I think I'll pass on the evil witch, thanks."
"Suit yourself," Vince said, shrugging again. "More for me, then."
"Penny not evil enough for you?"
"If she gets any more evil, she'll take Black's crown. Could you imagine the fallout?"
"Good point."
"I make them all the time, but no-one listens," grinned Vince. "Now, how about a game of Exploding Snap? To take your mind off things."
Harry hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He needed something to take his mind off the impending Christmas party. He just hoped he could focus and not let his worries consume him. He had a feeling he was going to need all his wits about him in the coming weeks. The invitation was just the beginning. He simply knew it. "Sure," he said. "Let's play. But if I win, you're eating treacle tart warm, with clotted cream for good measure."
"Harry?"
"Yes, Vince?"
"Prepare to be soundly defeated."
Harry approached Riddle's office with a measured tread, each footfall echoing softly in the deserted corridor. He paused before the heavy oak door, his hand hovering over the cold metal of the handle. He could smell the faint, familiar scent of old books seeping from beneath the door, a scent that usually offered a sense of calm, but tonight, it did little to ease the knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. He knocked, three sharp raps against the dark wood, the sound louder than he intended in the stillness.
"Enter," Riddle's voice called out, the sound smooth and controlled, yet with an underlying edge that made Harry's stomach clench.
He pushed the door open, the hinges groaning softly in protest, and stepped inside. The office was familiar, yet somehow different in the dim light. The warm glow of the fireplace cast long, dancing shadows across the book-lined walls, making the portraits of former headmasters seem to shift and whisper in the darkness. Riddle sat behind his large, mahogany desk, a single lamp illuminating the thick, leather-bound volume he was studying, his face half-hidden in shadow. Riddle looked up as Harry entered, his dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, seeming to pierce through him.
"Harry," Riddle greeted smoothly.
"Professor," Harry replied. It was still peculiar for him to address Riddle as such, but the man was the Headmaster of Hogwarts and deserved the title. Harry's heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs and his mouth was dry. Strange. He had no reason to be nervous.
Riddle set down his quill, giving Harry his full attention. "Sit down. Please." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, the same chair where Harry had sat countless times before, during their meetings.
Harry sat, sinking into the chair with a quiet sigh. He looked around the office, taking in the familiar sights: the shelves overflowing with books, the strange, ticking silver instruments, the portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses, their eyes following his every move. It was a place of comfort, in a strange way, a refuge from the constant pressure of maintaining his false identity. Riddle closed his book, the sound echoing sharply in the quiet office, and leaned back in his chair, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"I trust you're settling in well, Harry?" he asked.
"Well enough, sir," replied Harry. "Slytherin is an interesting experience. It's different, but I'm finding my feet."
"Has anything of note occurred?"
"Well, I received a letter inviting me to a Christmas party," began Harry.
Riddle tilted his head down, as if he were looking at Harry over glasses. It struck Harry in that moment just how much Riddle was like Dumbledore with that gesture. "I would hazard a guess that it is from the Black family."
Harry's eyes widened slightly. "You… you know about it?" he asked.
Riddle chuckled. "I make it my business to know everything that happens within these walls, Harry," he said smoothly. "And the comings and goings of certain families are of particular interest to me. The Black family Christmas party, a gathering of the pure-blood elite. A hotbed of intrigue, ambition, and dangerous alliances."
Harry nodded slowly. "I was invited," he said hesitantly. "Bellatrix delivered the invitation personally."
"And your intentions, Harry?" enquired Riddle. "Do you plan to accept this generous offer?"
"Well, yes. I believe it could be a good opportunity for me. Plus, I've been told that I cannot really turn it down," said Harry.
"Indeed," murmured Riddle. "An opportunity. But also a risk. A considerable one. The Black family are not known for their hospitality, Harry. Especially not towards outsiders. You must be careful. Very careful. They will be watching you and testing you. One wrong move, one slip-up, and… well. You have already made an enemy of Lucius Malfoy. And Rodolphus Lestrange is not known for his forgiving nature, either."
"I know, sir. I'll be sure to look after myself."
Riddle's lips curved into a smile. "Good," he said, his tone approving. "Now, I trust your classes are still going well? Your professors hold you in high esteem, particularly Professor Flitwick. He is most impressed by your knowledge of advanced charms."
Harry nodded. "They are. Potions with Professor Slughorn is particularly interesting. As I said last time, he seems to have taken a liking to me."
Riddle chuckled. "Horace has always had a penchant for collecting promising students, myself included."
Harry smiled. "He may have mentioned that once or twice."
"And your other classes?" asked Riddle, leaning back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over Harry with a thoughtful intensity. "Transfiguration? Charms?"
"Professor McGonagall is just as demanding as I remember," Harry admitted, "but she is fair. And Professor Flitwick is just as familiar to me, although I have to admit that it's a weird feeling, to see them younger than I am used to."
"And that, Harry, is why I have called you here today. There is a lot happening, and much of it concerns the history of this time."
Harry frowned. "I assume you are talking about the rumours surrounding Grindelwald's followers?"
"Yes," nodded Riddle. "What do you think of these rumours, Harry?"
"Rumours are just rumours, sir," said Harry.
Riddle leaned forward. "Indeed," he said softly, "but rumours often contain a kernel of truth, do they not? And sometimes those kernels can grow into something rather dangerous."
"Sir?"
Harry watched as Riddle sighed and leaned back in his chair, his long fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the polished wood of his desk, his gaze still fixed on Harry, a thoughtful expression on his face. "The return of Grindelwald's followers – his Acolytes – is something which I do not believe to be coincidental. It is my belief that Grindelwald is still out there," he said gravely. "He may have been beaten by Dumbledore all those years ago, but he was never truly vanquished. I fear that Grindelwald is biding his time, gathering his forces, waiting for the right moment to unleash his fury upon the world once more. He is still alive, even if not fully operational. He is biding his time, gathering his strength, waiting for the right moment to strike again. And when he does, the consequences could be catastrophic."
