Chapter 1: An Auror and an Unspeakable Walk into a Pub
Summary:
This couldn’t be real.
This had to be a joke.
A very, very bad joke.
Harry didn’t laugh.
Nott was laughing enough for the both of them.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter One
An Auror and an Unspeakable Walk into a Pub
An Auror and an Unspeakable walk into a Pub…
It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.
It was the sort of joke you’d expect a mate to tell you after about one too many ales when they were piss drunk and about to fall off their stool. The kind of joke that would only be funny if you were yourself also one more ale away from spewing your guts in some back alley behind the pub. The sort of joke that honest people rolled their eyes at and polite people faked a chuckle when sober.
It wasn’t funny.
And Harry certainly wasn’t laughing. Not when the face staring back at him in the reflection of the shop window was a fifteen-year-old version of himself.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO NOTT?!”
Harry whirled, wand in hand, toward the younger and equally flabbergasted Theodore Nott standing in the midst of a rubble strewn London street that looked like a warzone had torn through it. The younger Nott’s dark wizard robes weren’t hanging off him ridiculously baggy like Harry’s red Auror robes were, but they were soiled and dirty with soot and blood that oozed from a cut on the Unspeakable’s brow.
“P-Potter wait—” Nott held his own wand defensively between them. “It was an accident. Just let’s take a minute and—”
“I’M NOT GONNA TAKE A FUCKING MINUTE! LOOK. AT. MY. FACE!” Harry pointed at his chin, his hairless, beardless, adolescent chin. “I’M TWENTY-EIGHT! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME?!”
Nott’s shoulders started shaking, his face twisted attempting to fight back a helpless, disturbed grin. He was not successful. His composure broke and unwittingly the Unspeakable laughed. He laughed. And laughed. And even when Harry shot a stunning spell at him that had him teetering out of the way on unstable legs, he didn’t stop laughing.
“THIS ISN’T FUNNY!” Harry shouted.
“I-I know!” Nott stumbled again dodging another spell. “This is really-really bad! Hahaha…”
“NOTT!” Harry growled brandishing his wand, the spelling hitting its mark and knocking the cackling lunatic on his arse.
“OW! That hurt you prick,” Nott groaned between snickers. Harry towered over his prone body, glaring with those blazing green eyes. If looks could kill, Nott would’ve been reduced to nothing more than a red mark on the pavement.
The Unspeakable held up his hands in a placating gesture that would’ve been more effective if he could get control of his maniacal laughter. “W-Wait! Just wait a minute, Potter!”
“FOR WHAT?!” The Auror screeched and as he did there was a resounding crack through the air as four blue robed figures appeared in a whirl of fabric, wands at the ready.
“Oi BOYS!” One of the figures bellowed in the empty street drawing the attention of the two twenty-eight-year old wizards in the middle of a quarrel. They both looked equally offended at being called boys though, to any casual onlooker, there were in fact two teenage boys in the street and no one else that could even be considered a grown adult.
“PUT YOUR WANDS DOWN!” The second order came when neither teen moved.
“Oh, piss off!” Nott shouted annoyed.
“YOU BOTH ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE STATUTE OF SECRECY FOR PERFORMING UNDERAGE MAGIC IN A MUGGLE AREA. IF YOU DO NOT RELINQUISH YOUR WAND, WE WILL TAKE THEM BY FORCE—”
“WE’RE NOT UNDERAGED!” Harry shouted back. “I’M A GROWN-ASS-MAN!” He waved his wandless hand in a sweeping gesture toward himself, belatedly realizing that the loose-fitting, tent-like Auror robes did nothing but make him look like a kid playing dress up. Nott snorted beneath him. Harry kicked him and hissed, “ Shut the fuck up. ”
Digging into the pocket of his robes, Harry found his Auror badge and flipped it open out toward the other wizards. “LOOK, MY NAME IS HARRY JAMES POTTER. I’M HEAD OF THE BRITISH AUROR OFFICE AND I’M APPREHENDING THIS CRIMINAL—”
“Criminal?” Nott made a face of distaste. “I prefer genius.”
“Shut up,” Harry snarled at him.
One of the wizards stepped forward, wand still held at the ready. It was a slender, dark-haired woman with a long french braid. “Toss it over,” she ordered and Harry did, throwing the ID into her open palm. The woman looked at it, then back at Harry, and frowned.
“Greengrass,” she called and another of the blue robed wizards moved to stand next to her. She passed her colleague, a man who looked to be in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair and dark intense eyes, the ID. He glanced at it, then did a double take at Harry.
“You said you were the Head of the British Auror Office?” Greengrass asked.
“Yes. I am,” Harry nodded. “As you can see by my badge there.”
“It says here you were born in nineteen-eighty?” He furrowed his brows ponderously, then looked at Harry who nodded in confirmation.
“What’s the problem?” Harry asked, sensing that these wizards weren’t going to leave them alone even with the ID.
“The problem, lads, is that the year is nineteen-forty-four and you’re,” Greengrass pointed directly at Harry, “not the Head of the British Auror Office. I am.”
Harry blinked. Looked down at Nott. Looked at Greengrass. Looked at Nott. “What the fuck did you do?”
“I think it’s best we head to the Ministry and get this all sorted,” Greengrass continued. “Fawley we’re going to need to get the Unspeakables involved in this.” The witch with the long braid nodded once and spun on her heel disapperating with a pop. Greengrass then called the other two blue robes, the Aurors, a stocky blond twenty-something named Hatch and a petite dark skinned witch named Barracus, were given orders to apparate the two boys-men-wizards to the Ministry.
Once they arrived they were ushered through the Atrium past The Statue. The Original Statue with the wizard, the witch, the centaur, goblin, and house elf. The one that stood before both the first and second Wizarding Wars gleaming in gold and jewels just like Harry remembered. He stumbled when he saw it; sucking in a shaky breath. Barracus steadied him, shooting worrying looks at Hatch.
This couldn’t be real.
This had to be a joke.
A very, very bad joke.
Harry didn’t laugh.
Nott was laughing enough for the both of them.
Chapter 2: The Missing Briefcase
Summary:
“You were a wanted criminal, Nott. I was doing my job in apprehending you,” The Auror scowled.
“You keep calling me a criminal,” Nott remarked. “But what crime have I committed?”
“You stole from the Department of Mysteries!” The Auror shouted.
A perplexed look crossed the blond-haired Unspeakable’s face. “Stole? What are you talking about? I haven’t stolen anything, Potter.”
Notes:
Another short chapter, but a quick update so hopefully that's okay. I was not expecting such a flood of Kudos this fic got in such a short period of time, so I guess I'm continuing with my bout of insanity. I'm thinking I'm going to split this fic up into three different POVs: Harry's, Theodore's, and Tom's. The first one was Harry's, so now we get a look into what Theodore is thinking.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Two
The Missing Briefcase
They had brought Theodore and Potter to one of the many cramped interrogation rooms at British Auror Office. Of course, magic could’ve easily enlarged the space. But the point was to make people uncomfortable. To make them talk. So the small narrow room only had enough space for a narrow metal table, four uncomfortable metal chairs, and a door that when swung open would hit the person sitting closest to it if they did not position themselves sideways.
Theodore never had an issue with small spaces. The same could not be said of Potter.
Like a caged lion, the auror paced back and forth along the length of the room, narrowly missing the two chairs on one side as he passed. Every few minutes he’d look over at the Unspeakable and give him a truly murderous glare, but beyond that the man-boy-wizard stayed eerily silent. Hatch and Barracus had escorted them to this room what felt like hours ago, which it may have been or it was just an effect of the room itself seeming to stretch time into eternity. They had thoroughly searched the two of them, taking with them whatever belongings the two wizards had on them in their robe pockets, and confiscating their wands for further examination as was standard procedure. The runic wards etched into the stonework neutralized any sort of wandless magic that either wizard would have casted otherwise leaving the two boys-men-wizards defenseless and at the mercy of their captors.
Theodore had managed to get a grip on his faculties and now sat silently in the corner counting the number of steps Potter took from one side of the room to the other. It was exactly seven and a half steps from the wall to the door. Potter had made three-hundred-and-twenty-three steps in the last hour. Potter had taken a total of seven-hundred-and-ninety-something steps so far; so he roughly calculated that they had been stuck in that room together for at little over two hours.
“You might as well sit down, Potter,” he said after another two passes. “I doubt anyone’s coming any time soon.”
The auror glared, halting midstride. “Shut up Nott. You’re the reason we’re in this mess to begin with.”
“I didn’t ask you to follow me into that pub,” The Unspeakable drawled. “And I certainly wasn’t the one that opened the briefcase, Potter.”
“You were a wanted criminal, Nott. I was doing my job in apprehending you,” The Auror scowled.
“You keep calling me a criminal,” Nott remarked. “But what crime have I committed?”
“You stole from the Department of Mysteries!” The Auror shouted.
A perplexed look crossed the blond-haired Unspeakable’s face. “Stole? What are you talking about? I haven’t stolen anything, Potter.”
“Don’t deny it!” Auror pressed in to slam his palms loudly on the metal table, boxing Theodore in. “I spoke with Unspeakable Kershaw personally and she—”
“Unspeakable Kershaw?” Now things were starting to make sense to him. At least, now he knew why Potter had attacked him in that bathroom of that pub. “I’m working with Unspeakable Kershaw, Potter.”
That brought the Auror up short. “What do you mean working with?”
“Kershaw and I and a few others were working on a special project for the department. We’re colleagues. Or at least we were,” the Unspeakable muttered that last bit darkly. Why that conniving, lying—
Potter scoffed. “So you say. But if you were really working together, why did she report the theft?”
“She wanted me out of the way, obviously. We’ve had some disagreements on the project and she wanted to take all the credit for the work herself. Can’t you tell when you’ve been duped?”
Potter processed that; an intense looking wrinkle forming between his dark brows. He still looked skeptical. “I’m not lying,” Theodore told him. “I’m an Unspeakable Potter. Don’t you know there are oaths that I have to take to be one? Oaths that prevent me from spilling secrets and stealing from the Department of Mysteries. If I had broken those vows I would’ve been liquidated. Literally, a puddle of primordial ooze on the ground.”
Auror parted his lips to ask another question. But the question never made it out when the door swung inwards, knocking roughly against the metal chair. In the doorway, stood Hatch who glanced in at the two wizards whilst Barracus carried in her arms a bundle of fabric. “We brought you both some clean robes to change into,” the witch announced putting the robes on the table. “Greengrass is currently discussing the situation with, Unspeakable Medlar, the Head of the Department of Mysteries. We need to run a few diagnostics spells on your clothing and the Unspeakables want hair and blood samples from the both of you.”
Neither Theodore nor Potter moved or spoke.
Barracus sighed. “Look, you both can either cooperate with us on this or… we will use the necessary force to get what we need.”
“Why do you need blood?” Potter asked.
“There were inheritance spells that we’re asking the Goblins to perform to determine your identities. If either of you have any close blood relations at this time, we’ll know who they are so they can also be questioned,” Hatch chimed in from the doorway.
“And if they don’t know who we are?” Theodore wondered, “What then?”
“Then it will confirm that neither of you are from this time,” Barracus said. “From there we can begin to find out who you both are and how you got here.”
“We know how we got here,” Theodore said.
“It was that damn briefcase,” Potter told them.
The dark-skinned witch, paused. “Briefcase? What briefcase?”
“The one that was at the pub,” the green eyes flickered at Theodore before addressing the witch’s question. “It should’ve been where you found us.”
Barracus looked confused, glanced back at Hatch who shook his head. “There was no briefcase at the scene. The aurors combed the entire area,” he said.
Theodore sat forward, a sharp breath of air escaping him. “No briefcase? You’re sure.”
Hatch nodded.
The Unspeakable met the youthful, adolescent face across the metal table. Collectively, knowing that they were thinking the same thing.
Well…fuck.
Chapter 3: Rookwood's Vendetta
Summary:
“So what’s all this you were saying about Rookwood?” The Auror asked. “What does he have to do with any of this?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” Nott hesitated. “Even if I wanted to…”
“Right. Vows. I got it.,” Harry nodded grimly to himself then regarded the Unspeakable wryly. “You see though, it’s funny last I heard, Augustus Rookwood was in Azkaban. And I know that because I was the one who put him there…”
Notes:
Oh damn, the kudos for this fic have tripled in like 3 days. Wow! I guess frequent updates really helps promote a story, huh? Typically, I'm more of a five thousand + words per chapter person so my updates tend to take a while, but this 1k chapters are working out fairly well. I'm trying not to get too caught up in the details, so my anxiety doesn't catch up with me and keep me from writing.
Keep hitting that kudos button, I guess!
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Three
Rookwood’s Vendetta
“We need to speak to Rookwood.”
Those were the first words out of Nott’s mouth at the revelation that the briefcase that had brought them there was apparently missing. Harry was still reeling from that new tidbit of information and the possibility that this whole investigation may have just been some elaborate set up.
Barracus arched a finely groomed brow. “Rookwood? Who’s Rookwood?”
“An Unspeakable at the Department of Mysteries. His name is Augustus Rookwood. He should be an apprentice underneath Unspeakable Novikov,” Nott explained.
Barracus turned to Hatch. A silent conversation seemed to take place between them before the woman nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “In the meantime please change so we can run those diagnostics spells.”
Barracus then stepped out of the room to give them some privacy. Nott sighed examining the clean robes that they had been given. “I’m assuming these are for you,” he remarked, holding up a dark navy robe that was far too small for his over six foot frame. He pushed that one toward Harry and took the other set which was a rich warm brown and proceeded to change as instructed.
Nott’s blue eyes regarded Harry across the table, faltering with a button at his breastbone. “Are you gonna change or just keep staring at me, Potter?”
As if he would stare at him. Harry grumbled under his breath, grabbing the navy robes and turning his back to Nott as he changed. He felt the eyes of the Unspeakable on the back of his neck. Now who was the one staring…
“Huh, that’s interesting,” Nott remarked when Harry had his new undershirt halfway on.
The Auror turned, green eyes meeting blue. “What’s interesting?” He asked.
“You still have all your scars,” he observed.
Harry looked down instinctively at his stomach. Stared at the pale raised flesh of his ribs and the long ribbonlike scars criss crossing his stomach up to his breast bone. He didn’t think anything of it; having long since grown used to the sight after a duel in the beginning years fresh out of Auror training had resulted in the injury that had put him in Saint Mungo’s for months.
“Why is that interesting?” He asked.
“Because,” Nott gave him a knowing look. It was look that suggested that Harry was asking a dumb question. That Harry was asking a question he should already know the answer to. Nott sighed in the way that a parent does when reviewing a child’s summer homework; the way Harry had often sighed when helping Teddy Lupin with transfigurations. “Think about it, Potter. If this were a true age regression,” he gestured between the two of them, “any scars you would have gotten after fifteen would’ve disappeared because they never existed. Ergo, we aren’t truly children. Not really. Some parts of us still remain as they were before all this. Meaning that this may be reversible.”
“You better fucking hope so, Nott,” the auror snapped. “For your sake if nothing else.”
Harry finished dressing, gathering his Auror robes in a bundle and shoving them haphazardly into the sack the Barracus had left for such a purpose. Nott rapped lightly on the door with his knuckle and then Hatch and Barracus were back. The female Auror removed from her pocket four glass vials, two of which she intended to use for the hair samples and the other for the blood. Because of the wards one the walls, this all had to be done without magic. The hair samples were simply a few strands plucked by the root at the crown of the head. The blood was drawn with a small dagger that pricked their fingers sharply; only a few drops were needed by the Goblins.
With that done, Barracus and Hatch left again. And with nothing left to do, Harry sunk down in the chair opposite Nott. The space was too small. Their knees are almost knocking together. “So what’s all this you were saying about Rookwood?” The Auror asked. “What does he have to do with any of this?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” Nott hesitated. “Even if I wanted to…”
“Right. Vows. I got it.,” Harry nodded grimly to himself then regarded the Unspeakable wryly. “You see though, it’s funny last I heard, Augustus Rookwood was in Azkaban. And I know that because I was the one who put him there…”
Nott kept his cool expression, but there was a shifting of his gaze to the runes over Harry’s head. “What do you want me to say?”
“Rookwood was helping your father and the Lestrange brothers hide after the war…”
“Is that a question?” Nott wondered. “You of all people know the answer to it.”
“Did you help Rookwood escape Azkaban?” Harry asked him.
“I’m not going to incriminate myself, Potter,” Nott expression grew tense, a bead of perspiration trickling from his brow. “Come off it already.”
But Harry didn’t come off it. “Why do we need Rookwood?”
That question elicited a chuckle from the Unspeakable. “You don’t know a damn thing about Rookwood do you?”
“I know he was head of the Department of Mysteries before he was sentenced,” Harry said. “I know that he was a close friend of your father’s and that he supported Voldemort .”
“Don’t—”Nott winced. “Don’t say that name.”
Years later and that name still had that effect on some people. It was a noticeable tick. A flinch. A sharp breath. A swooping sensation in the pit of your stomach, like you were in a free fall, whenever that name was mentioned. And Harry, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, had experienced all these same sensations. He was just better at hiding it.
Nott pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, do you know that before the war— both of them— Rookwood’s research into dust was climacteric to the development and successful invention of the Time Turner?”
Harry paused. That was new information. Or not new necessarily, because Harry did know that August Rookwood had made significant contributions academically as an Unspeakable, particularly in regards to time magic. But he had not grasped that it was Rookwood who was the inventor of the time turner.
That would explain a lot…
The man had had a particular brand of animosity toward Harry Potter when he was apprehended. In fact it was Rookwood who had put those scars on Harry’s torso, breaking away from the Aurors that bound him to cast one dreadful, wandless, wordless curse in his direction. Harry couldn’t make sense of it at the time why he had done it. It made sense now. Of course, he would have a vendetta against the wizard that had destroyed his life’s work in a single evening.
“Rookwood invented the time turner?”
“He will,” Nott said. “In nineteen-fifty-three. If there’s anyone here that can help fix this. It’ll be him.”
Chapter 4: Not a Pinch More or Less
Summary:
Potter asked too many questions.
It was a barrage of them. And they were constant. Why this? Why that? Why do this? Why do that? Why? Why? Why—Merlin!
Theodore rubbed at his aching temples. “I think I preferred it when you were just glaring at me,” He grumbled trying to fight off the beginning of a migraine.
Notes:
160+ kudos and counting. damn. I don't know what to say, but thank you! I'm glad you're all liking this. I'm enjoying writing it for sure, good to know you all like reading it just as much. I think this chapter may be a bit shorter than the previous three, but it seemed like a good place to cut it off. I'd apologize for constantly ending on a cliffhanger, but I suspect that may just be what keeps you all clicking the next chapter button so...I'm just gonna say it's strategic and leave it at that. ;)
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Four
Not a Pinch More or Less
Potter asked too many questions.
It was a barrage of them. And they were constant. Why this? Why that? Why do this? Why do that? Why? Why? Why— Merlin!
Theodore rubbed at his aching temples. “I think I preferred it when you were just glaring at me,” He grumbled trying to fight off the beginning of a migraine.
Potter paused in his interrogation to scowl at him. “Shut up.”
“Gladly!” The Unspeakable threw his hand up in frustration, unable to do much else. “Merlin, this is torture being stuck in here with you! Where are the damn Aurors?”
“This is no picnic for me either, Nott,” Potter snapped back angrily.
“Oh I’m sure it isn’t,” sarcasm dripped from every word. “You’re probably missing dinner. Bet Weasley is in a tizzy.”
“You mean my pregnant wife?” Potter’s glare deepened to a glower. “She definitely is. And when we get back you can bet your arse that she’ll be the first in line to strangle you with her bare hands, if I don’t do it first.”
“Assuming we get back,” Theodore muttered. “Gonna be pretty difficult without that briefcase, Potter. Can’t believe you lost it.”
“Why do you assume I lost it?” Potter snarled. “It was your briefcase!”
“You were the last one holding on to it!” Theodore shouted about ready to lunge across the table at the smaller wizard.
“I let go of it the same time you did, prick. If that’s your working theory then we’re both responsible,” the Auror reasoned.
“Alright, so we’re both responsible,” Theodore agreed. “So I would appreciate it if you would stop putting all the blame onto me, Potter. I’m stuck here too. Same as you.”
“No,” the Auror shook his head of wiry raven hair vehemently. “Not the same. You were the one fucking with time magic.”
“Because it’s my job! I’m an Unspeakable! I work in the Time Room! What the fuck do you think I’m paid to do?!”
Perhaps it was because they were arguing. Perhaps it was because Theodore was so solely focused on Potter’s reddening visage and barred teeth that precede an attack. Or perhaps because he was himself trying and failing to keep the boiling temper in his own chest from swelling to his head that he missed the door open until it knocked against the chair startling the both of them.
“Oops,” a female voice spoke, slicing through tension in the room like the proverbial knife. Turning, there were four curious faces peering back at them through the open door, two of which were Hatch’s amused smirk and Barracus’s arching brow. The other two were a witch and a wizard in matching inky black robes and hoods that marked an Unspeakable apart from everyone else. The female Unspeakable, obviously, had been the one to interject in the middle of Potter and Theodore’s row with a somewhat sheepish expression.
“Sorry. Is this a bad time?” She asked. “Do the both of you want us to come back later so you can finish your…” the female Unspeakable paused, her lips twitching upward briefly in amusement, “ lovers quarrel? ”
“We’re not lovers,” Potter snapped, clearly not appreciating the witch’s jape. “I’m married.”
The Unspeakable witch’s brow rose. “Are you? A little young, don’t you think?” She remarked, then tilted her head back to glance at the Aurors. “Are you sure you lot aren't playing some kind of odd joke on us? It’s not very funny if you are…”
“It’s not a joke,” Hatch was the one to answer. “They asked for you two specifically by name. At least…I’m fairly certain they meant the two of you.”
“‘Spose ve’ll be de judge of dat,” the male Unspeakable replied in rough broken English, his accent distinctly Slavic in origin. Peering into the cramped room, the wizard pushed back his black hood showing off a piercing blue eyes peeping out from under thick, bushy black eyebrows and a truly beaklike nose over an equally bushy, black beard. “Do either of de boys recognize us? Do dey know our names?”
Theodore paused and looked at the male Unspeakable more closely. Yes. He did know him. Well, knew of him. They had never actually met in person, but he had seen pictures of the wizard in academic publications and personnel files in the room of records at the Department of Mysteries. “You’re Dmitriyevich Novikov,” he answered.
The Unspeakable nodded. “That’s right. And vat about my colleague here?” The wizard gestured to the female Unspeakable, who pulled down her hood as well. She was considerably younger than Novikov, perhaps late-twenties or early thirties, the age that Theodore and Potter were supposed to be. She had dark blonde, boarding on light brown hair, braided out of her face and secured in a bun. Pointed features and large, curious brown eyes that were somehow familiar to him. Although, Theodore was sure that he had never seen this woman before, either in person or in a photograph magical or muggle.
Theodore shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said at last. Potter, clueless as ever, shrugged his shoulders in solidarity.
“Are you sure?” The witch asked.
“I’m sure.” Theodore said. “I would’ve remembered a face as pretty as yours.”
The witch laughed, a light bubbly sort of laugh. “Oh you’re a charmer,” she grinned coyly. “Shame you’re a bit too young for me though.”
“I’m twenty-nine,” Theodore told her matter-of-factly.
“Really?” the witch eyed him up and down curiously. “You don’t look a day over sixteen sweetheart. I must know your skincare routine.”
“Seven ounces of dust,” he drawled, “not a pinch more or less.”
The witch paused at the reply, glancing questioningly at Novikov. “Did you say dust? As in dust? My dust?”
“Your dust?” Potter interjected ponderously.
Then it clicked. “You’re Rookwood,” Theodore realized. “Augustus Rookwood?”
The witch’s lips curled upwards. “Not quite,” she said. “My name’s Augusta actually.”
“Augusta…” Theodore repeated the name thoughtfully. “You look… different. ”
“Oh, I’m sure,” the witch laughed. “And, if what these fine auror tell me is true, you two have been playing around with my dust, Mr…”
“Nott,” Theodore supplied.
Rookwood nodded. “Nott and Mr…” She looked at Potter.
“Potter,” the Auror answered warily.
“Potter.” The witch appraised them curiously. Sizing them up as they were. “Mind if we sit? There’s a lot to discuss it seems. You can start by telling me about this male counterpart of mine.”
Chapter 5: Welcome to the Life of a DOM Project
Summary:
“Ve could dake de information from you by force,” Novikov mused. “Ve have several means. Veritaserum or de mind arts. Ve got a few master Legilimens in de Department vho vould be villing to put dere talents to use.” The Unspeakable regarded both Nott and Harry coolly.
“That’s torture,” Harry frowned. “You can’t torture people. There are laws against it.”
“Yes, laws dat protect de people,” Novikov nodded. “But you two are not people are you? Neither of you officially exists do you? You have no parents, no families, no records, just yourselves. So no laws actually protect you.”
“Then we are prisoners,” Harry surmised.
“You’re DOM projects,” Rookwood corrected.
“Experiments you mean,” Nott’s brow was furrowed. “We’re going to be locked away in the Department never to see the light of day while you lot run your little tests.”