Harry watched as Riddle rubbed his forehead, before the Headmaster asked: "What do you know of Grindelwald?"
"Er – Dumbledore defeated him in 1945, I think. I know things happened differently here, but I'm fairly sure it began the same. I know Grindelwald didn't like Muggles," answered Harry. "I know that he wanted to tear down the Statute of Secrecy."
Riddle nodded. "That is the foundation of his ideology, yes," he said. "But it goes deeper than that. Grindelwald sought power, the kind of power that most wizards could only dream of, or even think to be in the realm of possibility. But his goal, as you said, was to tear down the barriers between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. He believed that wizards are superior to Muggles, that we are entitled to subjugate and that we should rule over them, reshaping the world to our liking. He despised Muggles – saw them as lesser, inferior, and a threat to our world and to our way of life. As wizards, Grindelwald believed that we had a right, if not a duty to rule over them. To control them. To purify the world of their influence. And from this, Grindelwald wanted to create a new order of wizards and witches who ruled supreme, with magic no longer hidden and the old ways cast aside. You have to understand, when a man like Grindelwald has a vision, he would stop at nothing while attempting to achieve it."
"That sounds insane," Harry breathed.
"Perhaps," conceded Riddle. He stood up and moved towards a window, his back to Harry, his figure silhouetted against the soft glow of the moonlit grounds. "But he was also charismatic, cunning, and incredibly powerful. Grindelwald, you see, was not simply a dark wizard seeking power. No one man on a crusade could ever change the established order on his own, not even someone like him. No, he needed followers, loyal followers, who believed in his cause, who were willing to do anything, and I mean quite literally anything, to achieve his vision. Revolutionaries, fanatics, those with a grudge against the world, all driven by a twisted ideology that threatened to tear apart our society. He amassed a significant following, not just in the rest of Europe, but here in Britain as well. And his influence grew quickly, spreading like a disease.
Grindelwald sowed discord, manipulated events, and orchestrated chaos. Ministries were infiltrated. He turned friend against friend, brother against brother, nation against nation. He played on their fears, their prejudices, their insecurities. He promised them power, he promised them glory, all the while peddling the dream of a world free from the taint of Muggle influence. A world where wizards reigned."
Riddle turned away from Harry, moving towards the window again.
"I was in the presence of Grindelwald a handful of times," he continued thoughtfully. "Charismatic, alluring. It was little wonder others flocked to him." His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he was seeing something that was hidden in the shadows of the past, something that haunted him still. "He was a brilliant wizard, Harry. A truly gifted individual. And that is what makes him so dangerous."
Harry shifted in his seat, as Riddle moved to his drinks cabinet, reaching for a bottle of amber liquid. He turned to Harry and raised the bottle in offering. Harry shook his head. Riddle nodded and poured some kind of liquid into a glass, before setting the bottle down and returning to his seat. His eyes were locked onto Harry's as he took a sip from his drink.
"What do you know of Albus, Grindelwald and their relationship, Harry?"
"Their relationship?"
"Yes."
"Er – nothing, I suppose," said Harry. "They were friends."
Riddle smiled. "In a way," he said. "They were close, once, as close as brothers. And not many know this, but they were lovers."
Harry's eyes widened. "Dumbledore and Grindelwald were lovers?"
"They were," nodded Riddle, before having another sip. "But their history was complicated. You see, in their youth, they shared a vision of a better world. Albus called it the foolishness of youth, but he and Grindelwald were in agreement about Grindelwald's goals. They eventually had a falling-out over something, and it caused their paths to diverge. Albus was a private man over the matter, and he never told me what happened exactly, but I know enough to say with relative certainty that despite both of them having shared a similar ideology on wizards ruling Muggles, whatever happened between them must have been severe enough for them to clash, to such an extent that they became bitter enemies afterwards."
Harry rubbed his hand over his eyes. "That… that is a lot to take in."
"I understand," said Riddle. "I imagine it was the same in your time, albeit your Albus beat Grindelwald the first time around."
"Do you think that may have been why?" asked Harry. "Because Dumbledore loved him, he couldn't defeat him earlier?"
Riddle looked pensive for a moment as he considered the question. "Yes, and no. Grindelwald and Albus were incredibly close, and I think that is why Albus stalled for so long during their confrontation all those years ago. But even though he loved Grindelwald, Albus did everything he could to move against him. By the time we knew Grindelwald to be a threat, it was simply too late; he had already entrenched himself on the continent. And I believe it was a contributing factor as to why Grindelwald managed to recruit followers, and get to the position which allowed him to pose a threat to our entire way of life."
"But Dumbledore stopped him? You said they duelled twice?"
Riddle closed his eyes as his voice dropped. "Albus first defeated Grindelwald in 1945, that is true," he continued, "but the duel that most of the world remembers between them, the one that was made legendary and the one I personally witnessed, happened in 1956. It was a difficult battle. A costly victory. Albus was presumed dead."
"It happened differently in my world. Grindelwald spent his years in his own prison, until he died – Voldemort killed him," said Harry.
Riddle's head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he quickly regained his composure. "Voldemort killed him," Riddle repeated, his voice thoughtful, almost to himself. "Interesting. It would appear, even in your timeline, Grindelwald was never truly defeated. He remained a threat, even in captivity, until Voldemort ended him. Albus spared him – I wonder why."
Harry watched Riddle think. "And Voldemort," continued Riddle, his tone curious, "he sought out Grindelwald. Why?"
Harry hesitated. "He wanted something from him," he said finally, choosing his words carefully. "Information, probably. Something Grindelwald knew. Who knows? I'm not sure." He couldn't bring himself to speak of the Elder Wand. Not yet. If the Hallows existed in this world, Harry did not want Riddle knowing about them. The Hallows were his ace-in-the-hole, if they were needed at all.
"To be invincible," Riddle murmured. "The ultimate goal of every power-hungry tyrant. Grindelwald. Voldemort. All the Dark Lords that came before them and all the Dark Lords that will ever come after ultimately believe themselves to be untouchable. A foolish delusion, of course. True power is not found in brute force or magical artefacts. It lies in control and in understanding the forces that shape the world, and using them to your advantage."
Riddle trailed off, as if he were contemplating some complex equation. He looked at Harry, his eyes sharp and focused, the brief moment of introspection gone. "I hope you do not mind if I ask you a few questions about Voldemort."
"Uh — sure," said Harry, trying to sound casual, though his heart had begun to pound a little faster.
"Voldemort, you say, sought information from Grindelwald. Something he believed would make him invincible." Riddle frowned, the slight movement creasing his brow. "And yet, he ultimately failed. He was defeated, of course, by you."
"It wasn't just me," Harry said, the words tumbling out automatically.
"Modesty does not suit you, Harry," Riddle said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But I digress. The point is, Voldemort sought invincibility, and he failed. Grindelwald, I suspect, seeks something similar. A way to ensure his victory."
Harry grimaced. "Perhaps," he admitted, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his memories. "But it wasn't all bad. There were good people, brave people, who fought back. People like Dumbledore."
Riddle nodded, his expression turning serious. "Indeed," he agreed. "Still, after two Dark Lords in such a short span of time, you will forgive me in thinking that the world you come from sounds particularly bleak."
"At least I know more of it than this one," Harry muttered bitterly.
Riddle rose from his desk, his movements fluid and graceful, and walked towards the fireplace, his back to Harry. He stood there for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames, his silence heavy with unspoken words and unspoken truths.
"You cannot go back, Harry," he said gently.
"What?"
The words hung in the quiet office, a declaration that shattered Harry's carefully constructed illusions of escape, of returning to his own time and the people he loved. Riddle turned to face Harry, his expression… was it pity? Sympathy? Harry could not decipher it. "I have been looking for a way, Harry," Riddle said gently, "since you arrived. A method, a spell, anything that could reverse the process and send you back. But there is nothing. The magic that brought you here… it is unstable. Unpredictable. Unrepeatable. To attempt to reverse it would be unwise. Potentially even fatal, for you, and with unknown consequences for this time. Time magic is a relatively unknown branch of magic, precisely because the repercussions can be devastating. I am truly sorry, Harry."
Harry's heart sank. He stared at Riddle, blindsided, reeling, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of denial, anger, and a deep, profound sense of loss. He was trapped, stranded in this altered timeline, with no way back to the future he knew, the future he meant to protect.
Riddle walked back towards his desk as his expression softened slightly. He sat down, his eyes searching Harry's face as if trying to offer some small measure of comfort.
"But you," Harry choked, "you said-"
Riddle nodded, his expression grave. "I know. But I am afraid there is nothing to be done, Harry. The magic that brought you here – it is irreversible. At least, for now."
Harry felt a wave of despair wash over him. He had come to this time hoping to find a way back to his friends, his family, his life. But now, it seemed, that hope was gone.
"But that does not mean the end of your journey, Harry," insisted Riddle. "It simply means that your path, your future, lies here in this time."
"But… you said I can't go back," Harry said, his voice filled with confusion. "That it's impossible."
Riddle's expression was unreadable. "It is impossible to return to your original timeline, Harry," he said firmly. "The past, once altered, creates a new path. You are here, now. And this is your reality."
The blood drained from Harry's face, leaving him lightheaded and his vision blurring. He gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white, his body trembling with a suppressed rage. He could not go back. Not to Ron. Not to the Order. Not to Padma. His control snapped. Harry surged to his feet, his chair clattering backwards onto the stone floor. "You lied to me!" he shouted, his voice cracking with anger. "You promised you would help me get back! You said there might be a way!"
The portraits lining the walls of the office stirred, their painted eyes widening in surprise at the outburst. Riddle, however, remained calm. Some of the portraits on the walls were fraught with indignation.
"Insolence!" barked a portly wizard with a powdered wig, his painted eyes wide in outrage. "To speak to the Headmaster in such a manner!"
"The boy's clearly lost his mind!" huffed a witch in a severe bonnet, her portrait shaking slightly in what seemed like disgust.
"Disrespectful whelp!"
Riddle sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his gaze fixed on Harry, observing him with an unnerving intensity. He did not seem at all bothered by Harry's outburst, or the angry portraits.
"Please sit down, Harry," he said evenly, devoid of any emotion.
"Don't tell me to sit down!" Harry yelled. "You don't understand! You can't understand! You've never lost everything, or everyone! Anyone for that matter! You've never had to fight for your life, every single day, knowing that one wrong move could mean the end!" He was pacing now, frantic and desperate. "I need to go back. I have to fix things."
"There is nothing to fix, Harry," Riddle said, his voice still calm, still measured, but with an underlying firmness that cut through Harry's rage. "The future you came from no longer exists. It is gone. You cannot change what has already happened."
"You don't know that," snapped Harry, his voice sharp. "I can't trust you. You lied to me! I want nothing to do with your world, nothing to do with what's happening – I can't stop it! The only thing I can stop is you!"
The portraits gasped again, their painted faces contorted in expressions of shock and outrage.
"The audacity!"
"He should be expelled! Immediately!"
Riddle, however, simply raised a hand, silencing the portraits with a single gesture.