Notes:
Almost 100 more kudos since I posted the last chapter! WOW. I'm blown away! Thank you all so much! I think I figured out the ending for this fic today more or less. Now I'm just trying to figure out how to get there you know? I haven't plotted anything except in my head but I think I'm probably going to be adding a few more different POVs as this fic progresses. And not making any promises but either it's the next chapter or the one after that we'll finally get a Tom POV. (I'm still debating if I need to add a chapter in the middle or not). But either way we're getting close to the meet-cute. *wink wink* ;)
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Five
Welcome to the Life of a DOM Project
The blue robes should’ve been a bloody indication that something was amiss.
It should’ve been a blinking neon sign equipped with bullhorns and radio broadcasters shouting, “RED FLAG! RED FLAG!”
Because everyone knew Aurors wore red. Everyone knew that. Harry knew that. And yet in the face of his fifteen-year-old self, in learning the year was nineteen-forty-four, in seeing the Fountain of Magical Brethren still standing in the Ministry of Magic’s Atrium, and being stuck with Nott in this nondescript shoebox of a room for hours…he had forgotten.
Or not forgotten really, he just hadn’t cared to consider it. He didn’t stop to think about the implication. Not until it was literally staring him in the face in the form of twenty-something Augusta Rookwood. Augusta not Augustus. A witch not the wizard that Harry put away in Azkaban.
Shock. He was in shock. He had enough presence of mind to register that. But he wasn’t in control of his limbs. There was a feeling building in his stomach, a nauseous queasy feeling, not dissimilar to the vertigo one first experiences when learning to apparate. Were his hands shaking? What was his face doing? Was he crying? Laughing?
Harry didn’t know. He couldn’t focus on anything but the rushing of his thoughts and the question that kept repeating itself ad nauseum.
What else is changed?
It could be anything. It could be everything. Was there even a war happening right now? Did Grindelwald even exist here? Or what if instead of a Dark Lord it was a Dark Lady? That sounded funny. Dark Mistress, maybe?
And what did this mean for him getting back home? He thought of his wife, Ginny, pregnant at thirty-two weeks with their third child, wondering where her husband was. He thought of his two sons, James and Albus, asking why he didn’t come home for dinner. He thought of the panic and worry they would experience, the fear of not knowing what happened. He thought about how he had just gone from their lives without a word of warning. He thought about how all of them were just gone from his.
As if they never existed. Because they don’t exist. And they might never exist. Thanks to Nott.
Fucking Nott. Fuck him.
Anger. Now that was an emotion he could work with. It sliced through the shock. It doused his icy limbs in fire, and filled his churning stomach with brimstone and hate. Yes, hate for this situation, for being stuck here, for Nott for just simply existing.
Harry focused himself; catching the tail end of some observation Rookwood was making. “—experiencing a phenomenon called temporal age regression. It’s a common side effect in regards to time magic. The unfortunate witch or wizard will often find themselves either much younger or much older depending on the dilation between fixed points. In some cases, it’s a total change mentally, physically and magically. But in your case, it appears to be only a partial regression. That’s good. We can work with that. But firstly, we must determine the extent of the damage and make sure that neither of you aren’t experiencing any worse side effects.”
“Worse side effects,” Harry’s voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears. “Like what?”
“Vell, brain aneurysms for one,” Novikov answered gravely. “Any change in de brain like a stroke or damage caused by de pressure created by de time portal. Dere have been cases vhere intense pressure inside de skull has lead to de traveler’s brain to explode or best case turn to mush or shrink in size to a vittle valnut.”
“I’m sure that you’re both fine,” Rookwood was hasty to assure them. “If you had experienced any of that the signs would’ve shown themselves within the first few minutes. You’ve been here for hours. But the department would still like some healers from Saint Mungo’s to look you over just to be a hundred percent certain.”
“Then what?” Harry asked. “After all these tests, what do you do? What do we do? You’ll just let us go?”
Rookwood paused. “Ah, well no.”
“No,” Harry repeated, frowning. “Are we prisoners?”
“More like test subjects,” Nott corrected grimly. “Planning to poke and prod us until you can figure out how we did it?”
“Or you could just tell us,” Rookwood suggested. “After all, isn’t that why you asked for me? Because you needed my help?”
“You’re not Augustus Rookwood,” Nott reminded her. “I asked for Augustus because we are bound by oaths. I have no such oaths with you.”
“Look love,” Rookwook smirked, “in this world, I’m as close to Augustus as you’re going to get.”
“But you’re not him. Not physically or magically. At best you’re siblings, perhaps, but not who I asked for.”
The female Unspeakable acquiesced to that point. “I’m not,” she said. “Then how do you propose we’re to proceed Mr. Nott? Your oaths make all this rather inconvenient. Comes with the territory of being an Unspeakable, I suppose. They make us swear and swear…Eventually we’re all so bound up by oaths and tied up in unbreakable vows; we can’t say much of anything to anyone.”
“It is inconvenient,” Nott agreed, but otherwise held his tongue.
“Ve could dake de information from you by force,” Novikov mused. “Ve have several means. Veritaserum or de mind arts. Ve got a few master Legilimens in de Department vho vould be villing to put dere talents to use.” The Unspeakable regarded both Nott and Harry coolly.
“That’s torture,” Harry frowned. “You can’t torture people. There are laws against it.”
“Yes, laws dat protect de people,” Novikov nodded. “But you two are not people are you? Neither of you officially exists do you? You have no parents, no families, no records, just yourselves. So no laws actually protect you.”
“Then we are prisoners,” Harry surmised.
“You’re DOM projects,” Rookwood corrected.
“Experiments you mean,” Nott’s brow was furrowed. “We’re going to be locked away in the Department never to see the light of day while you lot run your little tests.”
“‘Tis vat Unspeakble Medlar vants us to do…”
“Then why aren’t you?” Harry wondered. “Why go through the pretense of asking us questions if you’re planning to torture us to get the answers?”
“I said dat vas vat Medlar vanted us to do, not vat I vant to do,” Novikov answered matter-of-factly. “‘Tis my decision after all, I’m in charge of all of the Department’s studies into dime. Since you are both dime-dravelers you fall under my discretion. And I’d like do propose a different option for you boys…” Harry’s and Nott’s heckles rose at the last word, the Unspeakable noticed and grinned a sharp-toothed smile. “I’d like to offer both of you a position at de department as my apprentices.”
Harry wasn’t expecting that. A glance over at Nott and he could see his own surprise mirrored on the Unspeakables youthful, boyish face. “You’re offering us a job as apprentice Unspeakables?”
“Yes,” Novikov nodded. “I believe dat ve can accomplish more vorking vith each other rather dan against one another.”
“What’s the catch?” Harry asked because there was always a catch to these sort of situations.
“The catch,” Rookwood was the one to answer, “is that in order to be an Unspeakable you need to have achieved your N.E.W.T.s in Potions, Transfigurations, Charms, History of Magic, Dueling & Defense, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and either Astronomy or Divinations. However, because neither of you have any records of you of taking so much as a single O.W.L. that’s a bit of a problem for the records department. In your case we’re willing to help out as it were by securing you both a Hogwarts placement assessment test, which I’m sure given your experience as an Auror and an Unspeakable, you’ll both breeze right through which will allow you to take your N.E.W.T.s in eight months with rest of the seventh-years—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Harry interjected. “You want us to go back to school? And what— just pretend that we’re a couple of children?”
“You both already look the part,” Rookwood said. “I’m sure that you’ll have no problem blending in with your peers.”
“But—”
“We’ll do it,” Nott cut Harry off abruptly with a look. The sort of look you give as a warning of danger. It was a look that the Auror had seen more times than he could count. A look that he learned meant it was best to shut up and listen and keep your eyes peeled.
“Great!” Rookwood smiled, while Novikov hummed his approval. “Now, if you both would like to come with us, we can get you both settled in. Unless you wanted to spend the night in this room—”
Harry and Nott were standing on their feet before the Unspeakable could finish that thought. She laughed at their quickness. “The chairs are that uncomfortable, huh?”
Their answer was a silent, but resounding yes.
Chapter 6: A Deal on the Hogwarts Express
Summary:
Standing on Platform nine-and-three-quarters with a trunk that he didn’t pack, an auror turned school boy, and an Unspeakable doubling as both nursemaid and detainer was not how he wanted to spend the morning of October eighth, nineteen-forty-four. The sight of the familiar red steam engine of the Hogwarts Express did nothing but fill his stomach with a horrible trepidation. “Well, looks like we’ve arrived right on time,” Rookwood remarked cheerfully. “I suppose it’s time that I give you these back.”
The Unspeakable reached into the pockets of her black robes and removed two wands. Theodore moved to take his, but the witch pulled back. “Nuh-uh, now I don’t want to hear about any funny business while you two are at school. You keep your heads down and your hands clean, understood? Any issues you two have with each other bury them,” she narrowed her eyes dangerously. “I don’t want to hear about any fighting between you two. If I do, then know that Novikov had no qualms about yanking you both out of there and taking Medlar’s approach to the situation.”
“We understand,” Theodore nodded. Rookwood looked at Potter, her brow arched. Grudgingly the shorter wizard muttered his agreement.
Notes:
For once, I actually had a day off that I could sit down and write this. It might be the longest chapter yet by like maybe a couple hundred words. I blame the exposition. I hate exposition. I prefer to just have things come up naturally in the dialogue. But there are some things that need explaining nonetheless. I know I said either this chapter or the next was going to be Tom's POV but I'm debating whether or not I should do another Harry POV with their private sorting and the introduction of some the Hogwarts staff. I think it would make the story flow better. I just really wand to write that Tom already! I'm as impatient as you guys apparently 😂
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Six
A Deal on the Hogwarts Express
Theodore hadn’t been to Hogwarts since the war had ended.
He had left Hogwarts midway through his seventh-year before the big battle. As soon as he had gotten the opportunity to leave, as soon as Professor Mcgonagall had given him the opportunity he was gone. And he hadn’t looked back. Even when an owl arrived with the offer to return after the rebuilding was completed, Theodore hadn’t wanted to return. Nowhere seemed quite far enough away from the grim memories that haunted that place.
So he left it all behind. Left the school. Left his home. Left the stigma and the jeers and the prejudices of his peers. He left the whispered taunts and the shout curses.
There was a new word they called people like him. It wasn’t new actually. But no one had used it, not since the witch burnings conducted by King James I. But someone had brought it back. He didn’t know who. They called him a witchpricker. Worse than a mudblood. Worse than a bloodtraitor. Someone who actively hurt magic herself. Someone who persecuted their own, tortured, and killed.
The sad thing was it wasn’t too far off from what had happened.
With his father in the wind and his mother long since dead. There was nothing keeping him in Great Britain. There was nothing that tethered him to the Nott’s ancestral home. So he left and drifted for a while. Until he was scouted by the Department of Mysteries for some academic paper he had gotten published disproving Larry Niven’s Law. A law that had all but been accepted as gospel by the academic community. It was a law that Dmitriyevich Novikov had used as the basis for the DOM’s study into time magic and that Augustus Rookwood had developed the time-turner off of.
Other academics had tried to tear the paper apart. But the arithmetic proofs stood against the angry swipes and slashes of their quills. And then, Theodore was offered a job as an Unspeakable not knowing that it would eventually lead to this kerfuffle with Potter and Unspeakable Kershaw. That bitch…
A week was spent holding up in the Department of Mysteries while Rookwood, the other one, and Novikov conducted an array of different tests on himself and Potter. The Healers from Saint Mungo’s determined that besides the partial age regression there were no signs of any adverse side effects and that both he and Potter were a perfect picture of health. (Well, except they said repeatedly that Potter was far too skinny and short for his age. The word malnourished was tossed about and he was put on a nutrient potion regimen. But Theodore didn’t have to take those.) A week where a cover story had been thought of and officially fabricated with a collaboration with the Goblins.
The names they were given were Theodore Phineas Rowle and Henry James Evans. They were told their last names were too recognizable, too likely to cause a stir if two teenagers appeared out of nowhere claiming to be members of two very old and infamous pureblood families. It was Potter who suggested his mother’s maiden name Evans which worked out well enough for him, the name having no ties to any magical lineage whatsoever. Theodore, however, was not so easily explained away as his mother’s maiden name of Rowle was just as well known as his father’s. Perhaps more so, in fact, because the name was at the forefront of everyone’s minds as Rowle was the name of Gellert Grindelwald’s third lieutenant.
His backstory was thereby more convoluted and required much more documentation that all had to be memorized by him. The Hogwarts Academic Placement Assessment Test or H.A.P.A.T was a breeze in comparison. Potter, the lucky bastard, had only need to memorized three main points: his father was a muggleborn, he worked as a cursebreaker for Gringotts, and he was killed on the job when he was young leaving him in the care of the goblins and other cursebreakers. These other cursebreakers didn’t exist of course, except for some half-goblin wizard that could be called upon to collaborate if anyone ever tried to look at them too closely.
Standing on Platform nine-and-three-quarters with a trunk that he didn’t pack, an auror turned school boy, and an Unspeakable doubling as both nursemaid and detainer was not how he wanted to spend the morning of October eighth, nineteen-forty-four. The sight of the familiar red steam engine of the Hogwarts Express did nothing but fill his stomach with a horrible trepidation. “Well, looks like we’ve arrived right on time,” Rookwood remarked cheerfully. “I suppose it’s time that I give you these back.”
The Unspeakable reached into the pockets of her black robes and removed two wands. Theodore moved to take his, but the witch pulled back. “Nuh-uh, now I don’t want to hear about any funny business while you two are at school. You keep your heads down and your hands clean, understood? Any issues you two have with each other bury them,” she narrowed her eyes dangerously. “I don’t want to hear about any fighting between you two. If I do, then know that Novikov had no qualms about yanking you both out of there and taking Medlar’s approach to the situation.”
“We understand,” Theodore nodded. Rookwood looked at Potter, her brow arched. Grudgingly the shorter wizard muttered his agreement. Only then did the Unspeakable hand them their wands.
“You both have fun!” she cheerfully waved as they boarded the train; trunks in hand. Potter closed the door behind them with a thud.
“I think she's the worst of the Rookwoods,” he remarked glaring out the window as the lone figure spun and disapperated.
Theodore didn’t snort, but it was a close thing, his lips twitching upward. “No kidding. What a bitch. And here, I thought Kershaw had a stick up her arse…” Potter roughly pushed past him and started down the narrow corridor. “Where are you going?”
“Away.”
Rolling his eyes, the wizard started after the raven-haired teen. With Theodore’s long legs it took no more than a few strides until he was right on Potter’s heels. “We need to talk,” he said.
Potter glared at him over his shoulder. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, don’t be such a stubborn git,” Theodore returned equally as vexed. “This is important.”
Potter ignored him reaching the end of the train car, opening the door to step over to the next. “Potter—”
The boy whirled, fist clenched, and socked him in the mouth. “Shut up,” he growled. “Do you want to completely blow our cover?”
Theodore rubbed at the smarting pain on his lips. He looked around them at the completely empty train car. They were likely the only people on the entire train as it needed neither an operator nor ticket agent. There was no sign of the trolley witch either from what he could see. They were alone. It will likely be the only time they will be alone in the future. This was an opportunity that couldn’t be overlooked. “There’s no one else around,” he said. “What should I call you then? Henry? Evans?”
Potter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he readjusted his round glasses. “Just Harry is fine,” he acquiesced. “I suppose you do have a point…we can’t keep calling each other by our last names can we?”
“It makes it too easy to slip up,” Theodore agreed.
Suddenly a wicked gleam entered the short wizard’s eye as he turned to him. “So what do you want Teddy?” He asked and Theodore grimaced.
“Don’t—”he started but thought better of it, “Actually, nevermind. I don’t care what you call me. We have bigger problems.” He slid open the door to the nearest compartment and gestured for Potter to follow. When the dark-haired teen didn’t, Theodore sighed. “Please, Harry. I just want to talk for ten minutes. Then you can go sit wherever the hell you please. Do you want to get out of here or not?”
For a moment Potter looked confused. “What? Are you suggesting we jump off the train and make a break for it?”
Theodore rolled his eyes. “Please. Even if we did that, it wouldn’t work. The department put a trace on us. I’m talking about going home.”
“But we don’t have the briefcase—”
“Don’t need it,” Theodore said. “Now c’mon before we run into that trolley witch.”
Potter frowned, but followed the taller wizard into the empty compartment. He shrunk his trunk down and slipped it into the pocket of his robes and took a seat while Theodore turned his wand to the door, performing a various assortment of spells, locking charms, and muffling and disillusionment spells to protect this conversation from any eavesdroppers. Not that there was anyone in the vicinity to eavesdrop, but still it was better to be cautious. With that done, he took a seat opposite of Potter and began to lay out the plan that had been germinating behind his occlumency shields for the past week.
The plan was simple, sort of… In the way that solving a complicated arithmancy equation was simple which really meant not all. But Theodore knew the steps he needed to take. He knew the method he had used to open the time portal. He knew how to recreate it. It would be harder, more tedious without the briefcase. But he could make do. After all, he had already done it once to prove his theory back before the idea of the briefcase was even a thought. He could make the portal with or without Potter’s help. But to do it in a year…Well, that would take two sets of hands. So the first step, and thereby the most important step, was to call a truce.
“Look, can we agree that in order to make it through this in one piece, it’ll be more beneficial for us to work together?” Theodore began with a question. He didn’t wait for Potter to answer, he didn’t need to. He knew he was speaking the truth. “We both want the same thing here. We both want to get back to our lives. You want to see your wife and kids and I want to clear my fucking name and we can’t do either of those things if were stuck here being DOM guineapigs.”
“You said it was impossible without the briefcase—”
“No. I said it would be bloody difficult. And it is. But it is possible,” he explained. “I’ve done it before.”
Potter’s brows rose. “You have? Like this?”
“I ended up in a world where the goblins won the rebellion of sixteen-twelve and the wand ban against non-humans never came into effect,” he said.
“Really?” Potter sounded curious. “How was that?”
“Goblins ran everything,” he told him. “More so than they do now. The little opportunists.”
“Sounds about right,” the other wizard regarded him; speculating. “But you made it back. How?”
“Seven ounces of dust, a seer, and a blood ritual. It’s dark magic. Old magic. The sort of magic that was outlawed by the Ministry years ago after Eloise Mintumble got herself stuck back in the thirteenth-century,” he said. “My question for you is if you’re going to help me do this or not.”
“That’s not even a question,” Potter said without a moment's hesitation. “If you can get us back, I’ll do whatever I have to to make that happen.”
“Then we have a deal?” Theodore held out his hand, Potter took it.
“For now,” he said.
Theodore could work with that. He’d have to.
Chapter 7: Not Our World, Not Our War
Summary:
“What house do you think you’ll be sorted into?” Harry wondered, turning to regard Nott over his shoulder. The Unspeakable looked at him from the corner of his eye and shrugged.
“Hell if I know. Who’s to say that four houses are even the same as the ones we knew,” he said.
“You think they’ll be different?”
“It’s possible,” another shrug. “I guess we won’t find out until we get there.”
“Do you think he’ll be there?” Harry asked.
“Who?”
Harry gave him a look. “You know who.”
“Maybe,” Nott winced. “I hope not, but—“
“With my luck, he probably is,” Harry grumbled.
Notes:
I'm currently fighting with my 3 cats trying to keep them off my keyboard as I update this chapter, so please excuse this short author's note. This chapter is about my usual length when I write, which admittedly makes me somewhat longwinded as this is about 3 times the length of the usual update for this story. I blame Harry and Theodore arguing for a couple pages. Thank you for all the comments and kudos since the last update! You guys really bring a smile to my face! :))
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Seven
Not Our World, Not Our War
There was a time that Hogwarts was synonymous with home.
Number 4 Privet Drive was where he lived. It had been the house he had lived in for as long as he could remember. But he had lived there in the way a spider does. He lived in the dark corners, in the cupboard under the stairs, unobtrusive and unseen for fear of being squished under Uncle Vernon boot.
Harry’s first friends had been the spiders.
Many long hours spent in the dark, cramped cupboard he would sit and tell them stories. He told them about Mrs. Figg’s new kittens. He told them about tending Aunt Petunia’s roses and how they would like it there if she didn’t use all those pesticides. When the first letter arrived, Harry told the spiders how it was kept from him by Uncle Vernon. And each preceding day, it was the spiders that listened to him bemoan how unfair the whole thing was. Why did Dudley get to keep the letters addressed to him and Harry didn’t?
The spiders never said anything back, but they listened to him when no one else would.
Then Hagrid arrived with the letter and Harry had learned the truth about magic and himself. He went to Hogwarts and met Ron and Hermione and they became friends; became family. And Hogwarts had become a home. His first home. Because he didn’t have to hide away like an insect and he could just be…well, himself—until the war ruined it.
Until he ruined it.
The battle of Hogwarts took that home with all its fond memories and feelings of peace and safety and obliterated them. It took the people, people he called family, people he called friends, people that he spent six years of his life with and butchered them. Spellburn scorched stones, bodies strewn in the halls, discarded like broken marionettes, entire walls missing and crumbled from blasting curses were now what he recalled first.
Now Hogwarts was synonymous with loss, with war, with tragedy. Just like the crumbling remains of his parents’ house in Godric’s Hollow. Another home was destroyed. Another home lost because of war. Even after it was rebuilt, even when McGonagall asked him to return…Harry had never been able to stomach it.
But Harry had managed to move on, despite all that.
He moved into number 12 Grimmauld Place with Kreacher because there had been nowhere else to go. He spent his time putting the neglected Black ancestral home to rights. Kingsley Shacklebolt had offered him a position as an trainee Auror even though he hadn’t completed his N.E.W.Ts, but Harry supposed that wasn’t a requirement when one successfully duels and kills a dark wizard. He took it because he didn’t know what else to do with himself and he didn’t want the silence to creep back in bringing with it the thoughts he wanted to avoid.
Harry threw himself into work, into rebuilding his life, rekindling his relationship with Ginny because he wanted a home. He wanted to make a home, to have a family, to fill the empty number 12 Grimmauld Place with more than just an old house elf and ghosts. Marrying Ginny, having James and Albus, making a family after everything…it had been everything he had wished for.
He had been happy. But it was a dream, and now it is gone. Another home lost. Perhaps he was cursed. Harry shook his head in an attempt to dispel the depressing diatribe of his thoughts. Stepping off the Hogwarts Express onto the platform at Hogsmeade station, he tried to focus on the problems at hand.
Nott’s plan wasn’t particularly forthcoming. However, the little the Unspeakable did tell him led him to believe that the first step, and frankly the most important step, was to acquire dust. Dust, the substance that makes up matter of the space-time continuum, was extremely volatile and a heavily regulated substance. Stealing it would be impossible because the only place it was kept in large quantities was the Department of Mysteries; and like Nott had said they had both taken oaths that prevented them from that course of action. The second option, the slower option, was to make the dust themselves which required brewing a tedious and complicated potion called Niven’s Brew.
Fortunately, Nott’s previous experience working in the time room meant he had the necessary knowledge and experience for recreating this potion. What they needed was to acquire the ingredients. That was where Harry came in. While Nott was doing the necessary arithmancy calculations for the ritual, Harry was meant to be finding the ingredients and searching the library for any information on reversing age regression.
Not necessarily simple, but it gave him a goal. It gave him a distraction. Harry needed that. It made him feel like the situation wasn’t a lost cause. Maybe this all might work out. It was dangerous, sure, and possibly illegal, of course. But Harry was no stranger to dangerous and illegal things.
It’s going to be fine , he told himself. We’ll get this figured out and I’ll be home before they even realize I was missing. He had to believe that, otherwise he’d lose his damn mind.
“Is anyone supposed to be meeting us here?” Nott wondered aloud looking at the empty platform.
Harry shrugged. “Rookwood didn’t say.” He looked around too. No professor or faculty in sight. Not that Harry was too sure he’d be able to recognize them as such if they were there. It wasn’t like he didn’t already know his way to the school, even though it would be a bit of a trek. He said as much to Nott.
“We shouldn’t draw too much attention to ourselves,” Nott cautioned. “If you act like you know where everything is, it’ll be suspicious.”
“Well, how else are we supposed to get to the school?” Harry arched a brow at the blond wizard. “What’s your suggestion?”
Nott thought about it for a moment. “Today’s Sunday,” he remarked.
“Yes.”
“What are the chances it’s a Hogsmeade weekend?”
“Right the carriages,” Harry speculated. “It’s worth a shot, I guess.”
Harry led the way off the platform with Nott in tow. Together they walked the familiar path through the village until they reached the path that would take them to the castle. There in the afternoon October air were eight gleaming black carriages, each one harnessed to two thestrals. The black, skeletal steeds shuffled their feet restlessly with their glossy, leathery wings tucked close to their flanks. When the wizards approached the magical beasts raised their heads, studying them with equally black, fathomless eyes.
A small smile curled up the corners of Harry’s mouth as he neared the closest carriage. “Hey there,” he held out his hand for the animal to scent. The thestral nuzzled his palm, nibbling at his fingertips before allowing him to stroke its face. “I don’t have any meat on me. Sorry.”
“What are you doing?” Nott asked, looking at him curiously.
“Saying hello,” Harry frowned. “They’re thestrals. Can’t you see them?”
Nott sighed. “I’ve been able to see thestrals since before I even started Hogwarts. I’m wondering why you’re over there petting one like it’s a puppy,” he opened the door to the carriage and climbed inside.
“I’m being friendly,” Harry rolled his eyes.
Nott stuck his head out of the carriage and rolled his eyes right back. “Well, be friendly some other time. I got places to be and so do you,” he said.
Harry ignored him, turning back to the thestrals. “Sorry about him. He’s a bloody git. You and your friend don’t mind giving us a ride to the castle do you?”
“Harry—“
Threstral whinnied. “Also if you wouldn’t mind going as slowly as possible just to piss him off, I’d really appreciate it.”
“I heard that!”
“You were meant too!” Harry shouted back.
Nott was glaring at him out the open doorway of the carriage. “I thought we agreed on a truce,” he said.
“I agreed not to kill you,” Harry told him. “Annoying you is still very much on the table, Tedster.”
Nott grimaced. “Ugh. I think I preferred Teddy,” he grumbled ducking further inside as Harry climbed in, slamming the carriage door behind him. “You’re a prick.”
“And you’re an arsehole,” Harry said.
“Wanker,” Nott shot back.
“Dickhead,” Harry smirked.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Harry? Oh wait, you can’t—“
“Fuck you—“
“No thanks. You’re not my type,” Nott said.
“Right because I’m not a handkerchief,” Harry snarked as the carriage lurched forward. “The only action you get is with your right hand.”
“I’m left handed actually,” Nott corrected him with a look of amusement in his eyes. “But it’s better than fucking that demonic hellbeast you call a wife.”
Harry couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. “You know, you’re not the first person to describe her that way.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Nott grinned. “She’s got a temper to rival a Hungarian Horntail.”
“Been on the receiving end of that temper have you?”
“Please, I’m not that stupid,” Nott scoffed. “Draco on the other hand…”
Harry laughed. He could only imagine. “Tore him a new arsehole I suspect,” he snickered fondly. Merlin, he missed her.
Nott studied him, his expression turning contemplative. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry you were the one to get mixed up in all this. Just so you know.”
“You’re making it hard to hate you,” Harry grumbled.
Nott shrugged. “What can I say? I’m totally loveable.”
Harry snorted. “Sure you are, Teddybear.”
“Can you stop it with the cutesy nicknames?”
“Nope,” Harry turned away to watch the passing foliage. He heard Nott grumble under his breath, before he too turned away to watch out the window as well. The leaves were just beginning to yellow on the trees, green leaves giving way to the autumn colors of gold and red. Gryffindor colors.
“What house do you think you’ll be sorted into?” Harry wondered, turning to regard Nott over his shoulder. The Unspeakable looked at him from the corner of his eye and shrugged.
“Hell if I know. Who’s to say that four houses are even the same as the ones we knew,” he said.
“You think they’ll be different?”
“It’s possible,” another shrug. “I guess we won’t find out until we get there.”
“Do you think he’ll be there?” Harry asked.
“Who?”
Harry gave him a look. “ You know who .”
“Maybe,” Nott winced. “I hope not, but—“
“With my luck, he probably is,” Harry grumbled.
“He’s not our problem,” Nott reminded him. “If he is, I plan to avoid him. I suggest you do the same.”
“Isn’t that suspicious?”
“Who the fuck cares? We’re just a couple of no-name transfer students,” Nott said. “No one’ll give a shite what we do as long as we do it quietly. Everyone else will be too worried about their N.E.W.Ts to pay much attention to us. Just don’t pick fights with people, Harrykins.”
“Eww,” the raven-haired wizard grimaced.
“Two can play at that game,” Nott smirked, turning away again.
“You’re a bloody menace, ya know?” Harry frowned.
“So are you,” Nott smiled over his shoulder, a sharp, vicious thing.
Merlin, he hoped they weren’t sorted into the same house. Harry would probably end up smothering him with the Unspeakable’s own pillow if that was the case. He was entirely sure that Nott felt the same way about him.
How-in-the-hell were they supposed to work together?
The pair lapsed into silence for the rest of the fifteen minute ride up to the carriage house of the castle. The thestrals pulled them to a stop before the large stone steps leading to the main courtyard. Both wizards climbed out of the carriage, the soles of their boots sinking into the soft earth. It looked like it had rained in the last few days, so the ground was still wet and riddled with puddles.
Harry looked around again to see if there was any sort of faculty present. From what he could see the only people milling about was a group of a black robed third-or-fourth years walking from the quidditch pitch with brooms in hand. They’ll have to do. Harry shrugged and waved them down.
“Hey, excuse me. Can I ask you lot for directions?” He asked as they passed by the carriage.
It was a group of four boys that stopped and regarded him curiously. “Are you new?” A boy with long wavy, black hair and sharp, gray eyes asks; tilting his head in question.
“Yes, transfers,” Harry kept his answer short and gestured behind him to Nott. “I’m assuming we’re supposed to head to the headmaster’s office, but there was no one to meet us at the station. You mind pointing us in the right direction?”
The boy looked him up and down with his gray eyes, assessing him. “Sure, we can take you there,” he said. “I’m Alphard Black, this is my cousin Orion, that’s Emmett Legstrange and Michael Carrow.” The boy gestured at each boy in turn.
Harry recognized the infamous Black features. The dark hair and gray eyes of two of the boys, Alphard and Orion. Orion seems to be almost the spitting image of Sirius, perhaps a bit more stockier in build than his godfather would’ve been. Alphard in comparison was long and weedy, but he had a spark in his eye that was similar to his nephew. (It sent a pang through Harry’s chest. He had almost forgotten that look…) Emmett Lesteange was equally dark-haired and with dark hooded eyes and tall and muscular build, towering over Harry by a head. (Not that was difficult considering Harry stood at only five-and-a-half feet.) The last boy, the Carrow, was on the shorter, pudgier side.
Harry shook hands with Alphard, managing a friendly smile. “Thanks. I’m Harry. That’s Theodore,” he introduced purposely omitting their last names.
Nott stepped up beside him and regarded them similarly in the friendly, but guarded way that Harry did. “We appreciate it,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Alphard grinned. “It’s not far. So where did you say you two were from?”
The boy was fishing for information. “We didn’t,” Harry said.
“Oh my mistake,” the boy arched a dark brow as they walked. “Is it a secret or something?”
Nott shook his head. “No.”
At the same time, Harry answered, “We’re from London originally, but we’ve moved around a bit since.”
“Oh…” Alphard glanced over at his cousin. “So what year are you going into?”
“Seventh,” Nott answered briskly. The boys regarded them even more closely then. They looked at Nott, his tall broad shouldered form and compared him to Harry's small boyish appearance.
“And you’re a seventh year too?” Alphard asked. Harry arched a brow as if daring the boy to elaborate on that. He knew he looked nothing like a seventeen-year-old and decided it would be easier not to lie on that front.
“I’m fifteen actually, the H.A.P.A.T bumped me ahead a few grades,” he said in a way of explanation.
“Lucky you,” Lestrange smirked. “We’ve got to take our O.W.Ls this year.”
“Oh that’s nothing compared to your N.E.W.Ts,” Orion rolled his eyes. “My cousin Dorea about had a mental breakdown over her arithmancy exam. I’ll take an O.W.L over that any day.”
“Arithmancy is a hard class, huh?” Harry asked.
“The hardest,” Orion told them. “Professor Corbis is a real stickler for showing your work.”
“Noted,” Harry nodded to himself. He might need to get Nott’s help on the homework then. Harry had never taken arithmancy before, knew next to nothing about it but it was a requirement of the Department and he didn’t want to consider what would happen if he failed that N.E.W.T…
“What about the other Professors?” Nott asked.
“You want us to give you the dirt?” Alphard grinned, spinning on his heel and walking backward through the first floor corridor.
“If you don’t mind,” Nott said.
“It’ll cost you,” the boy’s smile stretched.
“How much?” Harry asked.
“ Quid pro quo ,” Alphard laughed. “For every question you answer is a question I’ll answer.”
“Fair enough,” Nott and Harry agreed.
“Alright, let’s start off with something easy…Surnames?”
“Rowle.”
“Evans.”
“What house are you in?” Harry asked, although he was sure he had a fairly good idea.
“Slytherin.”
Good. That was good. At least something is the same. “Who is your head of house?” Nott asked.
“Nuh-uh,” Alphard tutted disapprovingly. “It’s my turn.”
“No,” Nott disagreed. “You asked one question and got two answers, therefore we get two questions.”
“Sound logic,” Orion observed. “It’s Professor Slughorn.”
Another similarity. Good.
“Where are you transferring from? Which school?” Lestrange joined in on the interrogation.
“We were homeschooled,” Harry said.
“Private tutors,” Nott added.
“Explains how you skipped some grades,” Carrow remarked.
“Who are the other heads of house?” Harry asked.
“Well, Slytherin has Professor Slughorn. Ravenclaw has Casandra Trelawny, Hufflepuff is Silvanus Kettleburn, and Gryffindor has Galatea Merrythought.”
Okay, so the houses are still the same. Harry shared a look with Nott. They can work with that. Without looking at each other again, without saying anything more Harry and Nott grasped the plan forming in each other’s mind. By playing this game of rat-and-kneazle with this group of kids, they would be able to pump them for information on this world without seeming overly suspicious, so their questions were more broad and focused on the faculty and subjects taught at Hogwarts. The fifth-years, they learned, were more interested in finding dirt on them. So their questions were more personal; asking about families, asking about hobbies, about their plans after finishing their N.E.W.Ts.
It seemed the objective was to learn more about the other person than they learned about you. Nott of course caught on quickly, having likely grown up playing similar mind games in Slytherin house. Harry had learned to be evasive after years in the Auror department, years spent in cramped interrogation rooms with stubborn-head criminals. Between the two of them, a handful of school children were hardly much of a challenge. By dropping a few details from the DOM’s fabricated stories and not elaborating much, they were able to direct the conversation away from themselves for the most part.
Harry made it a point to take stock of his surroundings as they walked up the main moving staircase, looking hopelessly overwhelmed by the newness of everything. While Nott, sneaky bastard he was, purposely inquired about the location of different classrooms and the like so that whole walk turned into less of being shown to the Headmaster’s office and more of an impromptu tour of the castle. It would make people less suspicious if they could say definitively that someone else had told them where to go when they weren’t getting lost on their way to and from class.
By the time the group of them made it to the Gargoyle’s corridor on the third floor, Harry was confident that he knew enough about the current state of this new strange Hogwarts that he would be able to fake it in conversation should the need arise. The main difference he considered was that Professor Dumbledore was not teaching Transfiguration like he had back in Harry’s and Nott’s original timeline, but instead was teaching charms. And instead of being a rather popular and well-liked professor in his time, this Dumbledore sounded…well, like a prick. A. Huge. Colossal. Prick. That may or may not fuck goats, according to Alphard.
“—wait, what?” Harry backtracked. “Professor Dumbledore was arrested for what?”
“Using a lubrication charm on a goat,” Alphard wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “You know that spell is typically used on a girl’s or guy’s you-know during intercourse. Of course, I couldn't say that’s what he was using it for. It’s not like the Aurors caught him with his pants down, but it’s suspicious nonetheless…”
Nott and Harry exchanged a what-the-fuck look. “A-And he’s still teaching?” Harry stumbled briefly over the question reeling.
“It’s been slim pickings for professors since the war,” Orion remarked. “I believe that’s the only reason that nut has managed to keep his job. We all know Headmaster Dippet would’ve had him sacked after the whole Yule faculty party fiasco that happened last year. I heard he got so drunk that he started wanking himself in public—”
WAIT. WAIT. WHAT?
W-Was Professor Dumbledore a creepy pervert?
Oh…
…gross.
What sort of hell did Nott bring him to? Harry glanced over at the blond wizard who looked just about as disgusted as Harry himself felt. “Albus Dumbledore wanked himself in public…” Harry mumbled to himself; disbelief coloring his tone.
Alphard paused. “Albus? Merlin, no! Where did you get the idea I was talking about him?”
“You’re… not ?” Harry asked.
“No…” His gray eyes narrowed, suspiciously. “Professor Dumbledore is Albus Dumbledore’s little brother, Aberforth.”
“Oh…” Fuck.
“I guess I can see the confusion, considering they're both named Dumbledore but…Albus Dumbledore wouldn’t be caught dead here,” Orion was looking at Harry strangely too. In fact all four of the boys, even Nott, were watching him. Harry stifled the urge to duck his head and cower.
“Because?” Harry prompted though he knew he would be better off changing the subject. It was obvious that he had unwittingly stepped into something. But he couldn’t very well step out of it without knowing what it was. Something nagging him in the back of his mind told him this was important, that this change was major.
“Don’t you read the papers?” Lestrange asked. “Albus Dumbledore is Grindelwald’s second-lieutenant. Has been since the beginning of the war…”
Harry was dumbstruck, thankfully it was Nott who redirected their attention. “Harry doesn’t like to read. Says it hurts his eyes,” he said as a way of explanation. “Not a fan of politics either, goes in one ear and shoots right out the other one.”
“Oh, how plebeian,” Alphard remarked mildly amused. “Can’t say I don’t relate. My cousin here, is heir to the Black estate and thereby is doomed to take his father’s seat on the Wizengamot. I myself am glad to be just the second son.”
“You have an older brother?” Nott asked.
“I do…” Alphard turned his perceptive eyes away from Harry as he talked to Nott. The boy seemed too sharp almost; parsing every word, every subtle shift of expression for subtext. He could still feel curious eyes on him from the other three boys, but Alphard’s gaze was especially intense in comparison. “Do you have any siblings?”
“No,” Nott said, plainly. “Only child. Same goes for Harry.”
“Then you two must be rather close,” Alphard mused.
“Not really,” Harry said. “We’ve just known each other awhile.”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” Carrow observed as the group of them came to a stop in front of a familiar-looking gargoyle statue.
“We’ll, here we are,” Alphard announced. “The password is Celestina Warbeck. You just gotta take those stairs and they’ll take you right to the headmaster’s office.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” the boy grinned. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other around the castle. Who knows, maybe we’ll see you in the Slytherin common room.”
Hope not.
“We’ll have to play a pickup game of quidditch sometime and see how good you are on a broom Evans,” Lestrange offered as they left.
“Uh, sure,” Harry nodded. “I look forward to it.”
With that said, the four Slytherin boys left them. Harry waited until they had rounded the corner out of sight before he spoke to Nott. “So on a scale from one to a thousand, how fucked are we?”
The other wizard rubbed at his temple and sighed. “It’s not our problem, Harry. Let’s stay focused on the matter at hand.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” He wondered. “A Dumbledore-Grindlewald alliance will obliterate Britain.”
“Probably,” Nott agreed.
“And you want to do nothing?” Harry asked him.
Nott answered that question with another. “What can we do? Last time I checked we were just two wizards. What are you going to do; run off and fight another dark lord? Be realistic.”
Nott was right. Harry knew that. But knowing that didn’t mean it sat right with him. It’s not like they had an army. Or that they could go off and join the rebel factions in Europe with Rookwood and Novikov breathing down their necks.
“It’s not our world, not our problem,” the Unspeakable said.
“Right,” Harry said more to himself than anything. Nott turned and spoke the password to the gargoyle, the spiral stone staircase rose from the ground, and without another word exchanged between them Nott and Harry began the climb.
Forget about it, Harry. It’s not your war. Not anymore.
Chapter 8: A Boy With No Name
Summary:
“You said a couple of transfers. Couple implies at least two,” Burke looked back at blond questioningly.
“Ah, I believe the other one is some nameless orphan,” Malfoy dismissed.
Nameless. It was a pretty way of saying something ugly. Something distasteful. No one dared to look at him. Look at Tom Riddle, a boy who also had no name.
Notes:
Ok, so this chapter is 18 pages...it got a little away from me, but I don't think any of you will complain about it. I'm pretty tired right now, so I'm gonna keep this author's note short and sweet. Thanks for all the wonderful comments and kudos and subscriptions, etc. Please excuse any typos or misspellings, I didn't do a whole lot of editing on this chapter, most of it was written on my phone, and I don't have any sort of beta reader to help me out with editing and with me being dyslexic I know something has slipped by me somewhere. I'm probably going to come back and reread this author's note and it'll be a bunch of gibberish.
Also for those who are interested, this fic does have a Spotify playlist. (I tend to make them for most of my fics to help me brain storm during the day.) So if you want to turn this fic into a musical just look up UDLTTOM. Fair warning, though that playlist is currently 5 hours and 16 minutes so... listen at your own risk.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Eight
A Boy With No Name
RAID ON FEENHAIN GOES AWRY: GRINDLEWALD’S SECOND-LIEUTENANT GRAVELY INJURED
By Brittanity Brune
Correspondent for the Daily Prophet
On the evening of October 1st, a raid was carried out on the German village of Feenhain by Grindelwald’s forces. The goal was to snuff out the rebel faction belonging to the German Wizard Muggle Alliance (G.W.M.A), however the Dark Lord got more than he bargained for. Intel gathered from eyewitness accounts suggests that Grindelwald’s Second-Lieutenant, Albus Dumbledore, was at the scene as well as the Dark Lord himself. It appears as if the members of the G.W.M.A were tipped off by some of their own over the muggle wireless. Fortunately, they possessed the wherewithal to attempt an ambush of their own against the Dark Lord’s forces. Fighting broke out around 6 o’clock within the town square and multiple accounts identified both Grindelwald and Dumbledore in a duel with members of the rebel faction. A brave soul, Jonas Kahnwald, slipped past Grindelwald’s defense and managed to almost hit the Dark Lord with a curse before the Second-Lieutenant got in the way, taking the brunt of the spell. It is as of yet unknown if the wizard has succumbed to his injury as the pair disapperated moments later in a hasty retreat. There has been much speculation in the past over the nature of the relationship between Grindelwald and his second-lieutenant, Albus Dumbledore. Photographs taken of the two in Paris suggest an intimacy that extends beyond that of a commander and a lieutenant. If rumors are to be believed, the Dark Lord is going to be particularly distraught over the death of his lover. Finally, he is getting a taste of the hell he has dragged the rest of us into. Though Dumbledore’s condition remains unclear I, for one, am glad that karma has seen it fit to dole out her own form of justice. Good riddance, sir!
“Dumbledore is in a particularly dour mood this morning—“ Tom adjusted the copy of the Daily Prophet in his hands, eyes leaving the front-page article to glance at the faculty table. Cygnus Black sat beside him resting his chin in his palm as he continued to sip idly at the cup of tea in his hand. “You’d think he’d be happier that his brother might be dead.”
Tom’s eyes fell on the hunched, scowling form of their Charms Professor who was in the middle of reading the very same article Tom was. It is a commonly known fact that Aberforth Dumbledore hated the mere mention of his older brother, Albus. So much so that even mentioning the man’s name in his classroom resulted in no less than fifteen lost House Points and a strongly worded rebuke that if one tried to argue with would be accompanied by a Saturday detention. Tom watched the furrow between the man’s brow deepen with each passing word until the man, as if sensing the attention of the entire group of seventh-year students seated at the Slytherin table, looked up and glared pointedly back.
Tom didn’t roll his eyes. Not visibly at least. Returning back to the article and the photograph of Grindelwald and Dumbledore in Paris, he feigned disinterest whilst keeping his ears attuned to the comments of his peers.
Across the table Cygnus’s twin sister, Walburga scoffed. “ Merlin, I’m glad we don’t have class today. He will be insufferable this morning.”
“He’s insufferable every morning,” Druella Roiser added further down the line. “Can’t believe Headmaster Dippet let him return this year…”
“I don’t find it so hard to believe,” Ignotus Avery disagreed with Druella. “We all know the old goat has always had a soft spot for wayward Gryffindors.”
“Explains why Prewett and Weasley are always strutting around like bloody peacocks,” Thaddeus Nott rolled his eyes whilst slathering a generous portion of orange marmalade onto his toast.
“Tomorrow’s going to be a treat,” Lyra Burke enthused with a note of false cheer and sliced into her omelet.
“In more ways than one,” Abraxas Malfoy grinned across from Tom. Although unlike Burke, there was a genuine hint of amusement in his remark.
“What do you mean by that?” Burke narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
In lieu of answering, Malfoy picked up his coffee and drank. Tom paused, meeting Malfoy’s green eyes. He knew that look. Cat with a canary, he thought, recalling the muggle idiom.
“My father tells me we’re getting a couple new transfer students,” Malfoy said to Burke, though he didn’t look away from Tom.
“That’s hardly news,” Walburga huffed. “We seem to get a new transfer every week.”
It was true. Especially since Beauxbatons was being evacuated in droves as Grindelwald came closer and closer to Britain. Many of those who had transferred were from there. Others were escaping from Durmstrang or Koldovstoretz, but few of them stayed, preferring instead to leave Europe all together for the Americas. But Tom knew better. Tom knew that Malfoy wouldn’t have brought it up if it didn’t have relevance; especially if it could gain him something in return. Malfoy didn’t reply. He wouldn’t reply. Not until Tom asked. He recognized the little power play for what it was and would not engage it.
“One of them is a Rowle,” Alyxander Mulciber raised his head from where he had been sleepily nodding off beside Burke. The boy caught his eye and winked. Tom wasn’t the only one aware of Malfoy’s little tricks…
Flirt.
“A Rowle?” The others perked up, while Malfoy’s smile noticeably dropped.
“The board of governors allowed his admittance?” Roiser arched her finely groomed brow.
“Oh, they didn’t want to. My mother claimed Headmaster Dippet tried to deny it along with a few light aligned families,” Mulciber told her, summoning a mug of steaming coffee before him. “But Rowle apparently scored an Outstanding on the H.A.P.A.T. and the board couldn’t refuse after the pushback from the Department of Mysteries.”
“What interest does the D.O.M. have in it?” Avery asked a perplexed look scrunching up his nose.
“They’re recruiting him,” Malfoy, not being one to relinquish the punch line to Mulciber, chimed in.
“Really?” Walburga turned speculative. “But isn’t he our age?”
“Supposedly…”
Burke tapped her fork against her lips, ponderously. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of the D.O.M recruiting school children,” she said. “What about the others?”
“Mmm?” Malfoy regarded Burke over the rim of his cup, idly waving his wand as the sugar bowl slid across the Slytherin table toward Mulciber’s outstretched hand. The other boy proceeded to spoon half of its contents into his coffee much to Tom’s morbid amusement and the disgust of everyone else. Malfoy wrinkled his nose, whilst Burke grabbed the sugar bowl.
“Alyx, that’s too much,” she admonished, sending the bowl down the length of the table toward the fifth-years. “You said a couple of transfers. Couple implies at least two,” Burke looked back at blond questioningly.
“Ah, I believe the other one is some nameless orphan,” Malfoy dismissed.
Nameless. It was a pretty way of saying something ugly. Something distasteful. No one dared to look at him. Look at Tom Riddle, a boy who also had no name. No wizarding name at least. But that wasn’t entirely the case anymore.
Tom had a name. He invented his own, unofficial though it may be. The Headboy badge pinned to his black outer robe was a testimony to that. It went unsaid in the public attention of the Great Hall. Unnoticed by the professors in class. But it was whispered in the hallways, traded between gossiping second-years like so many secrets. It was acknowledged in the Slytherin common room by the deferential nods given to him by the children of pureblood politicians and the humbling way they refused to use his legal name.
He was Tom.
Tom the nameless .
Tom the heir.
A Slytherin. The last Slytherin. The last hope.
“ Oh…” Walburga‘s interest immediately dissipated, as well as the attention of most of the seventh-year Slytherins sitting around him. Except Burke was still curious, despite, or perhaps in spite, of the apparent disinterest of her peers. She turned her attention to Mulciber, sipping on his coffee-flavored sugar, and without more than a raised brow and a glance exchanged the other boy elaborated.
“They both received exceptionally high marks on the H.A.P.A.T. Impressively high marks. More so because neither one had bothered with their O.W.Ls it seems–“
“That’s unusual,” Cygnus remarked; interest suddenly revived.
“Yes,” Mulciber agreed. “And the other one, his father was a curse breaker for Gringotts. Actually, no, I think my mother said they were brothers. Or were they cousins by marriage?”
“Cousins?” Burke repeated. “This Rowle and…”
“Evans,” Mulciber nodded. “But Evans is apparently only fifteen and yet has managed to score just as highly as Rowle did on the H.A.P.A.T. and will be joining our year.”
A prodigy by the sound of it. Two prodigies. Must be for the Department of Mysteries to have such a vested interest,” Tom thought.
“What are you thinking Tom?” Burke noticed the contemplative look on his face. The rest of the Slytherins turned curious of the opinion yet to be expressed by the headboy.
“Does this Rowle have close ties with Alastair Rowle?” Tom’s question was the first confirmation of his interest.
“I don’t believe so,” Malfoy answered. “He wouldn’t be accepted if he had.”
Tom hummed. “It is interesting, I suppose, although it’s not enough information to determine if it’s useful,” he said.
“Do you want us to keep a closer eye?” Nott suggested.
“Perhaps,” Tom folded his copy of the Daily Prophet and tucked it away. “After all, you are a prefect Malfoy, it’s your duty to make sure the new transfers get settled properly.” It was a command. They all recognized it, even as ambiguous as it might have been to the passing observer.
Malfoy nodded once in understanding. “Of course,” he said.
Tom stood from his seat, tucking his hands behind his back. “I have a meeting with Ravena Tarbeck to attend,” he said in lieu of a goodbye. “The knights will meet at eight-thirty tonight for practice.”