"You lied to me!" snarled Harry.
"It was not my intention to lie to you, Harry."
Harry scoffed, chest heaving, practically vibrating with anger. Riddle's gaze remained fixed on Harry, his eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.
"You think I will become like… him," he murmured.
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "You are still Tom Riddle. That's the truth. You have the potential. He – Voldemort – he was you. Or you were him. Whatever. It's the same."
Riddle's eyes narrowed. "The same," he repeated, the phrase a soft hiss. "You speak as if he and I were a disease, a contagion. Is that how you see me, Harry? As an unwilling carrier? Beholden to a predestined fate, regardless of my actions?"
"If I'm honest, no. I've seen enough of you to realise you're not exactly the same. But you are someone who could go either way," Harry retorted, his voice rising slightly, fuelled by a surge of reckless defiance. "Someone who could be better or a monster. And I've seen what happens if you choose the wrong path. I've lived it."
The portraits on the walls muttered amongst themselves, shaking their heads. Silence reigned, with both Harry and Riddle seemingly unsure of what to say next.
"You have lived it," said Riddle finally. "But you speak of the future as if it were set in stone, Harry. As if choices have no meaning."
"Choices have consequences," Harry shot back, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "And his – your choices – they had devastating consequences. For everyone." He couldn't help himself. The words were spilling out, propelled by years of pent-up grief and rage.
"Harry, I am not-"
"You could be! You don't get it – Voldemort was the worst-"
"And yet," said Riddle calmly, almost conversational, "he almost succeeded. He came closer to achieving his goals than anyone before him. He rose to power quickly, did he not? He used power and absolute control to get there. And so soon after Grindelwald too, remarkable in its own way. Tell me, Harry, did he inspire fear? Did he command respect? Did he achieve greatness, even in defeat?"
Harry was dumbfounded. "Greatness?" he finally exclaimed, his voice rising and control snapping. "He was genocidal! There was nothing remarkable about anything he did or stood for! He wanted to wipe out Muggles, Muggle-borns, anyone who didn't fit his twisted ideology and world! He was a murderer, a tyrant, a-" Harry stopped, his breath catching in his throat, the image of Voldemort, of the death and destruction he had wrought, flashing before his eyes.
"Then he did what Grindelwald has done, and will continue to do if allowed to remain unopposed. And if anyone is able to recognise, understand and fight against that, it is you."
For the second time in as many minutes. Harry was shocked into silence. He stared at Riddle, his mind reeling, trying to process the implications of his words. Was Riddle suggesting that Harry, with his knowledge of Voldemort's reign of terror, was uniquely equipped to combat Grindelwald?
"Grindelwald used the same techniques that the Voldemort of your time used, no? How can one trust their family, friends or colleagues? Are they aligned with him, or are they being controlled? Blackmailed or manipulated? Or are they actually on his side? Mistrust is a powerful tool, fear a better one. And hatred even more so. It blinds people, makes them susceptible to manipulation and extremism. Uncertainty breeds chaos and from there, control can be seized and order established. Don't misunderstand me – neither Voldemort nor his actions have my approval. His methods were brutal, but for his vision, they worked. He was successful and I am sorry to tell you this, Harry, but he won. You fell into this world, stumbled into my school and you had all but lost against him."
"Voldemort was a monster," said Harry through gritted teeth, ignoring the reminder of his failure in defeating Voldemort. "He killed without mercy. Tortured. Enjoyed it. There's no greatness in that."
"I am not defending it," Riddle said evenly. "I am merely analysing it. Objectively. Without your – not necessarily unfounded – emotional reaction." He added. "But Voldemort and his goals, consider that he almost achieved them. You and I, Harry, we are more alike than you realise. We have seen the extremes. We know the limits of blind faith and extremism, of ideology and hatred. And we know the appeal of power and its misuse."
Riddle leaned forward. "Grindelwald, like Voldemort, wanted to change the world. But what if," he said, his voice low, "we could stop him without all the death and destruction? Without the cruelty? What if we used your knowledge, your understanding, to change things?"
Harry stared at him. "What – what are you saying?"
Riddle sighed. "I'm saying, Harry, we have an opportunity."
"You said he was as good as dead."
Harry watched as Riddle paused. Riddle's hand tremored and Harry did not miss the way Riddle's fingers traced the outline of over his forearm, as if soothing himself. Riddle appeared to collect himself and continued: "As I said, I have reason to believe that Grindelwald will return, if he ever disappeared at all. That he will seek revenge. And when he does," Riddle paused and closed his eyes, before opening them, his gaze returning to Harry, those blue eyes filled with an intensity that Harry knew all too well, "we must be ready. We must be prepared. And you, Harry, with your unique knowledge, could be our greatest weapon."
Harry listened to Riddle's words as the pieces of the puzzle slowly began to fall into place. He knew, of course, about Grindelwald's defeat in 1945, the legendary duel between Dumbledore and the dark wizard that had marked the end of his reign of terror. But he had never heard the details, the personal cost of that victory, the lingering threat of Grindelwald's return. And the fact that Riddle himself had helped defeat Grindelwald, here at Hogwarts, in 1956, in a battle that had resulted in Dumbledore's death.
Harry looked at Riddle, his expression carefully neutral, though his mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions – fear, curiosity, and a growing sense of unease. He knew, from his own time, the devastating impact of Grindelwald's reign of terror, the countless lives lost, the scars that had been etched into the very fabric of the Wizarding world. Harry also knew the seductive allure of power, the intoxicating promise of a world reshaped in the image of magical superiority, the twisted ideology that could corrupt even the most noble of souls. He had seen it firsthand, in his own time, in the rise of Voldemort, in the senseless violence and hatred that had torn the wizarding world apart.