“I’ll inform the others,” Cygnus told him. Tom trusted that Cygnus would. As co-captain of the Knights of Walpurgis he took the responsibility of the dueling club very seriously.
Tom left the group after breakfast and continued on with the rest of the day. Tarbeck and he finalized the schedule for the prefects’ rounds that upcoming week in the morning as headboy and headgirl. The rest of the morning was spent perusing texts in the restricted section and making note of titles that caught his interest. A quick lunch of sandwiches was picked up from the kitchen which Tom ate whilst completing his essay on runic warding for Professor Izanagi in his private room. All the while the new transfers never once crossed his mind until he ran into Alphard Black.
Alphard Black was the younger and, frankly more influential, brother of Cygnus and Walburga if only for the fact that his cousin and heir to the ancient and noble House of Black, Orion, deferred to him in most matters. It was Alphard, who Tom had scouted out first, recruiting him to join the school’s dueling club when he was just a first year. It was Alphard who dragged along Orion and subsequently, through Orion’s involvement, Tom gained Cyngus’s and Walburga’s grudging support.
After the Blacks, Avery and Nott soon followed as their vassals which in turn gained him more support from the other pureblood children. Slytherin House was full of them. Seemed to be all there was, really, until Tom. Of course there may have been a halfblood here or there, but they were few and they all had the right names. Tom was nameless. Thereby, whether he was or not, they treated him with the same prejudice and censure they treated all mugglebred children.
And, oh, how Tom had loathed it…Loathed it so much that he went and did something about it.
Before him, the house of serpents had been disorganized chaos. It was the Hydra of Lerna biting off its own head, all whilst two more would spring up in its place. Purebloods were like that; backstabbing, treacherous, always looking to one-up and exploit each other. And Slytherins, well, they were especially vicious. They were snakes after all—venomous vipers the lot of them.
And Tom, had he been anyone else, would’ve been eaten up and swallowed whole as a tiny, underfed orphan from South London his first year. But Tom wasn’t like anyone else. He never had been. And he still wasn’t. And snakes, well, Tom had always found them easy to control.
Which is how he came to be where he was today; headboy, captain of the Hogwarts popular and influential dueling club, and unofficial heir of great Salazar Slytherin himself. He took that Lernean Hydra and slayed it. And in its absence, he built something new—something better. Now they were one unit, one mind, with purpose and ambition. Just as Salazar had intended and all because of Tom.
So it was without prompting that Alphard told him about these new transfers he had met leaving the quidditch pitch. He described them as: off, liars, good ones, smart enough to catch onto the game and smarter still to play it to their advantage. “They’d make good snakes,” he had remarked.
Tom wasn’t so hasty to judge. He preferred to make his own impression before assigning a label. Good was an entirely subjective word. What was good for some was not good for all. Oftentimes it was worse.
And Henry Evans, well, he proved to be far worse than even Tom could imagine.
It was Professor Horace Slughorn, Slytherin’s Head of House, that had introduced them at dinner. The headmaster had announced their arrival at the start of the meal, had introduced Theodore Rowle and Henry Evans to the curious eyes of the students, before their heads of house had escorted them to their respective tables. Rowle, a blond-haired blue-eyed boy stood tall and somber before them, as if he were staring down not a hall full of children but a firing squad with guns at the ready. Evans, short and sylphlike and dark-haired, similarly stood at attention like a soldier waiting for his orders.
Neither of them fit.
Neither of them seemed like children…
There was a look about them. A look Tom had seen in the eye of those who had been lucky enough to survive the Blitz. A look he often saw in the mirror. Wartorn. Shellshocked. Innocence lost. And Evans—Evans’s eyes, a blazing, brilliant inferno of green, were red-rimmed and dark-bagged as if the boy had either been crying or sleepless for days. Maybe it was both.
“Ah, Tom, my boy,” The cheerful Slughorn grinned, leading Evans by the shoulder as he stood before the group of seventh-years, “this is Henry. Henry, Tom here is headboy this year and one of our best and brightest! I’ve taken the liberty of matching your schedule with his so he can help you get adjusted to the pace here. I know homeschool is a very different environment, but based on your H.A.P.A.T. scores I’m sure that you're more than up for the challenge, eh? Of course, if you have any questions don’t hesitate to drop by my office or merely to have a nice chat over a cuppa. Tom, I trust that you’ll do well keeping an eye out for him, yes?”
“Of course, sir,” the headboy grinned.
“Excellent!” the professor boomed, clapped Evans roughly on the shoulder and Tom almost swore that his eye twitched behind his wire-framed glasses. Then Slughorn was gone, back to the faculty table to eat his dinner, and Evans was just there; unmoving.
His eyes flickered from one curious face to another. From Cygnus to Walburga and Avery to Malfoy before he even glanced at Tom. Their eyes met, a split-second, then Evans dropped his gaze down in submission. No—wait. Not submission. Assessment.
It took Tom a moment to realize that Evans was looking at his hand, more specifically the ring on his right index. His family’s ring. His heirloom. A piece of his very soul.
Tom raised a dark brow at him. “So are you going to sit down Evans or do you prefer to eat standing up?”
Evan’s eyes met his again, before they focused on something over Tom’s head. He ignored the question. Or maybe he didn’t hear it?
“Where’s the loo?” The boy then asked, not looking him in the eye. A blatant dismissal.
“The closest one is on the first floor,” Tom said, narrowing his gaze. “Go out those doors, go left, second corridor on the right. Do you want one of us to go with you?”
“No thanks,” Evans shook his head and spun on his heel toward the main doors. “I’ll find it myself.” Then without a glance or another word, he simply walked off without ever having sat down.
“Well, he doesn’t seem very friendly,” Roiser observed.
“Maybe he just had to shit,” Avery said, smiling. “Left pretty quickly, maybe he already did?” It elicited a few chuckles from the other boys, an eye roll from Walburga and a reminder not to talk about such things when they all were about to eat.
And Tom, he continued to watch the door for the boy’s return because that’s what was expected of him. Even after the main course had been cleared to make way for dessert, Evans still hadn’t returned.
“Do you think he fell in or something?” Burke asked, looking somewhat concerned.
“Probably got lost,” Mulciber shrugged.
“Should one of us go look for him?” Nott asked.
Malfoy moved to stand, “I’ll go—”
“No,” Tom cut him off, “I’ll go.”
Tom stood. “What about practice?” Walburga asked.
“Cygnus,” Tom met the co-captain’s eyes.
“I can handle it,” he said.
“I’m sure he didn’t wander too far,” Tom said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
They all nodded in understanding. Meeting postponed. Message received. Tom left the Great Hall and started at the boy’s bathrooms on the first floor. No Evans. He moved on to the second. Still, no Evans. Third and fourth floors proved to be just as fruitless as also were the sixth and seventh floors. He checked all the bathrooms again. Then came to the conclusion that even if Evans had gone to the lavatory, there was no chance he would still be there.
So Tom broadened his search. He went back to the Great Hall. Empty. Checked the kitchens, only house elves there. Went outside even to look in the stables and the courtyards. No Evans. He asked around with the other prefects. No one had seen him or knew where he went off to.
Did he just fucking disappear?
Tom had lost his patience twelve flights of stairs ago. When he finds him, he was going to wring his scrawny little neck with his bare-fucking-hands.
Eventually it got too close to curfew and there was still no sight of him. Circe’s tits! Was he fucking raptured?
At his witt’s-fucking-end, Tom returned to the Slytherin common room fully prepared to get Professor Slughorn involved if checking the dorm’s proved to be as fruitless as everywhere else. Of course, it would just so happen that the absolutely last place he’d look is the place Evans turned out to be. And what was he doing all this time Tom had been searching high and low for him?
Fucking sleeping!
Tom was almost about to set the boy’s bed on fire. He had every intention of ripping open those curtains and dragging Evans out by his wiry black curls. But he didn’t. Or more he was stopped. Because inches away from the curtains his fingers hit an invisible barrier, a fully-transparent, shimmering dome that prevented anyone from disturbing the boy’s slumber. Magic thrummed in the air, powerful, and warning.
He had warded his fucking bed. Fuck.
Tom examined the bedframe and then saw the runic sigils carved into the wood. Why that clever little shit— These were the kind of wards that took hours to perform and thereby hours to undo. Tom didn’t have the patience for that nonsense. Not tonight.
He turned and Malfoy, the notorious earlier riser of the group, was lounging on his own bed watching Tom. “I want to be informed the moment he wakes up,” he told him.
“Sure…” Malfoy agreed, eyeing the Evans bed warily. “What are you going to do when I do?”
“Teach him a fucking lesson,” Tom growled his irration leaking through his normally calm facade.
The blond nodded, wincing. And Tom didn’t stay long enough for any of them to say anything more. Evans was officially on his list. Come tomorrow, he would learn that was an extraordinarily perilous place to be.
Except when tomorrow morning came, Evans was gone. No one had seen him leave. No one knew where he went. The only indication he had left at all was that his bed hangings had been left open and they could all clearly see that he was not there.
Tom refused to go traipsing all over the castle again in search of the wayward Slytherin.
Once was enough. Thank you.
So he went to breakfast. He read the articles in the Daily Prophet . He listened to Avery and Nott bicker about Quidditch. He explained some piece of theory Burke wasn’t quite grasping in transfiguration. If any of them noticed his sour mood, none of them dared to say a word about it.
And when Evans didn’t show up to breakfast, Tom half expected him to also skip class.
There was nothing, except for the rumored H.A.P.A.T. marks, that would’ve suggested that he took his education seriously. But apparently, Tom had misjudged him because in the first class of the day at exactly seven-forty-five there was Evans at a desk right near the door in the back of the class. He sat right next to Rowle; head of wild curls bent over the seventh-year charms textbook.
Tom paused in the doorway, debating his next move.
Then Professor Dumbledore walked in and whatever Tom had been considering was tossed aside as he was barked at to take his seat and stop blocking the door. With gritted teeth, he had no choice but to walk past and take his usual spot in the front next to Malfoy. The professor was especially snappish that lesson, although if Malfoy had been expecting some huge blow up over the presence of a Rowle in the class he would’ve been severely disappointed for the only indication that the man was at all put off was the visible sneer on his face when he said the ravenclaw’s name.
By the time the lesson had ended, Evans and Rowle were the first ones out the door…
And this trend continued throughout the rest of the morning. Tom would arrive. And there, seated at the last desk closest to the door, were Evans and Rowle. Always the last row. Always closest to the door. Always together. Then lessons would end and the slytherin and ravenclaw pair were always the first to leave, often before the rest of them had even finished packing up their textbooks.
By lunch, Tom was sure that Evans would finally make an appearance at the Slytherin table. He had skipped dinner. He had skipped breakfast. Surely, he wouldn’t skip lunch…
Tom was wrong. Lunch ended and there was no sign of Evans nor his blond-haired shadow. Afternoon classes continued the same way the morning classes did. And by dinner time, Tom was less angry about the whole thing and more suspicious.
It was almost as if Evans was avoiding everyone. But why? He hadn’t said more than a few words to him. Surely, he couldn’t have offended him somehow? As far as he knew, no one else had either…
Tuesday was an exact repeat of the behavior from the day before. Evans woke first and left. He skipped breakfast in the Great Hall. Was the first to class with Rowle. They both sat in the back, closest to the door. Skipped lunch and dinner. And when Tom returned to the common room, Evans was the first to bed, shut up behind his bed hangings and runic wards impossible to disturb or confront.
Wednesday, Tom was determined to get the whole matter sorted out. Solely because Evans had thrown off Slytherins’ equilibrium. The others were watching Tom flounder. They were watching him lose control, lose focus. Evans needed to be brought to heel, if only to keep the tenuous peace between his Slytherin housemates.
If this transfer student was allowed to walk about, disregarding Tom and the rules of Slytherin House, as unofficial as they may have been, what’s to stop anyone else from doing it too?
The answer was nothing.
Tom wasn’t going to allow it. This had to end.
So after the last afternoon class, Tom had forgone his usual routine of perusing the restricted section to sit in the Slytherin common room and wait for Evans to decide to make an appearance. He sat with his back to the fireplace, in clearview of the door so as to watch who came and went, with an opened book on his lap that he was merely keeping there for pretense. On the sofa across from him, sat both Burke and Mulciber pouring over their essays on the medieval witch burnings for Professor Fortescue. Cygnus and Walburga were seated at a table nearby with a wizard chess set between them; though, like Tom, their attention was not on the board. Druella and Nott were discussing their assignment for Professor Beery’s N.E.W.T. herbology project with various books on botany and horticulture piled up around them. Avery was seated with Alphard, Orion, Lestrange, and Carrow discussing the upcoming game between Slytherin and Hufflepuff.
There were even a handful of sixth-years (Millescent Crabbe, Nikolai Dolohov, and Charles Goyle) and fourth-years (Euphemia Malfoy, Lucretia Black, and Eileen Prince) that found themselves skipping the evening meal to watch the ensuing confrontation. Tom was sure, it was purely for gossiping purposes, frankly he couldn’t have cared less whether they were there or not. His only concern was Evans.
His plan proved to be successful. Because at six-thirty on the dot, at a time when they all should’ve been filing into the Great Hall for dinner, Evans stepped through the archway that led to the common room. He noticed them as soon as he did, and surely he didn’t expect all of them to be there because he stopped a few paces from the door.
“Good evening, Evans,” Tom spoke first, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.
Got you.
The boy paused, his expression cool and detached. “Evening, Riddle. ”
Oh…
Evans couldn’t have known the faux pas he had just committed. Tom told himself that he was new and no one would have told him. And yet, the way he said—that slow, drawing out of the syllables—that was deliberate. No one called him Riddle in Slytherin house. Not since his sixth year. Not since that hex Malfoy had received. And somehow this boy noticed this and made the choice anyway…
“I haven’t had the chance to ask how you’ve been settling in,” Tom began. “It seems we keep missing each other.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re busy with your head boy duties,” Evans shrugged, adjusting his shoulder bag.
“Indeed.” Tom narrowed his gaze. “But Professor Slughorn asked that I look after you and I must apologize that I haven’t been able to as well as I should’ve. Are you finding all your classes?”
“So far…”
“If you we’re having trouble, I’m sure that Malfoy wouldn’t mind—“
“I’m fine,” Evans cut him off, pointedly looking at Malfoy who, like Tom, was reading in front of the fireplace. “You don’t need to babysit me. I can manage on my own.”
“I’m sure you can,” Tom agreed. “But still, if you're having trouble adjusting to Hogwarts; whether that be classes or the food, don’t hesitate to let someone know, Evans. We’re all friends here in Slytherin house. We look out for each other.”
Evans laughed. It was a short, abrupt laugh. The sort of laugh that one does but doesn’t mean to. There’s no humor in it. Just surprise. No, incredulous disbelief. “Oh, I’m sure you do, ” his smile was sharp, insincere.
What is that supposed to mean? It was sarcastic. Pointed. An accusation. But of what?
“Where are you headed?” Tom asked.
“Bed.”
“To sleep?”
“To study,” Evans told him. His tone suggested an end to the conversation.
“You can study here,” Burke piped up, throwing him a friendly smile over her shoulder. “That’s what we’re doing.”
Evans paused, hesitated as he, for the first time, regarded the other occupants in the room. Shifting awkwardly, he frowned as spoke. “I sort of view studying as a solitary activity. I can’t focus if I’m around other people.”
“Oh, really?” Burke turned curious. “But then what do you do if you have a question?”
Harry shrugged again and Tom began to suspect that it was a bad habit of his. “Ask a professor,” he said.
“Well, you could ask us,” Burke suggested. “I mean we’re all in the same classes and sometimes the professors are busy. What do you do if they’re not available to answer your questions?”
Harry paused again. His eyes flickered briefly to Tom before he shook his head. “I don’t have many questions,” he said.
“Lucky you!” Burke grinned. “If that’s the case you should come over here and sit down—“ she patted a spot next to her on the sofa, “because I have a lot! Do you happen to know anything about Medieval witch hunts?”
You clever minx, Tom smirked. A feeling of fondness fluttered under Tom’s ribs for the red-haired witch. She had trapped him. And Evans knew it too. If he said yes, he’d have to come and sit down; but if he said no it would prove that he was lying. And, if he was lying, he was avoiding them.
The short raven-haired boy looked like he wanted to curse. The look on his face, he didn’t even try to mask it, and glared pointedly at Tom. As if this was his fault. As if it was he, and not Burke, that had asked him to sit down.
Tom smiled, “You might as well indulge her, Evans. She won’t leave you alone otherwise.”
I won’t leave you alone.
Evans sighed and adjusted his glasses. “On second thought, I am not feeling too well,” he said.
“Oh no, what’s wrong?” Burke wondered, looking for a moment genuinely concerned.
“Headache,” he said. “I think I’m just gonna head to the infirmary for something real quick.”
“We’ll, why don’t you let—“
Burke started to say, but Evans was already gone throwing a hurried, “No, thanks! I got it!” over his shoulder.
What is the face of a coward? Tom asked himself. The back of his head as he runs from the duel.
And Henry Evans was a fucking coward. Tom snapped his book shut and moved to pursue him. Everyone knew you never turned you back on a predator and you sure-as-hell never ran. Especially from him. Because Tom was the fucking heir.
Evans had made a critical error.
He was across the room in a matter of seconds, following Evans out the archway. He arrived just in time to see the head of black curls disappear around the corner at the end of the hall.
He’s taking the secret passageway?
Tom started after him at a brisk pace. He didn’t run because he never ran. Running was for the desperate and cowardly, neither of which Tom was. But Tom was tall, standing over six feet, and compared to Evans' short strides, it would only be a matter of time before he caught up.
Tom slipped into the dark passage, his heels echoing loudly as he did. Evans whirled, wand in hand, “ Jesus-fucking-Christ! You’re like a pop-up book from Hell!”
Tom casted a nonverbal lumos which illuminated them enough to see the younger boy’s wild expression. His green eyes practically glowed in the dim light, burning with a manic sort of energy. Tom arched a brow and looked down his nose at the offending stick in his face.
“Careful, Evans, you’ll poke someone’s eye out with that,” he said.
Evans narrowed his eyes, lowering the wand to his side. “Why did you follow me?” He snapped, irritation coloring both his words and expression.
“You said you were unwell,” Tom told him. “I wanted to be sure you made it to the infirmary in one piece. It’s my responsibility as head boy—“
“Oh, come off it!” Evans' lips pulled back into a snarl. “Stop with this helpful-Slytherin-bullshit!”
“It’s not bullshit,” Tom frowned. “I’ve been worried about you—“
“Ha! No, you’re not!” Evans laughed, somewhat hysterically. “Don’t tell me that. You don’t give a shit about me!”
“Why do you say that?” Tom regarded him curiously.
“Because you don’t give a shit about anyone who isn’t yourself!” Harry gestures wildly with his unarmed hand. “So let’s just stop pretending, okay? I’m too tired for this shit. Just drop the fucking act.”
The act…?
Tom paused. “I don’t know where this hostility is coming from, Evans. Have I done something to offend you?”
“BHAHAHAHA!” Evans cracked, his laugh sharp and piercing in the enclosed space. “Offend!” He gasped the word as if it was the funniest joke he had ever heard. Tom didn’t get it. He didn’t get him. “Your very face offends me, Riddle.”
Tom scowled. “Well, that’s a rude thing to say, Evans .” He could feel his curiosity giving way to irritation. “Frankly, I don’t know why you’re the one who’s mad here. I’m the one who should be angry with you.”
“Oh really?” Evans was grinning, but he was the farthest thing from happy. “Well, don’t hold back on my account. Tell me. What have I done?”
“You’re skipping meals,” Tom said. “Avoiding your housemates. Barricading yourself behind wards, which I might add is vandalism of school property. And I met you two days ago, and already you have me searching the entire castle on the first night to make sure you’re not lost or worse.”
“I didn’t ask you to look for me,” Evans frowned.
“You also didn’t tell anyone where you were going,” Tom pointed out.
“But I did,” Evans argued.
“ You said the loo ,” Tom snapped, his own irritation giving way to his Cockney accent. “That implied you were coming back. How were we supposed to know you were going to bed or that you even knew where the common room was, let alone the password? Bloody idiot.”
Evans snorted.
“You think this is funny?” Tom asked him.
“I think your accent is funny,” the boy told him. “I hadn’t pegged you for a Cockney.”
“Furthermore,” Tom raised his voice, pointedly losing the accent, “no one ever sees you outside of class and you’re gone before anyone wakes up.”
“I don’t see how that matters,” Evans began.
“It matters because none of us know where you are,” Tom wasn’t shouting, but his voice seemed exceptionally loud in the passageway.
“That’s none of your damn business,” Evans shot back. “What I do and where I go is none of your concern, Riddle .”
“I’m head boy, Evans. I’m beginning to understand that your head is especially thick, but even you should understand that the position comes with responsibilities of knowing where the students are at all times. You are my responsibility, understand? What you do concerns me—“
Evans rolled his eyes, “ Please. That’s not what this is about. You’re angry because I’m a fucking problem. Because you don’t know where I go and it fucking kills you inside not knowing something. Because if you don’t know something that means you’re not in control. And you have such a need to micromanage everything around you because that’s the only way you feel safe. You’re worried about yourself because I threaten that safety. Because if they see that you can’t handle some little mudblood then they’ll start to question why you’re in charge!”
…
There were very few times in his life that Tom had found himself at a loss for words.
He–He didn’t realize that Evans knew.
No. He didn’t just know. He understood.
He understood what he was doing. He understood that he was upsetting the delicate politics surrounding Slytherin House. He understood that it put Tom at risk. He understood that it opened the door to rebellion. To insurrection. To Tom fucking loosing everything he had spent the last six years working towards.
Evans understood.
He understood him .
How? Why?
The head boy stared down at those blazing green eyes, that mop of hopelessly messy hair, those round wire-framed glasses reflecting the light from his wand. And realized that what he thought was Evans dismissing him, wasn't dismal at all.
It was acknowledgement. It was understanding. It was being seen.
He looked at him as if he understood Tom down to his very soul. He looked at him and saw him for what he was and acknowledged it.
He had never felt so exposed—
Well, that wasn’t quite true.
That last time he had been this exposed, this called out, was when Professor Dumbledore had visited him at the Wool’s. It had been after the wizard had set fire to his wardrobe. After he had found the box of stolen trinkets Tom had pilfered from the other children and had informed Mrs. Cole. When the head matron made him stand in the hall and gave him ten lashes whilst the others watched. And afterwards when the door to his room was taken off the hinges and replaced by a mere curtain so that anyone at any time could invade his space, invade his privacy, and take what was his.
It was the same feeling he had when Professor Dumbledore handed over his Howarts letter; sneering. As if he thought Tom was dirt. As if Tom wasn’t worth the very air he breathed and said, “Hogwarts isn’t a place for children like you.”
“—Look, I don't poke my nose into your business, Riddle. I ask that you don’t bother with mine. I’m not interested in joining whatever little group you have going. I’m not here to make friends. All I want to do is take my N.E.W.Ts at the end of the year, then I’m gone,” Evans' tone was wary, tired.
Why was he tired when Tom felt like his chest had just been carved open and put on display?
What did Tom do to deserve this? Why did Evans hate him so vehemently? Why why why?
Why did he see him when almost no one else could?
“W-why?” Tom ignored the shakiness in his voice. He wasn’t even quite sure what he was asking. But Evans— the bastard— understood him anyway.
“Because you’re trouble,” he said, “and because I already have enough of my own.”
Then Evans left and Tom let him go. He watched him disappear into the darkness of the passage and he didn’t follow.
Because I’m trouble…?
But then what are you, Evans?
Chapter 9: Potter's Bullshit
Summary:
Potter moved to cast his own spell, but Theodore sent a stinging hex at his ankles. “What the hell?” The auror shouted, whilst spinning away from the spell. “Where on the same side here!”
“No, we’re fucking not! Don’t you fucking dare, Harry. I swear to Hecate if you drag me into your bullshit again—”
“Again? I haven’t fucking done anything!”
“Bullshit,” Theodore shouted, throwing up a protego to block what looked like a mean-looking curse from Walburga. “What is all this then?”
“I’m sorry? They’re attacking us right now, are you seriously coming after me like I started this?”
“Because you did!”
Notes:
So many comments on the last chapter! Thank You all so much! I'm sorry if I haven't gotten a chance to reply to them all yet. Life's been real hectic. I got sick a couple days ago, not fully over it, but I'm taking medicine and recovering slowly. I think this fic is quickly become my most popular story ever, I think there might just be one other that beats it out in terms of view count, but after this chapter I easily can see this one catching up quick.
All I can say about this chapter is I wrote most of it in a day and it took a turn I was not expecting... (If you guys notice any typos I missed feel free to let me know. I'll try to find the time to go back and edit when my sinuses aren't so stuffed up.)
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Nine
Potter’s Bullshit
Theodore knew it was too good to be true. That life had been far too peaceful for him since coming to Hogwarts. No one had bothered him. No one had spoken to him outside of the occasional pleasantries. Even Potter was being strangely agreeable and, dare he say, helpful the last three days retrieving books from the library and scoping out abandoned classrooms for them to begin brewing the potion. It was Theodore that suggested the disused corridors of the dungeon and Potter, with a rare show of camaraderie, agreed to ward off some empty classrooms to prevent anyone from discovering or tampering with their work.
Theodore had readily agreed with that plan in the library on Monday afternoon. Since then, he had hardly seen Potter outside of class. He assumed the auror was still working on the wards and hadn’t bothered to look into his movements much besides.
That proved to be a mistake on his part.
He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
And it didn’t.
On Thursday afternoon, the tentative peace that Theodore had been enjoying was shattered by none other than Potter himself. Not that he was surprised in the least. To be honest, what surprised him is that it took this long.
Leaving the library with his schoolbag burdened down with various texts and tomes on arithmancy and divination, Theodore came across Potter in the corridor in the beginnings of what he could only assume was a fight. There were three of them, not including Potter, with wands drawn though it looked as if no spell had been cast yet. That was good, at least.
The kids, Theodore referred to them as such because Potter was no child (not that that stopped him from behaving like one…), were two boys and a girl. Only one of them, a blond-haired, green-eyed Slytherin, was a dead ringer for a Malfoy. Theodore recognized those pointed features anywhere, not to mention the haughty self-important way he held his nose in the air as he spoke. Just like his grandson…
“Look here, Evans,” Malfoy sneered. “You seem to be under this mistaken impression that you can do whatever you damn well please. But there are rules in Slytherin house—”
Oh god…what did he do?
Potter had his back to him, so Theodore couldn’t see his face but he could tell by this tone that he was rolling his eyes. “What rules, Malfoy?”
“You think you’re better than us mudblood?” The girl snapped, stepping forward. “You think you can just ignore the hierarchy?”
“...hierarchy?” Potter paused. “Are you serious, Walburga?”
“I have not given you permission to refer to me by name, Evans!” Walburga shrieked her voice reaching a pitch that made Theodore wince. “This is what we’re talking about! You ignore decorum so cavalierly as if you’re above it!”
“Is it decorum to call someone a mudblood, Black? It’s not a proper word for a well-mannered lady,” Potter remarked.
“Oh, shut up, Evans,” the second boy barked. “You of all people don’t get to critique us on our manners.”
“Did Riddle send you?” Potter asked, sounding for a moment tired of the whole thing. “This was his idea, huh?”
“He’s got nothing to do with this!” Malfoy growled.
“Then you’re disobeying him?” Potter sounded surprised. “That’s a dumb move.”
“He’s not our master,” Walburga sneered.
“He isn’t?” Potter asked, echoing Theodore’s own thought. “Does he know that?”
“This isn’t about us, Evans,” the second boy, the one that was almost the spitting image of the girl with dark hair and gray eyes and a stoic serious face, said. Theodore thought this must've been Cygnus. He recalled that they were twins in this timeline. “This is about you—”
“And my lack of manners?” Potter finished uninterested. “Why don’t we all just agree that I’m an uncouth simpleton and leave it at that?”
“Oh, we can all agree on that,” Malfoy said. “But we still need to teach you a lesson, Evans. Your behavior cannot continue unchecked.”
Potter scoffed. “God, can you sound any more like a Bond villain Malfoy?”
“That’s it I’ve had just about enough—” The blond stepped forward, wand raised about to cast something at the Auror. Theodore decided that that was the time to step in before the dumbass kid got himself killed.
“I’m going to have to stop you right there, Malfoy,” Theodore’s disarming spell hit the blond before any of them had a chance to see. The wand flew up in the air and clattered onto the floor at their feet. Potter didn’t take his eyes off the three Slytherins but the immediate tensing of his shoulders told Theodore that he was anything but pleased for him to be there.
“Dammit, Ted. Did I fucking ask you to step in?” Potter’s voice was cold and cutting.
Ted...? At least it wasn't Teddy.
“Need I remind you that fighting isn’t allowed, Harry,” Theodore said slowly, deliberately reminding him. “Are you trying to get yourself into trouble?”
“This isn’t any of your business,” the raven-haired auror snapped.
“Evans is right,” Cygnus interrupted, leveling Theodore with his gray eyes. “Our grievance isn’t with you, Rowle. This is a house matter, please do not interfere.”
Theodore arched a brow and regarded the four of them. “That’s going to be a problem… Black, isn't it? ” The boy nodded. “You see, Harry, here is sort of my responsibility. If you have a grievance with him…Well, you have a grievance with me. We’re an unfortunate matched set. And the three of you are about to make a very stupid decision if you insist on fighting either of us.”
“We’re not afraid of you!” Walburga snapped, though she was sizing him up cautiously.
“No?” Theodore asked. “That’s your hubris then, sweetheart. Because I’ll say this once more. This is not a fight you’ll win.”
“We’re all highly trained members of the school’s dueling club,” Malfoy seeming to have regained his confidence sneered distastefully at the unspeakable. “Cygnus placed second in Edinburgh’s Biannual Young Duelist Competition last year. Walburga placed first in the young women’s league in Ireland. And I have won the last three consecutive tournaments in Kent.”
“And yet how easily did I disarm you,” Theodore pointed out.
“It was a lucky shot,” the blond growled. “I was distracted.”
“A fatal mistake to make in a duel, Malfoy,” Theodore said.
“Well, it won’t happen again—” The blond waved his hand and instantly the wand flipped up from the floor into his open palm. Theodore moved forward shoving Potter roughly aside as a brilliant red spell, shot between them.
Circe! I don’t get paid enough for this shite!
Potter moved to cast his own spell, but Theodore sent a stinging hex at his ankles. “What the hell?” The auror shouted, whilst spinning away from the spell. “Where on the same side here!”
“No, we’re fucking not! Don’t you fucking dare, Harry. I swear to Hecate if you drag me into your bullshit again—”
“Again? I haven’t fucking done anything!”
“Bullshit,” Theodore shouted, throwing up a protego to block what looked like a mean-looking curse from Walburga. “What is all this then?”
“I’m sorry? They’re attacking us right now, are you seriously coming after me like I started this?”
“Because you did!”
“I did not!” Harry performed a nimble maneuver in which he danced out of the way of two incoming curses, whilst Theordore blocked and countered with shield charms and stinging hexes purposely not trying to hit the three idiot teenagers, but push them back as far as possible.
“Then why are they so pissed off at you?” Theodore wondered.
“Hell if I know!” Potter shouted, moving to cast another spell which Theodore hastily blocked. “Would you fucking stop doing that?”
“No!” Theodore snarled, bearing his teeth dangerously. “There just a bunch of dumb kids, Harry.”
“I know, if you would just let me—” Potter tried another spell, which the unspeakable blocked again. “Stop it!”
“You stop it!” Theodore ducked out of the way of an incoming body-bind curse, and shoved Potter roughly off balance.
“Fuck off!” The Auror slipped under his arm and managed to get a stunning spell past him which hit Cygnus Black in the chest.
Walburga shrieked in outrage as her brother collided with the wall, smacking his head sharply against the stone. “Cygnus!”
Oh circe— Theodore winced. “You’ll pay for that you fucking mudblood!”
Fucking Potter.
“Redu—”
OH SHIT!
Theodore and Potter both jumped out of the path of Walburga’s destruction spell, narrowly missing it. It flew behind them, hitting a suit of armor along the wall which crumbled to dust. You weren’t supposed to cast that spell at a person. Let alone in a school. The girl was fucking nuts.
“Are you insane?!” Theodore asked her. “Are you trying to kill us, idiot?”
“That’s for my brother, you bastards!” The girl sneered, her wand quickly looping through a series of spells. Each one more vicious and dangerous than the last. Theodore and Potter managed to dodge most of them and shield against the others, still a few managed to get by. A searing, cutting hex had grazed Theodore on the shoulder, and Potter narrowly missed an incendio from setting his hair alight.
“Now will you fucking let me fight her?!” Potter asked.
“No!” Theodore shoved Potter’s arm down. “I’ll do it. You stay the fuck out of it! You hear me, Harry.”
“But I can—”
“Don’t get in my fucking way,” Theodore warned him. “I can’t watch you and them.” Harry opened his mouth to argue, raising his wand at the same moment, but whatever he was about to say was silenced by a tongue-tying jinx. “Just shut your mouth for once, Merlin! You’ve already done enough! ”
Potter’s face turned red in anger and he looked about like he was ready to throw his own hex at him, if Theodore had not anticipated that course of action a second later with a bullitus protego. Whatever spell Potter had cast, rebounded against the shimmering dome shield around him and the Auror narrowly missed his own stunning spell. Theodore turned just in time to catch the short wizard flipping him the bird from inside the dome and rolled his eyes.
Then there were just three. Malfoy’s eyes darted between Potter and him, assessing. The blond grabbed Walburga’s wrist, stilling her movement. “Look Rowle, we don’t want to fight you. You don’t want to fight us either,” the boy said. He seemed to have enough sense to realize that the Unspeakable was purposely getting in the way with his spells. He must’ve realized that those stinging hexes hit far too close and far too often to just be a fluke. Smart boy. Perhaps the only one with some sense because Hecateknows Potter didn’t have any. “We just want Evans, alright.”
“It’s a little too late for that, Malyfoy,” Theodore laughed. “You know you’re damn lucky it's me and not Harry you’re fighting. You should’ve walked away while you had the chance.”
“Is that so?” Malfoy tensed slightly as if sensing Theodore’s restraint on his magic gave way. The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop a few degrees, the flames on the sconces flared in anticipation. A furrow formed between the blond’s brow as he felt a shift in the air. “We could agree to walk away now, couldn’t we?”
Theodore snorted, stifling a bemused chuckle. “You shouldn’t start fights you can’t finish, kid.”
“Who are you calling, kid?” Walburga glared, venomously from behind Malfoy’s shoulder. “We’re the same age.”
Theodore ignored her. Not taking his eyes away from Malfoy, the unspeakable slid off his shoulder bag, tossing it aside near the wall. “I’m afraid I can’t let you leave, as much as I may want to,” he said, his tone purposely calm and matter-of-fact. “You’ve seen too much—”
Malfoy moved first a bright purple curse hitting the space that Theodore was just standing, stone cracking loudly in the hall. It was a wonder how no one else had stumbled upon them yet.
Probably because all four of them were supposed to be eating lunch in the Great Hall right about then along with the rest of the student body. But for whatever the reason, Theodore prayed his goodluck would hold out for a few minutes more.
Ducking under a barrage of spells thrown at him by both the slytherin students, Theodore managed to advance on Walbura first. He hit her with a jelly legs jinx, something that wouldn't cause any significant damage, and the girl stumbled to the floor unable to dodge the stunner that knocked her unconscious a moment later.
Malfoy narrowly missed him with a furnunculus curse, grazed him with a disarming charm, and nearly took his head off with a diffindo had he not rolled out of the way. Despite Theodore's tall and cumbersome-looking appearance, even regressed back to his seventeen-year-old-self as he was, the man was in truth rather light on his feet. A few years playing as a beater for Slytherin’s Quidditch team after Marcus Flint had finally graduated, did wonders for his ability to dodge and foresee attacks. And Malfoy, like his grandson had been a few inches shorter than Theodore and more lithe in build, was managing to keep up with the unspeakables fast movements.
He was good. Theodore admitted. He had to be to win dueling competitions. But the boy was forgetting that this wasn’t some competition. There were no rules that needed to be followed. So he didn’t foresee the Unspeakable catching his extended wand arm in hand, and twisting under to flip the blond solidly, painfully onto his back. Malfoy also couldn’t have seen the heel of Theodore’s boot crash into and break the boy’s perfect grecian nose with a crunch, thereby knocking him out cold. It was the type of move that would’ve gotten Theodore banned in a competition. It was a move that would’ve been called brutal and brutish, a muggle way of fighting, that a pureblood like Malfoy wouldn’t have stooped so low to do; thinking it beneath him.
Theodore had no such reservations. Not anymore. Not after a war.
“Fucking hell,” Potter seem to have finally broken out of Theodore’s sheild charm stood surveying the scene. “I thought you were trying to go easy on ‘em?”
Theodore lifted his heel and winced. Okay, so maybe he broke more than a nose… It looked like Malfoy might need to regrow some teeth. Oops.
The unspeakable dropped the slytherin’s hand and bent down, his wand glowinging at the tip. He parted one of Malfoy’s eyes to examine it. “He’ll live,” he said after a moment of assessment. Theodore sighed, incanting a handful of healing charms to slow the flow of blood and aligning the broken cartilage of the teenager’s nose so it’ll at least set correctly, though it would be badly bruised for a few days.
“Check on the other two, would you Harry,” Theodore called over his shoulder. “Make sure they’re alright.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the wizard sighed, sounding just as worn as he himself felt. “Cygnus might have a concussion. Walburga looks alright though.” Potter performed his own healing incantation over the sprawled out form of Cygnus Black. It appeared as if the back of his head had been bleeding after getting knocked against the wall.
“Make sure you vanish that blood,” Theodore said. “We don’t want the professors to—”
“Don’t want the professors to do what?” Theodore jumped out his skin as he whirled, wand at the ready, to see a blue-robed witch with a wild mane of white frizzy hair, falling down to her shoulders, and large comically round glasses behind which were a pair of pale clouded eyes. The witch didn’t look at them, because old professor Trelawney was blind, but still she saw them both and the destruction they had caused to the corridor.
“Oh dear,” the old woman sighed, the wrinkles around her mouth becoming more pronounced as she frowned. “It seems I was too late. I was hoping to avoid all this, but it appears fate has other plans today.”
“Profe—”
Cassandra Trelawny held up her hand silencing Potter. “Don’t start, Mister Potter,” she said. “I’m not interested in your excuses. Although I would’ve expected someone of your age to be above the taunting of children. But alas, I suppose it was expecting too much of the both of you…”
“Did you just—”
“Yes,” the old witch cut the Auror off again with a dry expression. “Because that’s your name isn’t it?”
Potter was at a loss for words.
“We haven’t yet had a moment to be formally introduced, child. I believe you two have your first class with me later this afternoon,” Trelawny said.
“That’s right, ma’am,” Theodore lowered his wand. “We were just—”
“Helping these foolish children to the infirmary?” Trelawny asked.
“...yes.”
“Good, at least you’re taking responsibility, Mister Nott,” the old witch nodded. “Very well, I shall escort you all there. You should also have that cut tended to, I suppose. Poor Tabitha is going to have her work cut out for her today, bless her heart.”
The witch lifted her walking stick, a thick looking staff with carved ivies and pixies wrapping around it, and waved it toward the unconscious slytherins levitating them in midair. She turned and with a silent wave of her hand put the rest of the corridor to rights, vanishing the blood and repairing the cracks and burn marks along the stone work. “Kids these days have no appreciation for preserving historical architecture. Honestly, didn’t your parents ever teach you to duel outside in the open air,” she grumbled discontented. “Oh I know yours didn’t Mister Potter—”
The witch silenced the auror again before he could even properly speak and turned to Theodore with her thin white brows arched. “What would your mother say, Theodore, being the head of the historical society?”
“She’d probably hex my ears off,” Theodore said. “If she were alive.”
“And what makes you think I won’t?” Trelawny asked.
“You haven’t yet…”
“I’m still debating,” the old woman said. “C’mon now. Let’s go, you two. After we get you all patched up, we have a lot to discuss boys.”
Theodore eyed the woman warily, Potter doing the same. “I’m sorry, how do you know who we are?” The Auror asked. “Did the Unspeakables—”
“ Circe no— ” Trelawny turned, one cloudy blue eyed settling on Potter as if she could see him. She did see him. Just not with her eyes. “I’m not with them, child. I retired from the Hall of Prophecy years ago. Before your grandmother was even an egg in your great-gran's fallopian tube.”
“Then how—”
“Because I’m a seer, boy,” the old witch adjusted her grip on her walking stick, tapping it against the stone work as she walked. “I know a lot of things. Like I know neither of you are supposed to be here.”
“Then you know we’re not boys,” Potter said.
Trelawny laughed, an amused girly giggle that didn’t at all fit a woman of her age and standing. “Once you’re my age, anyone in their double digits is a child, dear.” She began walking again and Theodore knew better than to argue, grabbing Potter by the sleeve of his outer robe and hauling him along.
“For once in your life, Harry, do as you’re told. For the love of magic—”
Chapter 10: On The Corner of Nebraska and Tabard
Summary:
“Corner of Nebraska and Tabard,” Finnigan turned to him with a mouthful of pastry.
“Huh?” Oliver raised a brow.
“The fire,” the sandy-haired wizard explained, “It’s on the corner of Nebraska and Tabard.”
Oliver paused, taking in his words. “Isn’t that a pub?” He asked. “I was kidding about the fire, ya know.”
“I know,” the other man said. “And yeah, it is a pub. I think it’s called The Loyal Croak or something. It’s near those Borough’s highrise flats. Muggles are being told it was a gas leak that caused it—”
“But it wasn’t a gas leak?” Oliver wondered.
Notes:
The plot thickens! I'm adding another timeline, woo! You all thought this fic was going to be in one reality—No! I haven't forgot about the original timeline at all and believe me everything is gonna go sideways from here. Poor Oliver and Seamus are gonna be caught in the middle of it as two enthusiastic sports reporters in way over their heads. Thank you all for the continued support and comments you guys still leave me on this fic! I hope the wait between these updates wasn't too unbearable. Well, get back to Harry's shenanigans in the next update, promise. ;)
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Ten
On The Corner of Nebraska and Tabard
“Whoa,” Oliver sidestepped another wizard that hurried past him, keeping a steady hold of the steaming cup of coffee in his hand to avoid any spillage. That had been the third person today that had almost knocked him over. Suppose it was a hazard of the job working in a busy newsroom, but Oliver was beginning to suspect that something especially newsworthy was going on given the increased activities of his colleagues.
He made it to his cubicle without further incident. Thanking his good fortune that it was in the Quidditch and Wizarding Competitions Department far away from the hustle and bustle that seemed to be going on in the Ministry of Magic Affairs. Oliver cast a wary glance over his shoulder at the said department before setting his coffee down amidst the pile of unsorted parchments and half-finished drafts. He then leaned over the partition separating him from the desk next door.
“Hey Finnigan, where's the fire?” He peered down at his colleague’s cropped, sandy hair curiously.
The other wizard was bent over an antique typewriter, hurriedly tapping at the keys with deft fingers. Finnigan paused, faltering mid-keystroke and looked up. “Oh, hey Wood. Back from break?”
“Yeah,” Oliver nodded. “I got you that pastry you wanted.” He held up a white paper bag up over the partition.
“Oh great! You’re the best, mate!” Finnigan grinned, reaching for the bag. “Whinnie’s been gushing about these cronuts all week. She swears they’re better than sex.”
“Then she must be doing something wrong,” Oliver said. “Nothing’s better than sex.”
“Except for maybe Quidditch,” Finnigan shrugged, opening the bag and holding up the pastry for examination.
“Okay, maybe quidditch,” Oliver agreed, watching as his coworker ripped off a chunk of the flaky round pastry before popping it in his mouth after a curious sniff.
“Mmm!—alright,” Finnigan hummed, nodding to himself.
“Is it good?” Oliver asked.
“Not half bad,” the wizard nodded, ripping off another chunk to hand to Oliver. “Want some?”
“Sure,” Oliver took the piece and ate it. Huh. It had all the sugary sweetness of a glazed donut, but also had the flaky buttery inside of a croissant. It was good.
Probably be better with some jam though, Oliver considered.
“Corner of Nebraska and Tabard,” Finnigan turned to him with a mouthful of pastry.
“Huh?” Oliver raised a brow.
“The fire,” the sandy-haired wizard explained, “It’s on the corner of Nebraska and Tabard.”
Oliver paused, taking in his words. “Isn’t that a pub?” He asked. “I was kidding about the fire, ya know.”
“I know,” the other man said. “And yeah, it is a pub. I think it’s called The Loyal Croak or something. It’s near those Borough’s highrise flats. Muggles are being told it was a gas leak that caused it—”
“But it wasn’t a gas leak?” Oliver wondered.
“Nah, more like a bombardo ,” Finnigan told him with a shake of his head. “Took out the entire corner. There’s nothing left there now. Killed a few people, injured several too, they're all at Saint Mungo’s. Aurors are supposed to be looking into it. And the obliviators are having a hell of a time rounding up witnesses.”
“Do they think one of ours was involved?” Oliver asked.
“Looks like it. From what I hear, the magical residuum was especially potent. I think they suspect a duel of some kind took place,” he answered.
“Between who?”
Finnigan shrugged. “Don’t know, mate.”
“I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of time before Potter puts out a statement,” Oliver remarked, picking up his coffee for a long savoring sip.
“Oh that’s the strange thing, though,” Finnigan turned to nod behind him at the chief editor’s office. “Frank’s been trying to get a hold of him through the floo all morning and no one knows where he is.”
“Potter’s missing?” Oliver paused, lowering his cup.
“No,” Finnigan hurried to assure him. “I’m sure that he’s not missing. He’s probably just busy. His secretary said he went out to a meeting or something earlier in the morning. Or that’s what Frank said when I asked.”
Suddenly, almost as if they had summoned him by saying his name, the door to the chief editor’s office flew open and Ewan Frank stepped into the newsroom. The chief editor looked up seeing Oliver and Finnigan chatting amidst the chaos of the other department and pointed. “Hey, you two,” he said addressing them, “if you got time to stand around and gab I need both of you to get down to Saint Mungo’s and get some statements from the injured muggles of that pub fire before the obliviators take care of them.”
“You want us, sir?” Finnigan asked.
“Yes, that’s what I just said Finnigan,” the older wizard barked. “We’re short-handed today preparing for the rally for Minister Shacklebolt’s re-election campaign in Westminster. I need two hands on this!”
“Alright, sir,” Oliver nodded, not wanting to disagree with what looked like an already vexed chief editor. “Who do we give the interview notes to?”
“Just drop them on Bumble’s desk,” the man tossed over his shoulder as he walked away to another department. Oliver nodded to himself and turned to Finnigan. His colleague groaned.
“Damn,” he sighed. “I was hoping to duck out early today after typing these edits up. I made a reservation at that new French place for Whinnie’s birthday?”
“What time’s the reservation?” Oliver asked.
“Five-thirty. A bit early for dinner but it was the only spot they had open today. And this article needed to be submitted for this evening issue,” the man sighed again. “I’m gonna have to cancel it—“
“Don’t do that,” Oliver said. “I’ll type up the edits.”
“You will?”
“Sure,” the wizard shrugged. “Can’t have you missing out on your little sister’s birthday, can we?”
“Oh, mate you’re the best!” Finnigan grinned. “Thank you!”
Oliver grinned. “Don’t worry about it. C’mon let’s go,” he said, taking with him his coffee and summoning a couple clean notebooks and enchanted quills into his pocket before they left their desks.
Crossing through the busy newsroom, past the bustling Ministry of Magic Affairs, Oliver and Finnigan grabbed a handful of floo power from the mantle and traded the hyper-activity of the reporters for grim-faced, and focused healers, medi wizards, and their trainees. They flooed directly into the emergency waiting room smelling strongly of cleaning charms. It was crowded as emergency waiting rooms often were, but that morning especially because of the increased muggles from the pub fire the room was bursting with people. Expansion charms had obviously been used on the space or there wouldn’t have been enough room to walk around, much less sit.
“Bloody hell,” Finnigan remarked, looking around at the occupants taking up all the chairs. Most of them appeared to be suffering from minor injuries; cuts and scrapes, a few broken bones perhaps from the more serious cases. Those who were not within the actual blast radius. The most serious cases, Oliver was sure, were likely seen first. The ones that suffered from spellburns or were in critical condition were taken to intensive care wing and given immediate attention. But still, he had not expected this many people…
“How big was that blast?” He looked at Finnigan with raised brows.
“Apparently bigger than we thought,” the other wizard said. “It looks like the obliviatiors rounded up everyone who may have even so much as heard anything. Merlin, we’re gonna be here awhile…”
“Let’s split up,” Oliver suggested. “You take the left side and I’ll take the right. Talk to the ones that with the more serious injuries first, they’ll likely had been closer to the fire and maybe seen something.”
Finnigan nodded and the reports broke off to opposite sides of the room. Oliver’s first interviewee was a woman with a bandaged arm in a splint, who told him her name was Sharron Hughes, and she told him that she had been a cross the street, shopping in wedding dress boutique when the blast had shattered the display windows behind her and thrown her into a metal clothing rack. “The whole building came down,” she had said. “It was like one minute everything was dandy then—Boom! Glass everywhere, bricks, a bloody bicycle even was hurtling toward us through the window. My mum shoved my sister over and they narrowly missed the damn thing flying over their heads! That poor shopgirl wasn’t so lucky—”
He asked about what caused the explosion. Ms. Hughes didn’t know. She didn’t see anything unusual that morning either. “They’re telling us it’s a gas leak, but I don’t believe it! Not when they all rounded us up and brought us all here with these strange people. This is some Men in Black shite, I’m tell you!”
Oliver quickly moved on when she started to ask him questions about his strange manner of dress and the floating quill quickly scribbling down her words on a notepad. He must’ve asked a dozen more people who experienced the blast, but didn’t see anything or have any idea what had caused it. A glance across the room at Finnigan told him that the other reporter was having similar results. It was after fifteen or so interviews that both of them met up at the coffee station where they met up with an obliviator that refused to say anything on the specifics on the matter, but said the whole business was strange stuff. “Never seen anything like it,” they had said. “The blast radius covered the whole block. They got the whole area warded off until they can look through all the rubble; neither of you two will be getting anywhere close without an auror’s badge.”