Could he wilfully sit here and ignore it? Could he knowingly condemn this world to the whims of a Dark Lord who had nothing to do with him? Harry bit his lip. All he wanted was to go home. Back to his time and defeat Voldemort. Back to Padma, to Ron and the others.
But what was waiting for him? More death, more destruction. And that was if he even could go back at all. Riddle had no reason to renege on their deal and lie to him, and if Harry was completely honest with himself, he believed the man before him. He could not go back.
Harry wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He looked up at Riddle, who was staring back at him. Riddle's expression softened slightly, a hint of something like regret and understanding in his eyes. Harry could not quite tell. Riddle's long fingers drummed a restless rhythm against the polished wood of his desk, his gaze still fixed on Harry, blue eyes searching green, as if trying to understand, to empathise, to offer some small measure of comfort.
"I know this is a lot to take in. I know this is difficult to accept," said Riddle gently, "but it is important that you understand the true nature of the threat we may be facing. The potential consequences of Grindelwald's return are not to be ignored or taken lightly. I am aware that the Tom Riddle of your time was the Dark Lord that shaped your entire life. But, perhaps this is not entirely a misfortune. I – we need your help, Harry. You possess a unique perspective, and your knowledge of the future could prove to be invaluable. It could be the key to stopping him. To preventing another war. To saving the lives of thousands. You could help us. Help me."
Riddle leaned forward, his intense eyes searching Harry's face. "I know that you still do not fully trust me. But I will try to convince you otherwise. So, I offer you my guidance. My knowledge. I offer you a chance to make a difference, here, for this time and those at risk. What do you say, Harry? Will you help me?"
Harry stared at Riddle, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of conflicting emotions. He had come to this time, to this place, with a mission, a purpose, a destiny. He was meant to find a way to get back. He was not meant to stay, was not meant to become entangled in the complex web of this altered timeline, was not meant to form alliances, to accept a mentorship from the very person he knew, from his own time, was capable of unimaginable horrors. But now, he had little choice available. Harry was trapped, stranded in this altered, alien past, with no way back to the future he was meant to protect. And now, Riddle was offering him a chance to perhaps make a difference and even change the course of a history so very different from what he knew.
Harry took a slow, steadying breath, trying to regain control over his chaotic thoughts and make sense of the situation. He looked at Riddle, truly looked at him without also seeing the possibility of Voldemort, for the first time since arriving in this altered reality.
"I…" Harry began, his voice hesitant, his throat suddenly dry, the words catching in his throat. He had not been prepared for this, for the possibility of an alliance, for the complexities of their shared past and this new unknown future. He sank into the chair again, limbs heavy from the rapid retreat of rage-induced adrenaline. "I don't know what to say," Harry finally said.
"Say yes, Harry."
Harry took a slow, steadying breath, the weight of the decision pressing down on him, the knowledge of the potential consequences of his choice a heavy burden on his shoulders. He thought of his friends, of Padma, of the world he had left behind, the world he was meant to protect. Could he abandon all of that?
But then he thought of this world, of this time, of the looming threat of Grindelwald, of the innocent lives that were at stake. He thought of the opportunity Riddle was offering him, the chance to make a difference. He thought of the good he could potentially do. And if he could not go back to his own time, he might be able to ensure that the horrors he lived never came to be in this world.
Harry studied Riddle again and saw a genuine desire for change, a belief in a better future. There seemed to be no trace of the Dark Lord that had plagued him for his entire life. What did he have to lose? And in the meantime, he would continue his research, and seek out anyone who might be able to assist him in finding a way for him to return to his time. For now, he would dance to Riddle's tune, play the game, and make his own plans.
Harry took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
"Yes."
The air in the Upper Year Slytherin girls' dorm lounge was transformed from its usual atmosphere of study and quiet. Tonight, it throbbed with a distinctly un-Slytherin-like giddiness. The air was thick with a cloying mix of floral perfumes and the sharp, chemical tang of nail polish. Bellatrix Black, however, remained aloof from the revelry. Reclined against the plush, emerald-green pillows of a sofa she feigned disinterest, a sigh escaping her lips, one that was more pointed observation than genuine weariness.
It was a rare "girls' night," an unspoken agreement among the female Slytherins to occasionally abandon their usual cool detachment and indulge in a bit of frivolous fun. Bellatrix was not one for socialising and it had been Narcissa who had dragged her along when they first started. Bellatrix had never understood the appeal, but Narcissa, years ago, had insisted on her presence, claiming it was "good for house unity" or some such nonsense. Tonight, the agenda consisted of nail painting, hair braiding, and, of course, gossip. Narcissa, ever the picture of poised elegance, was meticulously applying a coat of deep, blood-red polish to her already perfect nails, her movements precise and controlled. Emmeline Roth, perched on the edge of a nearby chair, her blonde hair cascading down her back like a waterfall, regaled them with a particularly scandalous tale of a Ravenclaw prefect and a stolen bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky, her story punctuated by giggles and dramatic gasps as Selena Wilkes listened in a rapture. Gina Barbosa, sprawled across the floor, her dark curls spread out around her like a halo, was attempting to braid Angela Edgestone's long, silver-blonde hair, the task proving to be challenging as her efforts resulted in more tangled knots than elegant braids.
Bellatrix was finding it difficult to participate in the general merriment. She sat slightly apart from the others, a vial of shimmering, emerald-green nail polish clutched in her hand, as she ostensibly polished her own nails and listened while the other girls discussed the latest Evening Prophet headline.
"Did you hear about what happened in Bristol?" asked Emmeline aloud.
"Aurors?"
"Yes."
Selena gasped, dropping her nail polish brush onto the floor with a clatter. "No! Not another Auror attack?"
"Three dead this time," Emmeline confirmed sadly as she nodded. "And they say some of the injured... they'll never be the same."