Oliver and Finnigan looked at clocks on the wall, realizing they had been there for three hours and still no solid leads on the cause of the explosion. “This is like looking for a demiguise in a forest,” Finnigan sighed. “I’m not getting anything useful, you?”
“Nah,” Oliver frowned. “They either didn’t see what caused it or they were too far from the blast radius to do more than hear it. It seems that anyone that was inside the pub at the time is deceased or still missing.”
Oliver flipped through the pages of this notebook. “You think someone would’ve seen something if it were a duel…”
Finnigan agreed silently, scanning the room for someone they haven’t already spoken to. “What about that bloke?” He asked, nudging Oliver on the arm, “You talk to him yet?”
Oliver looked up from the notebook, “which one?”
“That one,” Finnigan pointed to a man standing by himself purposely not engaging any one around him. “Acting a bit suspicious and he doesn’t look injured.”
“That is strange,” It was the uninjured muggles that the oblivators were taking care of first after a brief statement. Most of them had been cleared out, leaving only the ones that still needed to be seen by the healers. They watched as the man, an older man buzz-cut and tattoos on his exposed arms, approached the witch manning the receptionist desk and spoke to her. “That’s ridiculous!” The man spat, “I don’t see why I can’t leave. I’m not injured!”
The witch replied in a low tone which neither Oliver or Finnigan could hear from across the room. “I’ve been here for hours!” The man shouted. “No one has told me anything! And I’ve already given my statement to those blokes in the red dresses! Like I said, I don’t know what blew up my pub since I stepped out!”
“Excuse me,” Oliver approached the man from behind, “did you say your pub?”
The man turned, a stern frown and furrow to his brow. “Yeah, not that that’s any of your business,” he said. He eyed them, taking in their wizarding clothing and sneered. “What is it with you people all wearing these long dresses? What are you a couple of jihadis?”
“No, sir,” Finnigan said. “We’re reporters for the paper.”
The muggle was skeptical. “…right.”
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, if you have a minute—“
The muggle glanced back at the receptionist, grumbled a curse under his breath and pushed off the desk. “Bloody hell, might as well. Nothin’ else to do in this hellhole,” he said.
Oliver began with an introduction of himself and Finnigan and the man told them his name was Timothy Collins. “You said you were the owner? The sole owner or did you have a partner?” Oliver asked.
“Just me. I opened the place up after I got out of the army,” he said.
“And you said you stepped out during the explosion?” Finnigan clarified.
“Yeah, I had to make a run to the bank,” he explained. “When I came back the whole block was blocked off. Coppers everywhere and when I told them I was the owner those red dressed blokes brought me here. Haven’t been allowed to leave for hours. They haven’t told me why they’re keeping me here.”
“Did you notice anything unusual before you left?” Oliver wondered. “Anyone unusual maybe?”
“It was pretty quiet. That early in the day most people aren’t grabbing a pint before lunch. I just had a few regulars. Except there was one of those red fellows there, I passed him as I was headed out the door, the bloke even held it open for me.”
Oliver glanced at Finnigan then back at the man. “Red fellow?” He repeated.
“Yeah, yeah, the ones that have been asking me all these questions,” Mr. Collins nodded.
An auror? Oliver paused. There was an auror at the pub? “Can you describe them?”
“Sure,” Mr. Collins agreed. “He was a shorter fellow, thin, but not scrawny. Had black hair and a beard and he wore glasses. And green eyes, very green. And I think he had a scar right there.” The man traced a finger through his brow.
Oliver exchanged a look with Finnigan. The other reporter's face was white and Oliver felt his heart skip a beat. There was only one person they knew who fit that description—
“Fucking hell,” Oliver swore.
“Bloody Potter!” Finnigan grimaced. “Welp, there goes my dinner reservation.”
“Wait, who's Potter?” Mr. Collins asked.
Well, a major pain in the arse for one —Frank was gonna have a conniption when he heard about this. “Someone pretty important around here,” Oliver frowned. “If he’s involved this day’s going to get a whole lot worse–“
Chapter 11: Bitter Fruit is Worse Than Bitter Potions
Summary:
Harry eyed the woman warily as she walked, tapping her staff rhythmically against the flagstone, leading them to the school’s infirmary wing. Beside him walked Nott, choosing to keep his gaze averted and his mouth firmly shut so as not to make the situation any worse. Although every few steps the Unspeakable would catch Harry’s eye with a look of such annoyance that the Auror was sure if not for the professor he would’ve been on the receiving end of a nasty hex. The unconscious forms of the three Slytherin trailed behind them, floating on levitation charms, for all purposes deaf to the world.
The tension was palpable among them. Like a tightly wound spring, the auror kept a firm grip on his wand in his pocket preparing for an attack if there should be one. Not that he should’ve expected for a professor to attack a student under normal circumstances, but Harry had never been one to fall under normal circumstances when it came to his professors.
“So what happens now?” Harry couldn’t help himself from speaking the thought aloud.
“That depends entirely on yourselves,” Professor Trelawny answered without turning around.
Notes:
Crap! I lost my author's note! This thing was long, but I sort of forgot what I had typed so... It's been about a month since the last update, so sorry hopefully ya'll aren't too put off. Anyways the reason is that I was debating on which direction to take this fic whether to go predictable or just buck wild with this premise and as ya'll can probably guess which I decided on with end to this chapter. I blame my Netflix subscription and that I got sucked into watching 1899 (fantastic show btw! Very matrixeques!) and recently started rewatching my all time favorite timetravel show called Dark on Netflix (made by the same people who created 1899 btw!) and it's inadvertently influenced the plot of this fic just a little bit. There's 3 shows that I've been obsessing over as of late Dark, 1899, and Russian Doll that have honestly been a big source of inspiration for this fic. In fact I've already referenced Dark in ch. 8 and the oranges in this chapter are definitely a reference to Russian Doll. So if any of you have seen these you'll probably be able to guess where this fic is headed.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Eleven
Bitter Fruit is Worse Than Bitter Potions
As a rule, Harry didn’t trust seers, albeit he was particularly biased toward any seer named Trelawny.
His own experience with Professor Sybil Trelawny and her penchant for sprouting nonsense about doomsdays and misfortunes had soured an entire branch of magic in his mind. He thought divinations and prophecies and crystal balls and all that shite was a bunch of hogwash. Human nature is such a fallible thing. The mind more so; naturally looking for patterns in chaos, and often confusing correlation for causation in the process. Sure, there may have been a grain of actual truth or magic in there somewhere, but the majority of it was just telling people what they wanted to hear. Or more often what they didn’t want to hear. It was manipulation, not fate that made prophecies come true.
It was the reason most prophecies were self-fulfilling.
And Harry had more than enough experience to know that prophecy was more akin to a kelpie; it looks useful at the time, but the moment you trust it, try to throw a saddle over its back, and ride it it’ll drag you down to a watery grave.
So, no, Harry didn’t trust seers.
Understandably so.
And the old witch walking ahead of him already had two strikes against her without much of an introduction. It didn’t matter that she might’ve been the bonafide real deal having known his name—his true name— or that she seemed to anticipate what he was going to say before he said it…If anything that only put him more on edge.
Harry eyed the woman warily as she walked, tapping her staff rhythmically against the flagstone, leading them to the school’s infirmary wing. Beside him walked Nott, choosing to keep his gaze averted and his mouth firmly shut so as not to make the situation any worse. Although every few steps the Unspeakable would catch Harry’s eye with a look of such annoyance that the Auror was sure if not for the professor he would’ve been on the receiving end of a nasty hex. The unconscious forms of the three Slytherin trailed behind them, floating on levitation charms, for all purposes deaf to the world.
The tension was palpable among them. Like a tightly wound spring, the auror kept a firm grip on his wand in his pocket preparing for an attack if there should be one. Not that he should’ve expected for a professor to attack a student under normal circumstances, but Harry had never been one to fall under normal circumstances when it came to his professors.
“So what happens now?” Harry couldn’t help himself from speaking the thought aloud.
“That depends entirely on yourselves,” Professor Trelawny answered without turning around.
“How so?” He wondered.
“I see three immediate futures taking place. First, you’ll be patched up in the infirmary, all of you given detention for two weeks with myself and Professor Kettleburn, Mister Malfoy and Miss Black will have their prefect badges suspended, Mister Black will lose his position as co-captain in the dueling club, and Miss Black will write home to her mother in a fit after mucking out the stables. Then the headmaster will receive a howler from that shrieking woman which will pressure him to sweep the whole thing aside after a week. Second, both of you will then have to issue a formal apology—“
“Apology!” Harry scoffed. “But we didn’t start—“
“I know it’s unjust,” the Professor said. “And I know you will put up a fight for your pride, until Armando suggests contacting the Unspeakables, then you will apologize, however grudgingly, to save yourselves.”
“What’s the third future?” Nott asked, warily.
“Third,” the Professor turned and Harry caught the corner of her lips twitching upwards in a smirk, “I will convince the headmaster that I have already notified your guardians and there’s no need to send a second owl. This will be a lie, but the headmaster will not question it. And the two of you will be alright in the end.”
“Why would you lie?” Harry wondered. “Why help us?”
“Ask a better question,” the witch told him.
“What do you want from us?” Nott chimed in.
“From you? Nothing,” she said much to Harry’s and Nott’s disbelief.
“Nothing?” Harry repeated the same time Nott said, “No one wants nothing. There’s always a motive.”
“I never said I didn’t have a motive,” she was quick to correct him, “simply that there is nothing that I want from either of you. Besides it's not like you both have wealth or influence here and frankly even if you did, I wouldn’t need any more than I already have.”
She gave them a look over her shoulder as they traversed up a staircase that set Harry’s nerves on edge. When they reached the top, the witch opened and held the door for them to pass through.
“You said you needed to talk to us…” Nott began after they had left the doorway. “What about?”
Trelawny nodded. “I do, but later. Too many ears here and the portraits are notorious gossips,” she remarked. “We’ll discuss all of this then and I’ll be able to speak frankly about my motivations as you call them.” The group reached the infirmary then and nothing more could be said on the subject as a loud exclamation interrupted any further discussion.
“ WhatinHecate’sname?! Cassandra what happened?!” The mediwitch, a woman named Tabitha Bones that Harry had already been introduced to due to his nutrient potions, jumped up from her desk when she saw them. She was middle-aged, tall and strongly built with straight auburn hair pulled up into a tight military style bun.
“There was a bit of a kerfuffle in the hall,” the divination professor explained.
“Kerfuffle? These three look knocked out?! And what happened to Mister Malfoy’s face? Get them over here!” Madame Bones rushed toward them in a flurry of her gray robes and directed the unconscious Slytherins to three unoccupied cots closest to the door. Trewlany was content to step out of the way and let the mediwitch do her job.
“Calm yourself, Tabitha,” Trelawny soothed. “They’ll be alright. These unfortunate three are merely the victims of a few stunning spells and stinging hexes, except for Mister Malfoy’s nose; the injuries should be a minor fix.”
“I shall be the judge of that,” the mediwitch sniffed and turned to Malfoy first, waving her wand in a series of loops and crosses. The blood vanished from the boy’s face and clothes to better see the injury and the witch hissed, then muttered something under her breath. “ Circe— Lord Malfoy is going to be up in arms about this,” she said to Cassandra. “At least you set his nose correctly.”
“Oh, it wasn’t me,” Trelawny shook her head and pointed her staff at Nott and Harry who stood awkwardly by the entrance. “It seems Mister Rowle is rather good at healing charms.”
Madame Bones frowned and seemed to notice them for the first time before her eyes zeroed in on Harry. “You!” She brandished her finger in his direction, “Mister Evans you were supposed to come see me two days ago for your potions!”
Harry jumped and visibly flinched. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I forgot—”
The woman scoffed. “We’ll talk about this later, make yourselves useful and grab me the dentes incrementum, bruise salve, and some ditany oil from my stores.”
Nott nodded and started for the shortage cabinet along the wall, returning a moment later with the requested items. He handed them to Madame Bones, “Thank you—“ the witch paused, grabbing the Unspeakable sleeve. “What is this blood? Are you injured?”
“It just a graze—“
“ Teenagers! No! You sit down too, Mister Rowle.” The Mediwitch directed him to a bed with a firm look. “Do not get up unless I tell you to.” Then she turned to Harry, with a glare. “Are you injured too?”
Harry shook his head. “No ma’am.”
“Are you lying to me?”
Harry shook his head. “I’m not.”
“Then go sit over there,” she pointed at a vacant chair out of the way. “And don’t even think about sneaking out of here without your potions, young man!”
“Actually, Tabitha,” Professor Trelawny interrupted, “is it at all possible for Mister Evans to get his potions now? The noon break is almost over and he and I both have a class to attend.”
The mediwitch turned and sighed, casting a summoning charm in the direction of the potions cabinets. A single glass vial came whizzing through the air into her open palm. “Mister Evans,” she held the vial out for him to take. Harry did reluctantly. “Now be sure to grab something from the kitchens on your way to class. That potion doesn’t settle well on an empty stomach and you will come to see me after dinner for another dose.”
Harry nodded, having no plans to return to the infirmary for the day if he could help it. One look at Trelawny told him that she too suspected this, but said nothing to the mediwitch but instructions to inform the three unconscious students to meet in Headmaster Dippet’s office to discuss the events that took place that afternoon noon and let them know that they’ve lost a total of a hundred points from Slytherin and twenty-five from Ravenclaw for this foolish squabble. “When Mister Rowle gets patched up, send him on his way to class,” the divination professor said and then directed Harry out the door.
Minutes passed in silence as they headed toward kitchens, periodically broken by the rhythmic tapping of the blind witch’s staff. Harry sighed, feeling suddenly tired and worn, not physically, but in the way that one can become weary from life. Hard to believe it’s been only eleven days since he arrived here. Somehow it felt longer. It felt like months had passed, Harry wryly supposed in a way they had.
How much longer is this going to take? He wondered. How much more could he take?
They reached the portrait of the fruit bowl and the divination Professor in an impressive feat of ‘seeing’ or, what Harry thought was more likely, knowing where the pear was through repetitive habit tickled the fruit with the tip of one of the carved pixie wings on the first try. The fruit turned into a shiny brass door knob and the old witch opened the hidden door, ducking her head to step into the low-hanging archway. Harry followed after her, swinging the door closed after him.
Dozens of wide-eyed house elves turned at their arrival. “Mister-Henry-Just-Harry-sir!” One of the long-nosed, floppy-eared creatures exclaimed in delight at the sight of them. There was a loud pop as the house elf quite literally popped in and out of existence from the other side of the kitchen to appear in front of him. “Jilly is most happy to see you here! Did you come here for something to eat? Jilly and Bricker can make you some sandwiches if you like. Oh and there’s soup too, if Mister-Henry-Just-Harry-sir prefers! The good Professor Beery has just harvested a nice crop of pumpkins that Bracket had turned into a wonderful soup that’ll warm the young sir right up! Come, come—“
The small elf grabbed at the auror’s hand tugging him forward. “Of course, Madame Professor Trelawny is welcome as well! Please have a seat, Madame Professor over here by the fireplace.” Jilly held out her hand toward the blind witch as a guide.
Trelawny smiled, taking the small hand offered. “Thank you, dear Jilly. But I’m afraid neither of us can stay long. We’re on the way to class you see.”
Jilly’s ears drooped. “Oh,” the elf looked a bit disappointed at that before she perked up. “What is that Madame Professor needs then? Jilly will be quick to get you and Mister-Henry-Just-Harry whatever you request of us!”
“Mister Evans needs a quick meal to eat with his nutrient potion. Something portable would be ideal,” she said.
“Mister-Henry-Just-Harry-sir likes the sandwiches Jilly makes for him, yes?” Jilly turned her wide eyes to Harry beaming. “Kooper has made some very nice roast beef if Mister-Henry-Just-Harry-sir would like? Or Jilly can get some of Bumpkin’s orange cranberry muffins from breakfast this morning?”
“Just the sandwiches sound great Jilly,” Harry hurried to assure the house elf knowing that they could honestly be there all day if the small creature was going to list all the possible food options. “We’re in a bit of a hurry.”
The elf nodded, clapping her hands to call to attention the other elves in the vicinity. “Mister-Henry-Just-Harry requests roast beef sandwiches! Bricker start slicing that bread! Whimsy fetch the condiments! Bracket clean that lettuce!” She shouted the orders as the little gray creatures flew into a flurry of action; bustling about the large Hogwarts kitchen. Jilly, still keeping a hold of both Harry and Professor Trelawny’s hands, led them to a somewhat uncrowded, cleared section of the workspace and summoned two chairs for them to sit on whilst they waited. “Would Madame Professor like a cup of tea? Jilly has a lovely rose and ginseng for Madame Professor to try,” Jilly offered, snapping her fingers to put a kettle on over the enormous magical wood burning stove.
“That would be lovely Jilly. Thank you, dear,” the old witch smiled and returned with two steaming tea cups and handed them to Harry and the professor.
“Oh, but I didn’t—” Harry started to say, but the little creature hurried off again because “That beef is cut too thin, Gerty!” He might’ve been a tad annoyed at that, if it wasn’t so amusing to watch the head elf bark out orders at the others with all the firm directness of Gordon Ramsay without all the swearing. It reminded him painfully of Kreacher’s way of barking at him when he caught Harry doing his work around the Black home.
“That is not Young Master Harry’s job! That is Kreacher’s job,” he would often shout and order him to go sit down with a warm cup of tea. But Kreacher hadn’t been around for a couple years now. Harry's amusement turned contemplative as he regard the tea cup in front of him.
“Is something wrong with the tea?” The Professor asked.
Harry shook his head, then belatedly realized she wouldn’t be able to see it and said, “No. Tea’s fine.” He didn’t offer any further explanation nor did the old witch ask.
“You should take your potion now,” she instructed.
Harry sighed. He didn’t want to take it, but he had a feeling the divination Professor wasn’t going to let it go until he did what she asked. He took the small vial from the pocket of his robes, uncorked it, and shot it back.
Yuck.
Harry couldn’t help but grimace.
“Here’s your sandwiches Mister-Henry-Just-Harry-Sir!” Jilly popped in next to him with a cloth-wrapped bundle. Harry took it, thanking the elf who preened under the attention. “Mister-Henry-Just-Harry-sir is most kind! Jilly is only doing her job to make sure everyone’s needs are met! Jilly has some tangerines too if Mister-Henry-Just-Harry-Sir would like one or Madame Professor?”
The elf removed from the pocket of her apron a gray, misshapen lump of a fruit and held it out as offering. Harry blinked, visibly pulling back. “Uh Jilly, that one’s bad,” he said.
“What does Mister-Henry-Just Harry mean?” The elf looked down at the fruit curiously. “Jilly assures you that it’s perfectly ripe.”
“But there’s mold on it,” Harry said. There was so much mold in fact that not a single spot of the vibrant orange that Harry associated with a tangerine was visible.
Jilly frowned, looking confused. “Mold…?”
“Yes. Right there,” Harry said. “It's everywhere. It’s gray.”
“Jilly doesn’t understand,” the house elf replied. “They all look like this.” She removed from her pockets a couple more of the aforementioned tangerines and each one was a lumpy and gray as the last.
Then the little elf proceeded to peel one for him to see. Inside the fruit was perfect. Plump and juicy, no signs of drying out or decay opposed to the rine. She held up the fleshy orange insides, even went so far to split them in half for Harry to see. “They're good!”
Harry took fruit and examined it. “And they’re all like this?” He asked. Jilly nodded and peeled two more tangerines to show him. They too were perfectly ripe. “I don’t understand,” Harry said, turning from Jilly to the Professor who for all intents and purposes looked unconcerned with the tangerines. “Is this normal?” He asked. “Are they all like this?”
Trelawny set her tea aside, addressing Harry without looking at him. “Now,” she said.
“What do you mean ‘now’ ?”
“Exactly what I said,” the woman answered. “They’re like this now.”
“But they haven’t always been?” Harry wondered.
Trelawny paused, considering… “No… I don’t believe so,” she said. “I think—No, I’m sure they must’ve changed.”
“When?”
“Eleven days ago…when Professor Binns and the Grey Lady disappeared,” she said. “It must’ve been then.”
“What?!” Harry suddenly felt nauseous and it wasn’t from the bloody nutrient potion. “What did you say?”
“They disappeared; Professor Binns and Helena Ravenaclaw,” she told him. “Surely you’ve noticed you have a History of Magic with Professor Fortescue.”
“I-I thought that was normal…” Normal for this place at least.
“You and everyone else it seems,” the Professor said. “I seem to be the only one to notice them gone funny enough. But it’s not just them, the Bloody Baron, the Fat Friar, Nearly-Headless Nick, Peeves—even that poor ravenclaw poltergeist in the girl’s second floor lavatory—they’re all gone.”
Gone… “ all of them? ” Harry’s voice sounded small to his own ears.
“All of them,” the witch nodded.
“Why?” He asked, but Trelawny didn’t answer.
“Let’s get to class—“
But class was the farthest thing from the Aurors mind. Especially now.
Chapter 12: Schrödinger’s Box
Summary:
“Yes, Miss Pomfrey.” Trelawny pauses in her lecture to address the girl seated at the table closest to them.
“I don’t think Evans is doing too great. He looks sick, Ma’am,” Peony Pomfrey spoke, drawing everyone’s attention to the raven-haired slytherin face down on the table.
“Is he vomiting?” The professor asked.
Pomfrey paused, her nose wrinkling up in disgust. “No…”
Should he be? Tom and Burke scooted an inch away simultaneously. Neither of them were too keen on being the target of boy’s possible upchucking.
“Then he’s fine,” the professor said.
“But—”
“Mister Evans' problem is of the existential nature. Madame Bones won’t be much help to him I’m afraid. For now it’ll be best to leave him be and try not to let it distract you from the lesson,” the professor told her.
Notes:
So many wonderful comments with every chapter! You guys are all so sweet! I don't know what happens sometimes the last chapter was like pulling teeth, but this one was like word vomit all over my keyboard. This could've honestly been longer, but I decided to cut it off here to make room for some other important scenes in the proceeding chapters. This chapter was really fun to write. I really like writing exposition from a pov that has zero context for said exposition. Like Harry is over here having an existential crisis, Theodore is 100% done with Harry's shit for the day, and Tom & Co. are just there going WTF? When I tell you I spent the day chuckling to myself as I wrote this and thought about finishing this chapter today, I mean it.
Fun Fact: Erwin Schroedinger was a Nobel Prize-winning Austrian physicist who was so unsettled by his own thought-experiment of the cat in the box that he #noped out of physics to study biology. And without his contribution to physics we may never have learned about quantum entanglement which inadvertently led to the invention of the computer and the internet. So in a roundabout-way this fic wouldn't exist without him either.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Twelve
Schrödinger’s Box
Professor Trelawny was late.
That was unusual considering she was the one Professor that was always eerily on time. No matter the circumstances. In the past six years, there had never been a day where the old seer was late to class; not in all of Tom’s time spent at Hogwarts. But now…
Now it was ten minutes past and there was no sign of the divination Professor.
“Maybe she’s dead,” Thaddeus Nott mused; thumbing through his essay on the history of palmistry making a few last minute revisions.
“She’s not dead,” Druella Roiser argued, smacking the other boy’s arm. “Don’t say such a thing, Thaddeus.”
“Well, she’s never been late before,” Lyra Burke remarked, “maybe something did happen.”
“Yeah, like she died,” Nott said. “I’d put a dozen galleons on that it was those moving staircases that did her in. There’s only so long a blind witch can stumble around before she takes a tumble.”
“I’ll take that action,” Alyxander Mulciber told Nott.
“Don’t make bets like that,” Burke snapped. “It’s rude.”
“I don’t see any sign of our resident recluse either,” Nott observed. “Isn’t Evans in this class? Think he’s skiving, Tom?”
“Perhaps,” Tom hummed. “It wouldn’t be in character for him however. He’s attended every class so far…”
“Did you manage to talk to him yesterday?” Roiser turned to him curiously. “You never said when you came back to the common room.”
Tom frowned, replaying that conversation in his mind. “We talked. Can’t say it had much of an effect,” he said. “Evans seems to be a hard-headed individual with little regard for public image.”
Roiser hummed. “I suspected as much. He didn’t seem the typical sort that ends up in our House. A bit Gryffindorish if you ask me.”
“Yes…” Tom agreed. He certainly had all the reckless brashness and devil-may-care attitude of the crimson and gold lions. It was a wonder how he found himself in the House of cunning and ambition when he had no patience for lies and no motivation for making allies.
“So what’s the plan now?” Nott asked. “If talking is ineffective, how will you bring Evans to heel?”
“I have an idea,” Tom told him. He didn’t. That was a lie, but years of living with Tom had taught his housemates that the less one knew about Tom’s ideas the better. None of them asked him to elaborate, fortunately because then Tom would otherwise have to admit he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to deal with the problem of Henry Evans.
And it was a problem.
A stubborn, green-eyed, five-foot-five-sized problem.
Because Evans wasn’t like everyone else.
Henry Evans was no ordinary student. He didn’t behave like one. He didn’t pander to his peers in pursuit of fleeting popularity. Nor did he fret over class work or house points or any of the hundreds of common trivialities like Quidditch or courting or friendships or even career paths as far as Tom knew.
Evans was different.
There was a quiet confidence about him. It wasn’t boastful like Abraxas Malfoy. Or falsely projected bravado like Ignotus Avery or that insufferable Billius Prewett and Septimus Weasley. It was an assurance, an unshakable certainty in oneself and their own ability.
It reminded him of himself in a way…
He hated it.
Because he was the only person who saw Tom. Perhaps the only one who had ever seen him…
But he had to be cautious. He couldn’t be impulsive. Not with this. Not with him. Anything, Tom felt, he could do in retaliation, any move he might make, might be anticipated by that pain-in-the-arse transfer student.
What he needed was more information. He needed time for reconnaissance, to pull official records and study them, to look for loose threads and pull them apart. Just like Evans had pulled him apart. Tom needed to put the other boy under a microscope and poke and prod at him, cut him open and examine his inner workings until he understood him to the minutiae of his very cells.
Only then would they be on equal footing.
Only then would Tom be able to understand this enigma that so carelessly and ruthlessly upended his life.
Only then would Tom be able to tear him apart and display him for everyone else to see. He might even put him on the wall as a trophy. A flayed boy tacked up and framed to hang in the Slytherin common room over the fireplace. Until then, he would be patient. He would wait for Evans to let something slip.
He couldn’t keep up this facade forever. There were already cracks beginning to form. Evans was not a patient person. Already he noticed the other boy was becoming weary, stressed out, the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced now then they had been when they met. It’s a wonder if he sleeps and for how long.
It was only a matter of time , Tom considered, before exhaustion would catch up to him . It’s only a matter of time before he lands himself in the school infirmary. When that happens, he’ll be defenseless. Tom will be able to force the answers out of him, if he needs to.
It’s not until almost fifteen minutes past the scheduled start of class that Professor Trelawny finally makes an appearance. “Damn—” Nott curses under his breath when Mulciber playfully reminds him he owes him a dozen galleons. Roiser and Burke both tell them to knock it off, while Tom ignores the lot of them, his gaze focused on Evans supporting the old seer as they step into the classroom—Or is it the Professor who’s supporting Evans?
“Awfully sorry for my tardiness students,” the seer addressed them. “Fate decided to throw the unexpected at me today to keep me on my toes. Alas even these old eyes can’t see everything.” The witch grinned a wide toothy smile, but there was something off. It wasn’t genuine, it didn’t reach the professor’s pale cloudy eyes. “Mister Evans take your seat if you please,” she instructed as she passed by the front table where Tom and a handful of Tom's housemates sat.
Something was wrong. Evans looked ill. His normally warm-toned skin seemed to have lost its luster. His sharp, perceptive eyes were less focused. His jaw was clenched with a force that looked uncomfortable. Tom noticed the sweat matting the hair on his brow, exposing the pink ribbon-like scars slicing through his eyebrow, and wonders to himself what the hell happened. Trelawny nudges the boy toward the empty cushion at Tom’s side and he isn’t the only one surprised when Evans makes no protest of the seating arrangement.
Tom glances over at the other boy as he plops himself down on the cushion between Burke and him. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look at them. In fact, he might even go so far to say that Evans doesn’t even know any of them are there as lost as he looks. Tom finds himself curious as to what or who put him in such a state. He wants to ask. He almost does before Trelawny calls for everyone’s attention to the front of the room.
Tom has to force himself to pay attention to the lecture. Has to keep his mind on the professor and the discussion about ley lines and chakras.
“Last week we covered the chakras and ley lines of the body and this week we will narrow our focus to the lines and chakras of the palm. Can anyone tell me the four major lines of palmistry? Miss Burke—”
Tom couldn’t help his attention coming back to Evans as the boy slouched forward and rested his sweaty forehead against the cloth table. “Evans…” He nudged the smaller boy. “Evans.”
“...go away…”
The boy’s speech was mumbled, barely audible over Burke’s explanation of palm lines. Tom nudged him again. “Sit up,” he said. “You’re in a classroom.”
Evans didn’t sit up. He didn’t move.
“What’s wrong with him?” Roiser whispered, leaning forward, she looked genuinely unsettled. “Is he sick?”
“...n…sick…’m fine…”
“Sit up and look at us when you speak, Evans,” Tom told him. “We can’t understand you.”
Evans turned his head, rolling onto his cheek so he could glare at Tom. It lacks much of its usual bite. “I said I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Tom whispered back.
“It’s not like you care either way, Riddle,” the boy snapped whilst the others’ brows rose at his tone. “Just leave me alone right now…” Evans turns away and crosses his arms on the table, shielding himself from the others’ curious eyes. Their table isn’t the only one looking.
A Hufflepuff raises their hand, “Uh, Professor?”
“Yes, Miss Pomfrey.” Trelawny pauses in her lecture to address the girl seated at the table closest to them.
“I don’t think Evans is doing too great. He looks sick, Ma’am,” Peony Pomfrey spoke, drawing everyone’s attention to the raven-haired slytherin face down on the table.
“Is he vomiting?” The professor asked.
Pomfrey paused, her nose wrinkling up in disgust. “No…”
Should he be? Tom and Burke scooted an inch away simultaneously. Neither of them were too keen on being the target of boy’s possible upchucking.
“Then he’s fine,” the professor said.
“But—”
“Mister Evans' problem is of the existential nature. Madame Bones won’t be much help to him I’m afraid. For now it’ll be best to leave him be and try not to let it distract you from the lesson,” the professor told her. “Now who can tell me what four major lines entail? Mister Fawley?”
Pomfrey looked unsure, but no one else bothered to question it. At least outwardly. Tom had noticed various looks of confusion on not only the faces of those at his table but the faces of those around him. Professor Trelawny wasn’t usually so cavalier…
Tom listened idly as Richard Fawley listed the interpretation of the palm lines; his finger tapping against his leg. Again he found his attention being diverted to Evans throughout the lesson. He had never seen him behave in such a manner. If anything the boy was always unobtrusive in class, not speaking unless called upon by the professor. So quiet, in fact, that you could even ignore that he was even there. It wasn’t like him to make such a spectacle of himself.
He was tempted to lean over and see if he was sleeping. He wanted to shake him and tell him to stop being such a fucking nusance. He didn’t. Tom had more tact than that.
It wasn’t until the practical portion of the lesson that Evans popped his head up. But Tom was sure that it had very little to do with the lesson and more to do with the classroom door swinging open due to a late arrival. “Ah, Mister Rowle, finally escape Madame Bones? Please take a seat,” Trelawny instructed. “I believe there’s an open spot next to Mister Nott.” Rowle scanned the room and nodded once before taking the unoccupied seat between Nott and Mulciber.
As he sat his attention focused on Evans first, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Circe— What happened to you?” A blond brow arched as he regarded him suspiciously.
Evans ignored the question and instead reached into the pocket of his robes and thrust his hand forward toward the other boy. “Have you seen this?” He asked. He had an object in his hand. Something gray and misshapen.
Rowle furrowed his brow. “What is that?”
Evans adjusted his grip, unfurling his fingers. “It’s a tangerine,” he said.
“No that’s a clementine,” Rowle corrected him.
“To-may-toe, to-mah-toe,” Evans huffed. “It’s the same thing.”
“No it’s not,” Rowle told him.
“Actually, he’s right,” Nott interjected. “A tangerine would be slightly bigger, more round, and have a thicker rind. That’s an oval shape indicative of a clementine. Besides, tangerines are more commonly found in southeast Asia while clementines grow on the Mediterranean coast. Although they’re both cross-bred hybrids of a mandarin…”
Evans and Rowle both pause and give Nott a look that has the other boy clamping his mouth firmly shut. “Sorry…” The other boy muttered.
Rowle turns back to Evans. “So what’s with the rotting orange?” He asks.
“This!” Evans jabs his thumbs violently into the discolored gray skin with more force than was necessary; as if the fruit had committed some personal offense and this was justified retribution. It fell away onto the table as he peeled it back to expose the fleshy insides.
Huh? The inside wasn’t rotten.
Evan’s split the fruit in half and left the halves in the center of the table. He sat back and made a gesture toward the mess he had made as if to say “Are you seeing this?”. Rowle looked at the fruit, then back at Evans. “Is this supposed to mean something?”
“You don’t think that’s strange?” the boy asked.
“I think this conversation is strange,” Rowle replied. “In fact, it might be the strangest conversation you and I have ever had. And that’s saying something, Harry.”
“So you’d eat that?”
“I didn’t say I’d eat it,” the blond said.
“But you’re saying that’s normal?”
“No,” Rowle disagreed, speaking slowly as if he were explaining something to a child. “But why should I concern myself with a single orange?”
“It’s not a single orange, Ted!” Evans lost the last bit of whatever composure he had.
“Mister Evans,” Trelawny’s voice interrupted. “Kindly lower your voice. Others are trying to complete their own practical part of the lesson so let’s not distract them.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Evans said, though he didn’t sound very apologetic. When the professor moved on to another table, he turned back to Rowle. “They’re all like that.”
“All of them?” Rowle looked incredulous.
“I checked,” Evans told him.
The other boy reached for one of the halves to examine it more closely. “That is curious,” he said, holding the fruit up to the light. “Possible side effect?”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Evans nodded. “But it’s not just the oranges. Trelawny says she hasn’t seen the Gray Lady in days—”
“Are you both speaking in code?” Burke wondered.
“Yeah, who’s the Gray Lady?” Nott asked.
Rowle didn’t respond, but he exchanged an indecipherable look with Evans.
“I’m confused,” Roiser interjected as well, looking between the two. She wasn’t the only one. Even Tom was not able to fully decipher this bizarre interaction between the two. It felt like eavesdropping on a one-sided conversation where the other half was inaudible. It was the sort of conversation where without the proper context it might as well have been spoken in another language. Tom couldn’t tell if this was intentional or not. It might be both. Evans seemed to be largely ignoring the rest of them as if they were inanimate objects taking up space beside him and not living, breathing, listening beings. But Rowle would periodically glance at their faces fully aware of their presence and carefully choose his words.
“Should we be discussing this right now?” Rowle cut Evans off from beginning another tirade.
“Oh please, don’t stop on our account,” Mulciber told him. “This is more interesting than looking at each other's palms anyways.”
“It’s not just her,” Evans picked up the conversation from where it left off. “Professor Binns, the Fat Friar, the Bloody Baron, Moaning Myrtle, Nearly-Headless Nick, and Peeves are all gone.”
“We knew things would be different here,” Rowle reminded him.
“You’re not listening. Twelve days ago they were all here and now they’re gone. We did this—”
“Are you on something right now?” Rowle asked Evans. “Did someone slip you something?”
“Don’t try to gaslight me—”
“I’m not gaslighting you. It’s just you’re sounding especially erratic right now,” Rowle paused. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Shut up—”
“Look,” Rowle cut him off. “First of all, we weren’t even here eleven days ago. Secondly, we didn’t have anything to do with all that. Even by some sort of chaos-theory-butterfly-flapping-its-wings-in-bloody-Mexico-bullshit we’re not directly involved. No one would trace that back to us. Don’t confuse correlation with causation, Harry.”
“Do you honestly think it’s a coincidence?” Evans scoffed.
“Do you consider yourself a determinist?” Rowle shot back.
“We’re not discussing philosophy,” Evans said.
“Aren’t we?” Rowle reasoned. “What has this conversation been but a way for you to absolve your own guilt? You know you have a bad habit of taking responsibility for things that are outside of your control. You want me to tell you it’s not your fault, Harry? Will that help you sleep at night? It’s not your fault.”
“Don’t be a prick,” Evans expression darkened considerably into something that made Burke scoot another inch away. He glared at Rowle across the table as if he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the other boy’s throat and squeeze.
Rowle was not intimidated in the least. “It’s not your fault,” He said again. “Do you know anything about smart materials?”
“What?”
“They’re natural occurring or synthetic materials designed to have one or more properties that can be controlled by external stimuli,” Rowle explained. “For example wool is a smart material because of the natural weave present in the fibers it’s able to absorb one third of its own weight in water which makes it naturally more flame resistant when compared to other textiles like cotton. It has a lower rate of heat release, a lower heat of combustion, and when heat is applied to it forms a char that is insulating and self-extinguishing which is why it is most commonly worn by wizards who work on the dragon preserves.”
“I fail to see what wool has to do with—”
“Let me finish,” Rowle interrupted. “These materials are used in all fields; alchemy, medicine, herbology, architecture, etcetera. Limestone is another naturally occurring smart material known as a self-healing material. The Pyramids of Giza built by the Gizaian Coven of Warlocks were built using limestone. It’s naturally resistant to erosion because when a crack forms, rainwater will react with the calcium in the rock and thereby create more limestone to fill in the abrasion.”
Evans considered that for a moment. “A self-healing material?” Rowle nodded. “Then this,” he gestured to the peeled orange between them, “is an autocorrection.”
“Exactly. It’s a Schrödinger’s Box.”
“I think you mean cat,” Evans corrected Rowle.
“No. I mean box,” Rowle told him. “The cat is the experiment, the box facilitates the effect. The cat is the object inside the box. Inside the closed box the object is able to exist in two opposing states; one of decomposition and the other a combination reaction.” Rowle gestures to the moldy rind and the fruit respectively. “But the phenomenon isn’t due to a single entity existing in two opposing states of being, instead its two entities of opposing states of being existing in the same space.”
Evans pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “Okay this just got too theoretical for me,” he said. “I’m lost.”
“Me too,” Burke and Nott said at the same time.
“Agreed,” Rosier nodded. “This is the most bizarre conversation that I’ve ever witnessed.”
“No kidding,” Mulciber snorted. “Are you getting any of this, Tom?”
Tom looked down at the rotting rind and the ripe fruit on the table. “It’s two oranges not one,” he answered.
“Thank you!” Rowle exclaimed, turning back to Evans. “See, he gets it.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?” Evans asked.
“It’s not my fault you have the deductive reasoning skills of a bloody goldfish, Harry.”
“No. You’re the one being needlessly convoluted. Merlin, it’s easier to follow Professor Binn’s monologues on the Goblin Wars than whatever the hell that mess was,” Evans grumbled.
“Again who is Professor Binns?” Roiser wondered.
Tom was wondering the same thing. But neither boy seemed to hear Roiser’s question as they devolved into schoolyard bickering. Tom leaned forward and picked up one half of the orange and a piece of the rind holding them in his hand. Two oranges? This one missing its skin, that one missing its flesh… What did that mean? How was that possible? Where were the missing pieces at?
There were too many questions and not enough answers. Tom slipped the orange pieces into his robe pockets for further study. He supposed another evening would be spent in the Restricted Section couldn’t hurt. Sighing loudly, Tom turned his attention back to the two bickering boys, “Well, if you two are done, I’ll remind you that we do in fact have only fifteen minutes left to finish our practicals for this lesson. Professor Trelawney will make you stay after class until they’re done—”
Multiple swears went up around the table as the group of them rushed for their parchment and quills.
Chapter 13: Only Time Will Tell
Summary:
“Nothing is for certain,” Trelawny told him. “ That’s the first lesson they teach you as a seer. Just because I see something doesn’t mean it’ll come to fruition or even if it does that it’ll happen in the way that I suspect. With each iteration there are subtle changes, changes we’re not even aware of, that quietly and unobtrusively push us forward. Even if it doesn’t unravel this time, it might be the next.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Theodore asked.
“Does it?” Trelawny turned to him. The unspeakable shrugged.
“Don’t know…” He held out his arm toward the Professor and she silently looped her arm through. Together they headed toward the direction of Ravenclaw’s tower, the Professor staff tapped against the floor. “My Dad would say, ‘Have faith in the arithmancy proofs if nothing else.’”
Notes:
Happy New Year!
I had planned to clean my house today, but in the interest of procrastinating instead I sat down and hammered out the next chapter. I seem to be able to write only when I got other things to do. (#adhd problems) But I don't think you guys are complaining at all. ;)
Again I want to take a minute and thank all of you for the wonderful comments I get on each an every chapter and the amount of people that have bookmarked, subscribed, left kudos, etc. I didn't expect so many people to be interested in my mind drivel and the fact that so many are just blows me away a bit. So thank you all! 2022 has been a hell of a year for me, but you all have made the last bit of it bearable as we collectively escape our problems in fanfic. Here's to hoping I find my light at the end of the tunnel in 2023. Until then, hope the New Year is a great time for everyone! (I would say see ya then, but I don't want to jinx it cause a deer almost took me out last week. So I'm just gonna say see ya later, alligator!)
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Thirteen
Only Time Will Tell
“I must say I’m rather disappointed in all of you. To see some of our best and brightest behaving in such a manner is appalling to say the least. Fighting in the halls, destruction of school property, and a complete disregard for the rules of this institution. I expected more of you—especially you Mister Malfoy and Miss Black who as prefects knew better than to engage in such behavior, let alone instigate it! I have half the mind of relieve you of your badges effective immediately—”
“Dippet, sir, isn’t that a bit extreme?” Horace Slughorn cut in wringing his hands nervously as he eyed the irate Headmaster. Armando Dippet turned his flinty gray eyes from the five students seated before his desk to the Slytherin Head of House.
“On the contrary it’s the least I could do,” Dippet argued. “If Miss Black’s destruction spell had struck another student, it would’ve been another death at the school. We’re fortunate it hit only the suit of armor, even though that particular piece dated all the way back to Arthurian times and is a piece of priceless wizarding history now lost, or we would’ve had a media circus ensue—”
“I’m not disagreeing with you there, sir. It was a foolish and dangerous action by Miss Black that I am also deeply troubled over,” The potions professor told him. “But surely, in this case, considering that they are all first-time offenses perhaps we can be lenient? No one was gravely injured. Nothing that couldn’t be patched up by Madame Bones within the hour and Mister Malfoy and Mister Black, and Miss Black have been exemplary students these last six years. Mister Malfoy is consistently second in his year, Mister Black is co-captain to the dueling club, and Miss Black has just competed in and won the young women’s duelist competition held in Dublin. Should one foolish, thoughtless act negate all that? And while Mister Rowle and Mister Evans haven’t been here but a few days, their work in my class has been exceptional. I would hate for this incident to jeopardize their apprenticeships with the Unspeakables after receiving the recommendation from Unspeakable Novikov himself.”
Theodore had expected Trelawny to intercede on his and Potter’s behalf. The fact that it was Professor Slughorn who chimed first through him. Although maybe it shouldn’t have, because everyone knew Professor Slughorn had his favorites— his little Slug club— which was really the man’s excuse to manipulate his way into rubbing shoulders with the wealthy, affluent, and influential family members and or parents of his so-called favorites. It didn’t surprise him that he spoke up for the three Slytherin students that had started this whole mess. The Black and Malfoy families were old, rich, and powerful—powerful enough to toss the potion’s Professor some rare and pricey ingredients as a recompense for the favor of helping their foolish children avoid natural consequences. But that he would speak up for them—some no name orphan and a bastard halfblood of some prodigal daughter with familial ties to Grindelwald’s cause—solely because they (let’s be honest, Theodore did most the work. Potter was a bloody mess at potions.) brewed a couple flawless potions was suspicious.
He didn’t trust it. But still, Theodore knew better than to side eye the man. What was it the muggles said? Don’t look a horse-gift in the muzzle? Nostril?
He couldn’t recall the idiom. He didn’t particularly care to. Instead he kept his eyes focused on the wall of portraits behind the headmaster’s desk. Every so often one of the figures would commentate on the proceedings. The portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black had been the most vocal tearing into his great-grandchildren for their lack of decorum and shamefully losing the duel to, in his opinion, were a couple of mu-ixed-bloods.
Theodore suspected that the wizard was going to say mudbloods before a severe look from Headmaster Dippet had the figure snapping his mouth closed and glaring pointedly at the twins.
“An embarrassment to the family,” he grumbled whilst Walburga and Cygnus flushed and averted their eyes. Walburga almost looked as if she was about to cry…
Theodore frowned. A nerve touched, but said nothing to defend them. Not like anything he said would have any bearing of the opinion of a dead man anyways. It was Potter, who was flushed and irate snapped back some comment about Phineas Nigellus being the most disliked and incompetent headmaster in living memory and had all the charisma of an odious toad.
“If you’re descendants lack social-grace it's because you never had any yourself—“
“Mister Evans!” Dippet cut in before things could escalate into an argument with the portrait. “That’s enough!”
“Yes, respect your elders, boy,” Phineas Nigellus spat over Dippet’s shoulder.
Potter glared and Theodore had to kick him in the shin to keep him from saying anything else.
He really wasn’t getting paid enough for this.
He wasn’t getting paid at all. Bloody Kershaw.
After that the story of what happened was laid before the Headmaster by the five of them. The Slytherins, true to form, tried to place most of the blame on him and Harry which might’ve worked well enough if Professor Trelawny hadn’t recounted a vision she had in the Great Hall that placed the blame solely on the Malfoy’s and Walburga’s shoulders. It was apparently their idea to corner Potter and confront him about his poor behavior, Theodore was surprised to learn that Cygnus had tried to talk them out of it.
The Headmaster sighed, adjusting the thin-wired spectacles perched at the bridge of his long nose. “I understand your concern, Horace, but I simply cannot let this incident go without punishment,” the man said. “Most of you are about to reach your age of majority this year. You’re not children. If any of you had done this as an adult I would’ve had no choice but to get the Auror Department involved and there would’ve been criminal charges brought against you. This is a very serious matter that I as an educator cannot brush aside. What sort of lesson does that teach you all?”
Dippet looked at them in turn. He stopped talking as if he was waiting for an answer. The three Slytherin’s shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while Theodore and Potter both stared back silently. After a moment of silence, Malfoy gathered the courage to ask, “Is that a rhetorical question, sir?”
“What do you think, Mister Malfoy?” The headmaster replied. “Does it sound like one?”
Malfoy shook his blond head. “No, sir,” his voice was muffled and lispy as the teeth had yet to fully regrow.
“Then how about you take a crack at answering it,” the old headmaster prompted.
“–at ere are no cons-squenc-ses,” the blond mumbled.
“Yes. That’s correct, Mister Malfoy,” the old wizard nodded. “I cannot in good conscience let the five of you graduate from this institution and go out into the real world with that false belief. It is my job to prepare you to function in the wizarding world and it would be negligence on our part if there were no consequences for your actions.”
“A-Are we going to be expelled?” Walburga asked, her voice cracking tearfully on the question. She looked fearfully at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus.
“Armando,” Trelawny finally cut in softly, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I find myself agreeing with Horace’s plea for leniency. No one is saying that there should be no consequences for their actions, but can we truly call ourselves educators if we are so quick to condemn them over their mistakes? Would it not be more beneficial to teach them a lesson in humility and cooperation by assigning them a couple weeks of detentions? Would teaching them tolerance and teamwork not be a better lesson than merely learning that there are consequences?”
Professor Slughorn nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was trying to say. That was aptly put, Cassandra.”
The headmaster regarded the two heads-of-house warily. “I can’t merely give them detention,” he said. “That’s a slap on the wrist.”
“Then what about a suspension of all extracurriculars and prefect duties for a month?” The old seer suggested. “I could also assign an extra credit project for them to work on together. Professor Beery has been telling me he would like to restore the old greenhouse and use it for the Berry’s Botanical club. They are all in herbology and it would give them some practice in horticulture and spellwork in restorative architecture.”
Dippet’s expression turned thoughtful as he considered that. “I suppose that might be something to consider,” he said. “This project would be in place of detention or addition to?”
“Addition to,” the woman said. “An hour a day before dinner would be dedicated to the task and then evening detention served three days a week plus two Saturdays along with a month-long suspension of prefect badges and extracurriculars—
“But Evans and Rowle don’t do any extracurriculars,” Cygnus interrupted. “I’m sorry, Professor, it just seems like we’re being punished more than they are…”
“How about in the interest of fairness, Mister Evans and Mister Rowle will assist in the organizing and relabeling of my potion ingredients?” Professor Slughorn suggested. “Every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night for the next month?”
Theodore and Potter shared a look that went unnoticed by the adults around them. A month of access to Slughorn’s potion storeroom was going to help tremendously in getting the right ingredients for the Niven’s Brew. What sort of luck was that?
“What a good idea Horace,” Trelawny remarked and suddenly Theodore knew the old seer had put that idea in the man’s head. “You’ve been needing to get that room sorted out for a while now. Why not get some help?”
“Alright. Fine,” the headmaster sighed. “Sounds like the both of you have already figured everything out. Just take care of it and I better not have any of your return to my office for the rest of the year for another incident like this or expulsion will be the least of your worries. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir!” They all chorused and the headmaster dismissed them to be escorted back to their common rooms by their respective heads of house. Before they left, Malfoy and Walburga left their prefect badges on the desk. No one said anything as they descended the stairs and passed the gargoyle statue. The professors exchanged a few details regarding the detention schedule and Professor Slughorn offer to speak with Professor Beery about the old greenhouse before they group split ways the Potter and the Slytherin’s being led to the dungeons.
Professor Trelawny and Theodore stood on the landing to the main staircase and watched them descend. Or more Theodore watched Potter trail behind the rest wondering how much of their earlier conversation in Divination class he had been able to understand. They hadn’t gotten a chance to talk about it without others eavesdropping, so Theodore hadn’t been able to explain what was really going on as a result of their time travel. Without taking his eyes off the back of Potter’s head he spoke to the seer beside him.
“I think we’ve created a Gordian Knot.”