"My parents are worried," Angela said, as Gina moved around her. "They say something's coming, something big. They're not sure what, but they say it feels like how it felt before the war."
"Mine say the same. It's like they know something big is coming," agreed Gina, as she took a comb to a section of Angela's hair.
A knot tightened in Bellatrix's stomach. Her conversation with Rabastan rattled around her head. Her parents had mentioned nothing to her, which meant one of two things; they were ignorant to what was coming, or they simply did not care as it would not affect them. Knowing her parents, Bellatrix was inclined to believe it was the latter.
"It's terrifying," Selena whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. "What if they attack Hogsmeade? Or even Hogwarts?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Angela scoffed, though her usual bravado seemed strained. "If there was another Dark Lord, or even the unlikely event of Grindelwald returning, I think we would know by now. Besides, they wouldn't dare attack Hogwarts – they'd have to get through Professor Riddle first. According to Father, he was sure the Headmaster would end up either in a leading position at the Ministry or as a Dark Lord himself. Apparently he was quite something when he was at Hogwarts."
Bellatrix idly painted a nail as the conversation continued. That was interesting information – her own parents had known Riddle, but spoke little of him. She often thought it was a grudging respect, the way they were whenever the Headmaster's name was brought up in conversation. He was powerful, undeniably, and formidable in the way he carried himself, the way he commanded a room with a mere glance. But there was also something different about him. A flicker of something else, something that reminded her of the stories she had heard about Dumbledore.
"Yes," nodded Narcissa, as she twitched her wand, summoning a crystal decanter and a delicate glass from her bedside table. Firewhiskey was poured into the glass and floated over to her. She took a sip. "Mother and Father mentioned that he received a Special Award for Services to the School when he was a student. Apparently, he was instrumental in thwarting a dark plot, or something like that."
"He probably orchestrated it himself," Gina muttered under her breath, earning a disapproving frown from Narcissa.
"Gina! That's awful!"
"What? You know I find him creepy. There's something about him I just don't like."
"He's a perfectly good Headmaster – whatever has made you think that?" Selena asked.
Gina shrugged as she plaited another section of Angela's hair. "I don't know, but he sets me on edge."
"Still, he's done nothing wrong. And I hear he's a good teacher too. He occasionally offers his insights on the seventh years' Defence classes," said Angela.
"I wonder what he got his award for?" Selena thought aloud to no-one in particular.
"He caught whoever it was who opened the Chamber of Secrets," Bellatrix said idly. "Of course, the Chamber is but a rumour, but apparently the deaths stopped after Riddle caught who did it."
"Who was caught, Bella?" asked Narcissa.
Bellatrix frowned. "I don't know, but I imagine there would be a record of it somewhere. Whoever it was, they're probably dead or in Azkaban."
"I don't think it was the Chamber of Secrets," Angela smirked. "No-one has ever found it in all the time Hogwarts has been around."
Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "Whatever. As I said, it was a rumour, but it's also the prevailing theory. What else could have killed those students?"
Before Angela could answer, Emmeline spoke: "Did you hear that James Potter asked out the Mudblood Evans again? Honestly, you'd think he had moved on to someone of his own station." Emmeline was practically vibrating when she blurted it out.
"Evans again?" Gina raised an eyebrow. "That's the third time this year, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes," Emmeline confirmed, relishing the attention. "He's completely smitten with her, the idiot. I don't know what he sees in her. Sure, she has some talent, but she's hardly worthy of a Potter, is she? Why would he want to sully himself with an animal? Imagine the scandal! A pure-blood heir fraternising with a Mudblood!"
Angela giggled. "Oh, wouldn't that be delicious? Talk about being mortified! I'd sooner be dead than be courted by a Mudblood!"
"Honestly, Emmeline," Narcissa said with amusement, "you do have a knack for finding the most interesting gossip. Where do you even hear these things?"
Emmeline winked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "A lady never reveals her sources," she said coyly. "But let's just say I have certain connections. Besides, a little bit of harmless gossip is good for the soul, Narcissa. It keeps things interesting, especially in this dreary dungeon."
"Interesting? That's one word for it," Bellatrix muttered, her gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the tapestry that adorned her wall, her mind miles away, her thoughts a tangled mess.
Angela sighed. "I don't know why you bother, Gina. My hair has a mind of its own."
"Nonsense, Angie," said Gina as she wrestled with a particularly stubborn strand of hair. "Every woman's hair can be tamed. It simply requires some unique… persuasion." She gave the braid a particularly vicious tug, earning a yelp.
"Careful, Gina," Emmeline drawled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You'll have Angie bald before you're finished."
Gina huffed and then smiled. "Don't be ridiculous, Emmy," she said. "I'm a master stylist. Besides, once it's right the boys will be all over her."
"Maybe you could bag Potter!"
A chorus of jeers and laughs went up at that.
"Speaking of boys," Emmeline continued, once the laughter stopped, "that new boy, Sayre - he's rather attractive, isn't he?"
Bellatrix felt a muscle twitch in her jaw. She carefully set down the vial of nail polish, her hand suddenly trembling slightly. She clenched her fist, digging her nails into her palm.
"He's alright," shrugged Gina. "A bit rough around the edges, though."
"Rough around the edges?" Selena repeated, her eyes widening. "He's gorgeous! That dark hair, those eyes – and have you seen him fly?"
Emmeline shrugged. "You've got to admit, Gina, he is striking."
"That's part of his charm," Selena said, sighing dreamily. "He's got that brooding, mysterious thing going on. And those eyes… they're so intense."
"Intense?" Bellatrix scoffed, unable to contain herself. "They're the colour of pond scum."
"He is a bit dreamy," Angela agreed, ignoring Bellatrix's comments entirely. "Smart too. Slughorn can't help himself whenever we're in Potions and don't get me started on the Slug Club!"
"Did you see Avery's face when Sayre outdid him in Defence?" laughed Gina. She had finished with braiding Angela's hair and was now meticulously applying a coat of midnight-blue polish to her already perfectly manicured nails. "Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic."
"Avery's always been weak," Angela sneered, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "No backbone. No ambition."
"Not like Sayre!"
"Hmm – dishy!"
A wave of giggles ran around the room. Bellatrix rolled her eyes.
"What do you think, Cissa?" Gina asked casually.
Narcissa, who had been quietly observing the exchange from her perch, hesitated. "He's alright," she answered. Bellatrix's eyes narrowed as she eyed her sister. Narcissa's tone sounded suspiciously like something akin to admiration for the disgusting little half-blood, a realisation that made Bellatrix's blood run cold. "A bit rough around the edges like you said, perhaps. But he has a certain charm. Dashing, one could say."
Bellatrix's jaw tightened, her composure momentarily faltering, as the other girls let out a series of whoops and cheers. Bellatrix shot her sister a withering glare. "Are you forgetting, Cissy, that this dashing charmer broke the nose of your beloved Lucius? Publicly and in Hogsmeade?"
"Yes, but-"
"But? But what? He broke Lucius' nose, Narcissa," Bellatrix snapped. "He humiliated Lucius in public. Sayre should be expelled, not admired." She couldn't believe her own sister admired Sayre, defending the boy who had dared to disrespect a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and one of the most noble pure-blood families. It was unthinkable.
It was Angela who finally spoke. "He was acting in the defence of others, Bella," she said calmly. "I know they were Slytherins, but Malfoy and everyone else there were out of line. Sayre put them in their place. I can respect that."
Bellatrix whirled around to face her, her eyes narrowed. "Respect?" she repeated, her voice dangerously low. "You respect a half-blood who dares to lay his hands on a pure-blood? A transfer student who has no understanding of our ways?"
"I respect someone who stands up for what's right," Angela answered, rising to Bellatrix's challenge.
Selena nodded. "Regardless of blood status. Don't forget it was your cousin Sirius that they were picking on."
"And the filthy little blood-traitor probably deserved it!" Bellatrix all but shrieked. She lunged forward, her hand reaching for her wand, her face contorted in a mask of fury as she yelled at Selena. "How dare you," she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "How dare you speak to me that way?"
Narcissa waved her hand about. "Bella, calm down! She didn't mean anything by it! Selena, from now on, unless you want me to hex your head so badly that even Mulciber would turn you down, you'll think twice before opening your mouth and mentioning our family. Do you understand?"
Selena's face had gone pale enough to rival a ghost. She nodded mutely as she shrank into herself, tugging her knees to her chest again. Emmeline opened her mouth but before she could speak, the door to the dorm room opened, and Linda Rosier entered, her arms laden with books.
"Linda!" Narcissa exclaimed, her voice regaining its usual warmth.."Come in, come in! We're just having a bit of a pampering session. Join us!"
Bellatrix saw the corners of her cousin's eyes tighten almost imperceptibly, before Linda forced a smile. She walked over to a nearby table and placed her books on it. Linda looked at the group, her gaze lingering on Bellatrix for a moment, her eyes narrowed slightly. "What's all this, then?" she asked as her eyes swept across the room, taking in the scattered bottles of nail polish, the open jars of creams and lotions, the lingering scent of perfume that hung heavy in the air.
"Just a bit of a girls' night," Narcissa replied, waving her hand dismissively, her earlier tension seemingly forgotten. "A bit of pampering, a bit of gossip, you know how it is."
"Pampering and gossip?" repeated Linda, raising an eyebrow. "And what were you gossiping about? Boys, I presume?"
"What else?" Gina laughed, her voice laced with a playful sarcasm. She finally managed to untangle the last of the knots in Angela's hair, and tossed the braid over her shoulder with a triumphant grin. "Though, to be fair, the conversation did take a rather interesting turn when a certain Slytherin Seeker's name was mentioned." She looked at Bellatrix pointedly.
Bellatrix's cheeks flushed, a wave of heat rising up her neck as her earlier irritation returned with a vengeance. She opened her mouth to retort, but Linda spoke first.
"Sayre?" Linda asked slowly. "Why? What about him?"
"Oh, nothing," Narcissa said quickly, her voice a little too high-pitched. "Just… you know… the usual. Quidditch. Boys. That sort of thing. Come, cousin, come sit."
Linda hesitated, then sat next to Narcissa.
"He's just a classmate," Linda said a little too insistently. "Nothing more."
"Linda, you practically are with him all the time. You, Pinner and Nott," Angela laughed.
"It doesn't mean I know him-"
"No, really, Linda," Gina insisted, as she leaned back and swirled her firewhiskey. She ran her tongue over her teeth and tilted her head. "What about Sayre? He's quite the enigma, isn't he? A Durmstrang transfer, all brooding and mysterious..."
Linda hesitated, her gaze darting nervously between the girls. "I... I don't really know him that well," she stammered, her usual confidence faltering.
"Oh, come on, Linda," Bellatrix pressed. An ugly, tight feeling rooted in her stomach, a surge of annoyance and possessiveness she didn't quite understand at Gina's obvious interest in Sayre. "Don't be shy. Spill the beans. What's he like?"
Linda squirmed under their combined scrutiny, her cheeks flushing slightly. "He's quiet," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "Don't get me wrong, he talks and laughs and jokes, but there's almost nothing of substance there. I don't really know anything about him or his life before Hogwarts. He doesn't talk about his family. I remember him telling me that his parents were murdered by a Dark wizard, I think. And no – not Grindelwald, before you ask! He's friendly, though. But sometimes, it's like you'll catch him with a look in his eyes, like he's seen things..."
Grumbles of discontent sounded as Linda trailed off. Bellatrix was paying attention. Sayre's parents had been murdered by a Dark wizard? She wondered who this Dark wizard was, if not Grindelwald. And who did he stay with then? Who was his legal guardian? Bellatrix frowned as she realised there was little she knew of Sayre.
"And he's got that scar," Selena suddenly added, her eyes wide with fascination. "That strange, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. What do you think it means?"
Linda shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe it's from a duel."
Bellatrix watched as Angela shot her a devious grin. "Well, it certainly didn't come from Bella!"
Bellatrix's words came out in a snarl during the chorus of giggles that erupted, fuelled by the firewhisky and the thrill of gossip. Everyone laughed, except Linda and Narcissa. "Continue, Angela, and I'll give you a scar to remember."
"Oh, come on, Bella," snorted Emmeline. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed the way he looks at you."
"Looks at me?" Bellatrix scoffed, though her heart quickened its pace. "He barely acknowledges my existence."
"Well, you spent enough time with him, haven't you, Bella? Detentions, duels… What's he really like?"
"How would I know?" Bellatrix shrugged, and levitated her nail polish back into a bag. "I don't talk to him, and I have no desire to do so."
"He's certainly different," Narcissa conceded, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "He doesn't seem to fit in with the other Slytherins. He's not interested in blood purity or bragging about his family."
"He's always with Pinner," Emmeline chimed in, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "They're practically attached at the hip. Always whispering together, like they've got some big secret. They're practically inseparable. Always together in the library, causing trouble - Rabastan hates them and I don't blame him. They're like a watered down Potter and Black."
"They're thick as thieves, those two," Selena agreed, her eyes wide with curiosity. "I wonder what they're always plotting."
"Pinner?" Angela wrinkled her nose in disgust. "The one with the goofy grin and bad jokes?"
"Vince is not that bad," Linda defended. "He's just a bit of a fool, sometimes."
"He's an idiot at best," declared Bellatrix.
"It's probably just Quidditch," Narcissa said dismissively. "Vince is obsessed with it, and obviously Sayre's quite good."
Emmeline clearly sensed an opportunity to stir the pot. "Maybe Bella's just jealous," she said in a teasing purr. "Jealous that Sayre is getting all the attention."
"Jealous?" Bellatrix repeated, outraged. "Of him? Don't be absurd."
Gina, who had been silently observing the exchange, spoke up. "He did defeat you, Bella," she pointed out. "You can't deny his skill."
"Skill?" Bellatrix laughed, a harsh, humourless sound. "Sayre's a brute. A brawler at best. He relies on luck more than anything."
"Luck doesn't explain how he handled those curses you threw at him."
Bellatrix rounded on her, her eyes blazing. "Are you questioning my skill, Barbosa?"
Gina met her gaze, unflinching. "I'm simply stating a fact," she said. "Sayre's good, Bella. Better than you're giving him credit for."
"You're all being ridiculous," she said finally, her voice tight with suppressed fury. "He's nothing!"
"Oh, give it up, Bellatrix. We know why you don't like him."
That same creeping feeling from the duel with Sayre bubbled up in Bellatrix's veins as she turned to Selena, who had gone a very pale shade of white, as if surprised by her own audacity. Bellatrix bared her teeth in a mocking, sickly-sweet smile.
"Oh? Pray tell, darling Selena, what reason is that exactly?"
"Don't take it out on Selena, she's right. The reason is plain as day Bella - he's a winner," smiled Emmeline, rolling her eyes. Bellatrix didn't appreciate the sharpness of the other girl's smile. "He wiped the floor with you in that duel, didn't he? And then he went and won us the Quidditch match. Seems like he's got something going for him, wouldn't you say?"
Bellatrix's cheeks burned, a familiar wave of anger washing over her, the memory of her humiliating defeat, of being outmanoeuvred, outsmarted, out-magicked by a boy who was barely old enough to shave, a boy who should have been beneath her notice, beneath her contempt, a boy who had somehow managed to become an obsession. Sayre was an itch she couldn't scratch, a puzzle she couldn't solve, and a thorn in her side.
Bellatrix glared at Emmeline, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Harry Sayre is a nobody," she said, her voice sharp, "and don't think for a second that he is better than me. I suggest you remember that." She turned back to the others, forcing a smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me," she said dismissively, "I have more important things to do than discuss a filthy half-blood."
Bellatrix stood up, her robes swirling around her, and walked away, leaving the other girls to their gossip. She needed to be alone.
She made her way to her dormitory, the silence of the empty room a welcome relief from the chatter and laughter of the shared lounge. She sat down at her vanity, her gaze fixed on her reflection in the mirror. She saw the familiar features of a Black: the high cheekbones, the arched eyebrows, the dark, intense eyes. But she also saw something else, something new, something unsettling.
Uncertainty.
Bellatrix had never been uncertain. She was a Black; she had no reason to be. She reached out and touched the cool surface of the mirror, her fingers tracing the outline of her face. She had always been so sure of herself, so confident in her abilities, in her destiny. But now, for the first time, she felt unsure. And it was all because of him.
Harry Sayre.
Bellatrix clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palm. But even as she tried to banish him from her thoughts, she knew it was a losing battle. Sayre had gotten under her skin, and she had a feeling he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. And she also knew that she wouldn't rest until she had either conquered him or destroyed him. Because that was the Black way. And she was, after all, a Black.
She stared at her reflection, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. "Alright, Sayre," Bellatrix whispered to herself. "Let's see who comes out on top."
A/N: Thank you for reading. Please feel free to leave a review.