“Yes,” the old witch agreed. “I suspected it the moment Professor Fortescue sat beside me in the Great Hall. Every day since, there’s just been more and more signs to confirm it.”
“How did you know we were the ones responsible?” He asked her. “Was it a hunch or—“
“A vision,” the woman told him. “Or more my dreams have been foreboding since you’ve arrived here. I keep seeing Mister Potter. Or I think it’s him. It’s just the back of his head and he’s warning me to untie the knot before our worlds eat each other.”
Theodore frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Harry,” he said. “He barely has an idea of what’s going on.”
“Have you explained it to him?” Trelawny asked.
Theodore shook his head. “Haven’t had the chance. I think if he knew, well…it wouldn’t be good. He almost lost his shit today in your classroom over a bloody orange. If I were to really explain it, he’d spiral. Besides, even if I wanted to tell him everything, I couldn’t. I’m bound by unbreakable vows.”
“That makes two of us,” the witch sighed. “There are days I regret ever having gotten involved with the Department of Mysteries. There are just so many secrets I’ll be taking to my grave. I sympathize with you. The only thing we can do is point them in the right direction, lead them to enough clues that they’ll be able to cobble the truth together for themselves. My mum used to say that people are born into this world either as a seeker or an avoider. You and I, we’re seekers, and I think Mister Potter is one too. You should put a little more faith in him. I think he will find the truth, whether you tell him or not.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Theodore said. “There's just no telling what he’ll do after he finds it. Will he side with us or with them ? How long are we all going to be trapped here in this hell? I wish I knew for certain that this is the time that we finally untangle ourselves.”
“Nothing is for certain,” Trelawny told him. “ That’s the first lesson they teach you as a seer. Just because I see something doesn’t mean it’ll come to fruition or even if it does that it’ll happen in the way that I suspect. With each iteration there are subtle changes, changes we’re not even aware of, that quietly and unobtrusively push us forward. Even if it doesn’t unravel this time, it might be the next.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Theodore asked.
“Does it?” Trelawny turned to him. The unspeakable shrugged.
“Don’t know…” He held out his arm toward the Professor and she silently looped her arm through. Together they headed toward the direction of Ravenclaw’s tower, the Professor staff tapped against the floor. “My Dad would say, ‘Have faith in the arithmancy proofs if nothing else.’ ”
“We’ll, they haven’t been wrong yet, have they?” Trelawny smirked while Theodore just shrugged.
“Not so far. Only time will tell if they hold out.”
Chapter 14: A Smarmy Two-Faced Snake and a Bunch of Unruly School Children
Summary:
Professor Slughorn nodded, “Alright, Henry. As I was saying, I wanted to ask how you’ve been settling in here at Hogwarts?”
“It’s been fine,” Harry told him.
The professor arched a thick blond brow, frowning. “Really?” Clearly he wasn’t buying that after the incident that day.
“Well, it’s an adjustment,” Harry amended, “but I’m handling it.”
Notes:
So it’s been a minute since the last update (or idk Three Months—damn) and I had meant for this chapter to be longer, but damn have I been struggling to write it. I’ve been dealing with a terminal illness in my family and my focus has been nonexistent. I just don’t think I’m in the right head space rn, not to mention sleep deprived and haven’t been home in over a week. So I decided it cut it short cause I can’t just look at it anymore. I still think this chapter is fairly long over 5000 works last time I clocked it, so I don’t think y’all will be too disappointed. Also I’m posting this from my phone so it might be riddled with mistakes that’ll need to be edited when I can get back home to my laptop. (A little grace in the comments would be appreciated in that regard.) I might be going on a brief hiatus until after the funeral or I might dump a bunch of chapters because I’m trying to disassociate—can’t really say, sorry. I’m just gonna see how I feel. But wanted to give y’all a heads up that it may be a few weeks for the next update. In the meantime, I’m been cheering myself up with shitposting about this fic on Tumblr (mostly dumbass memes and gif reactions) if any of y’all are interested just search for #udlttom on my Tumblr page listed in my profile if you just want to keep up to date on the progress of the fic!
I’ve gotten so many lovely messages from ya’ll and I really appreciate them, even though I haven’t gotten around to responding to them. I’ll have to do that when things calm down a bit, until then I hope you’re all enjoying life and doing what make you happy.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Fourteen
A Swarmy Two-Faced Snake and a Bunch of Unruly School Children
The trek back to the Slytherin common room was silent. Professor Slughorn marched them down in a group and none of them dared to say another word in interest of not making things worse. Harry trailed behind the group, hands buried into the pockets of his robes, lost in thought.
Thoughts of oranges and cats and stupid fucking time magic warred with each other for his attention. How can two oranges exist in the same space? Time is a self healing material. Nott had called it a Schrödinger’s Box. And Harry hadn’t exactly understood what that meant. He had heard that it was some thought experiment done by some muggle physicist, Herminone had told him as much during some sci-fi movie night. But her explanation at the time had been wordy and hard to follow, a bad habit of hers was to jump straight into the theory without first explaining what the theory even was. She used terms as if she expected that you already knew them, which mostly neither he nor Ron did…
Merlin, Nott was the same. How did he end up stuck with another Herminone? Not that there was anything wrong with Herminone. But it would be nice not feeling like he was utterly out of his depth every second of every damn day. He couldn’t understand why Nott hadn’t seemed half as concerned as he was. He treated it as if it was fucking joke. As if it was Harry who was being mental and not this entire world around them.
One thing had become abundantly clear in the past few days, Harry’s tactics of avoiding his housemates had been a total disaster. He had thought that he would be the last person they’d show any interest in. As far as they knew he was just some muggleborn transfer with no family or connections. There was nothing for the opportunistic Slytherins to gain. He was a nobody. Why would they care that he didn’t eat with them in the Great Hall or study with them in the common room?
They wouldn’t.
They didn’t.
Riddle cared.
It was because of him. Because he couldn’t leave well enough alone. Because even though Harry was a nobody, Riddle still cared and that meant everyone else had to fucking care too. He couldn’t mind his own damn business.
Nosy git.
Why was he so obsessed with him? Why after everything is he still Harry’s fucking problem? He had fought his war. He had killed the bastard. He had tried to put it all behind him and yet here he was back at the beginning as if none of it mattered.
Frustrating didn’t even begin to encompass what he was feeling. Harry was at his wits end. This place was fucking with his head. Between the stress of dealing with the unspeakables, the frustration of dealing with Nott and Riddle, and the constant reminders of the war that followed him whether he was awake or sleeping (And that was a large part of the problem was that he wasn’t sleeping much.) and now the bloody oranges—just the fucking cherry on top of a shit-tastic sundae!
He didn’t have time to play these house politics games with these children. And he certainly didn’t have the patience for it. Fuck—he barely had the patience for much of anything anymore. He felt like he was about ready to crawl out of his own skin. And it had only been eleven days?
What the fuck?
“Alright,” Professor Slughorn’s voice broke through Harry’s thoughts, bringing him back to the present. They had stopped at the entrance to the common room. Harry hadn’t even realized they had already arrived. “All of you should head straight off to bed and stay out of trouble for the rest of the night,” the wizard advised. “I’d hate to have to inform Headmaster Dippet of any more incidents.”
The others nodded with choruses of “Yes, sir—” and “Of course, sir—” and “Good Night, Professor —” each one ducking as they stepped through the open archway one after another leaving Harry for last.
“G—” Harry started to follow the other’s lead, wishing the man a polite goodbye, before Slughorn cut him off.
“Mister Evans, just a moment if you will,” he said and Harry stopped.
“Yes, sir?”
“I was wondering if you and I might have a chat in my office?” he asked. “I know it’s late, but it’ll be brief.”
Was he supposed to say no? Harry swallowed a weary sigh threatening to escape him, and clenched his fingers feeling restless. “Of course, sir,” he agreed. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Oh no, no, nothing like that,” Professor Slughorn assured him, waving a pudgy hand in the hair as if he was shooing away the thought. They both knew that Harry had done quite a few things wrong that day. “I only want to talk. I realized I haven’t had a chance to check in with you and see how you were fairing,” the man explained.
“Oh…” Harry frowned. Did that really require a trip to the potion master’s office? Probably not. But Harry knew better than to argue with the man. He thought it was better to stay in the wizard’s good graces because he was his head of house. But not only that, Harry didn’t need the reputation of a rebellious rule breaker (Even though that often was what he was.) when he might very soon be pilfering the Potions Professor’s storeroom. The incident today had set him back in that department. But maybe, he’d be able to rectify that during their talk…
“Lead the way, sir,” Harry said, trying to appear unconcerned with it all. The potions master smiled back affably and began to lead Harry further down the corridor to his own private quarters. Each professor had a series of rooms at Hogwarts containing a bedroom, study or sitting area, and bathroom. Most of the professors though had rooms on the seventh floor in the east wing of the campus; except for the heads-of-house who had rooms situated closest to their corresponding common rooms to keep a better eye on the students. The heads-of-house residences tended to also be a bit larger in size when compared to those on the seventh floor.
Harry was no stranger to the Slytherin’s head-of-house office; having been there numerous times with both Professor Snape and later Professor Slughorn. Both of his previous potions teachers couldn’t have been more night and day. Professor Snape had been largely utilitarian in his living quarters; keeping the bare essentials in luxuries whilst the majority of the space had been dedicated for private brewing with dark, dour decore that made his office and the man himself appear all the more intimidating for it. Professor Slughorn’s office, however, was like stepping into an underwater art exhibit. The amount of paintings, statues, ornate paperweights and baubles the man possessed was truly astounding. All gifts, of course, from his many, many previous pupils that were hung or displayed around every corner of the room. The furniture was finely upholstered velvet and ornately carved, some of it gold plated or even goblin-made metal work. The glass dome ceiling situated overhead cast everything in a greenish glow from the sunlight filtering through the water of the Black Lake, but given the time the only thing Harry could see beyond the glass was pitch black water.
The room hadn’t changed much at all in that regard. Unlike the man himself, who Harry remembered as older and graying and plumper than this younger, thinier, and thickly haired wizard in front of him. This Slughorn was all smiles and quick, easy charm with a smart-looking appearance and a finely groom mustache. It struck the auror how much the man must’ve aged during the first and second wars; how much the guilt must’ve aged him.
The professor gestured toward one of the ornate sofas in the room for Harry to sit. “Would you like some tea, Mister Evans?” The man offered. “I find that a spot of tea before bed always helps me sleep a bit easier. Especially if it's chamomile.”
“Uhh, sure, sir,” Harry sat down and watched the figures in a painting across from him dance and twirl in elaborate dress robes. The professor returned shortly with two cups of tea and a tin of biscuits on a tray which he levitated over to the table. The wizard took a seat beside Harry on the sofa handing him one of the cups of tea as he did.
“Biscuit?” The potions teacher held out the tin to Harry who politely declined with a shake of his head. Harry took a sip of the tea cup as the professor spoke. “Now Mister Evans, actually is it alright if I call you Henry? I like to be a bit more personable with my students, but if it makes you uncomfortable—”
“Henry is fine, sir,” Harry said.
Professor Slughorn nodded, “Alright, Henry. As I was saying, I wanted to ask how you’ve been settling in here at Hogwarts?”
“It’s been fine,” Harry told him.
The professor arched a thick blond brow, frowning. “Really?” Clearly he wasn’t buying that after the incident that day.
“Well, it’s an adjustment,” Harry amended, “but I’m handling it.”
“And you’re managing to get on in your classes?” The professor asked him and Harry nodded.
“Like I said, it's an adjustment, but I can handle it,” the auror told him.
“That’s good. I’ve been hearing some worrying tales about you the last few days,” the man told him. “Tom Riddle expressed some concern for you, said you were skipping meals…”
Harry paused, fighting a sudden urge to scowl. “He did?”
“Yes,” the professor nodded. “He told me, he was worried that you were avoiding eating in the Great Hall because you might’ve felt uncomfortable with your peers…” Harry did frown then; hoping that it looked more thoughtful than annoyed, but he knew it was the later rather than the former. “I only brought this up because after today— well — I can see why he was worried.”
“I’m fine, professor,” Harry said. “The incident today won’t be repeated—”
Professor Slughorn cut him off. “I should hope not, Henry. But that’s not what I’m getting at. I’m aware that Slytherin house can be a difficult place for some kinds of wizards. I am aware that there is a nepotistic hierarchy present that for the most part doesn’t exist within the other three houses and that can make it difficult for those like yourself who haven’t had the same familial connections. Believe it or not you’re hardly the first person to be targeted because of your—” the man paused, seemingly unsure how to properly phrase what he was trying to say. Harry knew what he was getting at anyways.
“You think I’m being singled out because I’m a muggleborn,” Harry said.
Professor Slughorn sighed. “Unfortunately, yes that is what I’m concerned with and what Mister Riddle is also concerned with I think. Because he knows what it’s like to be in the position you currently find yourself in. You know, you remind me a bit of him. Two wands made of the same core as they say. He didn't get on with his peers much at first either.”
Harry surely scowled then; a facial tick he could hardly avoid at the professor’s words. If he had a galleon for every time someone had pointed out that horrid little comparison, he’d be able to open a second vault at Gringotts. It had been years since anyone had dared to compare the two, at least no one had said much of anything to Harry’s face in a long time. He knew it was still whispered about in private— the Dark Lord’s equal— Sometimes Harry got the sense that the general wizarding public was waiting for him to follow in Voldemort’s footsteps, as if any of a hundred everyday inconveniences were going to push him over a line he couldn’t come back from.
Slughorn, of course, misinterpreted Harry displeasure as confusion and continued his train of thought. “A bit hard to believe, I know, considering where he stands now… But Tom made an effort to compromise, to meet them halfway, he made an effort to get to know them beyond family politics…”
“What are you saying exactly, sir?” Harry set his tea aside to give the man his full attention.
“Merely, that Slytherins by nature are rather distrusting of strangers. We don’t like to get to know new people unless it's worth our while and you may see that as opportunistic— It can be at times— However, I would say that the nature of Slytherins is more in line with symbiosis. They will not invest in you unless you invest in them. I think you’re a bright boy with a promising future ahead of you working with the Unspeakables; and with your background I know you’re used to being on your own and remaining unattached from your peers, but if you want to make the most of your time here my advice is to make friends with your housemates. This hostility between yourself and your peers will not diminish if you continue to keep your distance, Henry. Mister Black made a valid point earlier this evening when he said you didn’t participate in any extracurricular activities. Perhaps if you joined a club or found a group of peers who shared your common interests you’d feel more comfortable. Do you have any hobbies?”
I never said I was uncomfortable. Though, Harry didn’t speak that thought aloud.
He wanted to argue.
To say that he was just fine being by himself, thank you. It was what he wanted.
Again, he didn’t need this distraction of Slytherin house politics. But he also didn’t need people poking their nose into his business like Riddle seemed uncontrollably bound to do. Not to mention he didn’t have time for hobbies. It had been years since he had played an official match of Quidditch that wasn’t some pick-up game with his work colleagues or passing a quaffle around with James and Teddy. And there was something about the way Professor Slughorn was speaking to him, the not-so-subtle talking down as if Harry was a unruly child being told to play nice and make friends, that had his temper flaring. He didn’t need this right now.
It took a tremendous amount of self-control to keep from snapping at the wizard. “Yes, but I thought I was banned from extracurriculars, sir,” he pointed out.
“Well, technically,” Slughorn hummed, “But I think in yours and Mister Rowle’s case an argument could be made that it would be more beneficial for both of you to be more involved with the school. Less time to find yourselves in trouble—”
Damnit.
“And I think between myself and Professor Trelawney, we’d be able to convince the Headmaster to make an exception if you found a club you were interested in. Merrythought tells me you’ve been doing exceptionally well in her class and Tom is always looking for new talent to join the dueling club,” Slughorn offered, trying to be helpful.
Oh, no —He would rather die. Fuck that.
There was no hiding the face he made. Slughorn noticed instantly. “You don’t like dueling?” He asked.
Harry held his tongue and shook his head.
“Well, it was only a suggestion,” the potions master told him. “If you decide to stop by the notice board in the common room, maybe you’d find something more to your liking.”
“Maybe,” Harry’s response was terse. “But I don’t think I’ll have much time to devote to club activities being a NEWT year and all…”
Slughorn nodded. “Yes, seventh year is an especially busy time, I know. I’m sure for yourself in particular it might be particularly challenging seeing that you are the youngest in your year.”
Harry hummed in agreement retrieving his tea cup from the saucer. He brought it to his lips, sipping slowly. Then a sudden inspiration struck him and he began, “Most of my time outside class work is being dedicated to studying for my mastery as well, sir. So even if there was a club I found interesting, I doubt I’d have the time to devote to it.”
The Potions Professor paused and regarded Harry with interest. “I wasn’t aware you were also pursuing a mastery, Henry. What subject?”
“Potions,” he said, which was true in a manner of speaking.
“Oh!” Slughorn exclaimed with noticeable delight.
“It’s a requirement for my apprenticeship,” Harry explained.
“I see! Good on you, lad!” The Professor grinned and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “That’s the sort of ambition we pride in Slytherin. Of course, I understand the perils of pursuing a potions mastery. It’s no simple task.”
“It’s not,” Harry agreed. “I know I’ve been distant since I came here, but I suppose you’re right that my preoccupation might have come off in the wrong way to others in my year.”
“A misunderstanding, Henry, it happens from time to time,” Slughorn told him, then bit into a biscuit. “I’m sure if you talked to your dormmates and explained your situation, it would all be quickly cleared up! Oh here’s an idea, I run a little social club here at the school and host alumni from time to time to meet with some of the students during small dinner parties and charity galas. It's a chance to socialize and make useful connections for the future. Why don’t you attend one of these dinners with myself and some of your fellow students?”
Harry kept his expression carefully blank. “…I don’t know, sir. I don’t know if I will be able to find the time…”
“Nonsense,” the portly wizard waved off the auror’s concern with his hand. “People don’t find time, lad, they make it. If you ask me, I’ll tell you that it would be a great opportunity for you to be introduced to many bright, talented academics in not only the Department of Mysteries, but many other fields as well. For example, I’m sure you’ve heard of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, why that little potioneering marvel was thought up by a previous student of mine Fleamont Potter. Brilliant lad, a bit eccentric perhaps, but I could never deny his talent when it came to brewing and now he stands to make a fortune off his work. He’s actually going to be a guest at a dinner party I’ll be hosting tomorrow. He’s someone, I’m sure, could help you out tremendously with your studies in potions and I’d love to introduce the both of you given the chance.”
Harry knew that would be a terrible idea. Unbeknownst to the potions professor, what he was suggesting was introducing Harry to his own grandfather. Not only was that bizarre given the current time magic hijinks the Auror found himself involved with, Harry thought that nothing good would come of getting himself noticed by any of the Potter family. Best case scenario they think he’s some distant relative perhaps, worst case Harry’s existence suddenly becomes a huge scandal and he's labeled as some illegitimate lovechild. No thanks.
Harry wisely deflected the offer with a question. “But aren’t I supposed to be doing inventory on your potion ingredients tomorrow, sir?”
Slughorn’s excitement immediately snuffed out. “Oh, yes, that’s right…” It seemed as if he had momentarily forgotten the reason Harry had been asked to his office in this enthusiasm for finding another possible addition to his collection of slugs. Being suddenly reminded of that had the desired effect of sobering him and he sighed. “I suppose that’ll have to wait, lad, until after your month of punishment has been served. A real shame that is. I do believe Monty would’ve taken a shine to you…”
The Professor trailed off as he regarded Harry then. A strange expression crossed his face as he furrowed his brow. “As a matter of fact,” he began, “I do believe the two of you might’ve been able to pass as brothers. I’m just now noticing it, but you both have very similar features…”
Bloody hell. That wasn’t good.
Harry felt his muscles tense. “Is that right?”
Slughorn nodded. “I think it’s the hair maybe or the chin…Perhaps there’s a common ancestor.”
“Doubt it,” Harry brushed off that suggestion quickly. Perhaps too quickly, though he hoped the Potions professor wouldn’t take note of it. “My father was the only wizard in his family,” he explained.
“And your mother?” Slughorn prompted.
“Muggle,” Harry deadpanned. “They met in India, I think. But they both passed before I could remember much about them.”
“Sorry to hear that, lad,” Slughorn said and he did, in fact, sound somewhat sympathetic.
“Thank you, sir,” Harry replied, his gaze flitting away over to an ornately carved grandfather clock in the room as it chimed. At the sound of the clock the professor turned, regarding the hour and minute hands with a frown.
“I didn’t realize it was so late,” he remarked.
Harry put his empty cup aside, “Suppose I should head out, sir, if there’s nothing else that needs to be discussed.”
“No, that’s all Henry,” Slugghorn said. “Here let me walk you out. An early day tomorrow, lad, don’t want you dozing off in the middle of your lessons.” The professor led Harry to the door and bid him goodnight with a reminder to take care of himself and not to hesitate to drop in if there’s anything he’s struggling with. An offer that would’ve felt more genuine if the potions master didn’t have that hungry gleam in his eyes as he invited Harry to a slugclub meeting in the near future when this punishment business has been all cleared up.
Harry didn’t make any promises to the man as the door closed between them. And when it shut he took a moment to lean against the wall and sigh. Bloody hell— He frowned, removing his glasses and cleaning them with the sleeve of his robes. He placed them back on his nose and made his way down the stone corridor to the common room. Eyeing the snake statue with distaste as he spoke the password, “Jörmungandr” before he stepped through the open archway. As he did, Harry became aware that the common room was not at all empty.
Oh, merlin. Here we go…round two.
“Oi Evans!” One of the seventh-year slytherins called out at the sight of him. Harry didn’t pay attention to who it was, maybe Avery or Nott, he kept his attention deliberately focused on the stairway that led off to the dormitories. Perhaps he could simply appear as if he didn’t hear them, they’d let him pass through unimpeded.
“Hey, are you outright ignoring us now?” Someone else chimed in. They sounded haughty like Malfoy, but Harry couldn’t place the voice. That more than anything made him pause long enough to glance over at the group of students gathered in front of the fireplace watching him with varying accusatory looks. It wasn’t just the seventh years he realized. There were people there he didn’t fully recognize, younger students, he guessed from either sixth or fifth year. Harry caught sight of the familiar faces of Alphard and Orion Black in the mix hovering behind Druella Rosier as she fretted over Cygnus. And of course there was Riddle seated in that same chair in front of the fire watching him with an intent expression.
Too late to pretend he didn’t see them, Harry stopped. “Did you say something?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear us,” was Walburga’s crossed remark as she stood and glared.
He sighed and turned to face them more fully. “If there’s something you want to say to me Black, go ahead and say it. I’m not a legilimens.”
“You have the nerve to take that tone after what you did—” Walburga brandished her hand toward her brother. “After you attacked Cygnus, Abraxas, and I and put us in the infirmary?!”
Harry paused, frowning. “Is that the story we’re going with?” He asked her.
“You attacked us!” Walbura reiterated. “You gave my brother a concussion! You broke Abraxas’s nose!”
Harry squinted his eyes as if he was trying to read something from across the room. “You haven’t eaten any oranges today, have you Black?”
“What? What do oranges have to do with—”
“Or it could be mushrooms, I guess. Might be better if it were mushrooms . Are you on any psychedelics right now or are you just this delusional?” Harry asked her.
“Excuse me?!”
“Because Malfoy and I both know Rowle was the one who broke his nose,” Harry pointed out flatly. “So either you’ve consumed some sort of mind altering substance or you’re lying rather poorly.”
“HOW DARE YOU— You’re calling me a liar?! ”
Harry shrugged which wasn’t the best way to go about defusing this situation. Walburga’s face flushed a bright red as she launched into a loud diatribe of insults and accusations. Perhaps it was because Harry had built up a tolerance to Walburga’s portrait shrieking like a banshee in Grimmauld Place that he was so underwhelmed. Perhaps it was because her reddening face triggered a memory of James in the midst of his terrible threes throwing a similar tantrum. A memory in which a worn and exhausted Ginny had told him to deal and retreated to another room and Harry had only gotten him to settle after first startling him with an aguamenti drenching his head.
He didn’t think something like that would have the intended effect now. Even then, Ginny had been rather cross with him afterwards but James never acted out in such a manner toward either of them since. So he simply stared and waited for her to run out of breath.
It wasn’t a typical reaction, he was sure. But he was beyond caring.
He watched as her face turned redder and redder, until eventually that red spread from her cheeks to her forehead and down her neck. He was only half listening to the words, his attention more focused on the whitening knuckles of her right hand as her grip was tightening around her wand. An attack seemed imminent if he didn’t figure out some way to defuse the situation and soothe the girl’s fiery temper.
“— WELL?! DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?! HAVE YOU LOST THE ABILITY TO SPEAK YOU INSOLENT MUDBLOOD?! WHERE IS THAT BRAVADO NOW THAT THAT HALFBLOOD ISN’T HERE TO PROTECT YOU?!”
“Pfft—protect me? You think he was protecting me?” Harry smothered a laugh at the thought. It was one of those situations where laughing would’ve been the dumbest thing a person could do. Admittedly, Harry knew he wasn’t a genius but he certainly wasn’t a bumbling idiot either, and yet—he smiled. He couldn’t help it.
“IS THIS A JOKE TO YOU?!” The witch’s voice cracked on the last syllable as he voice reached a pitch that Harry was sure only dogs could hear.
The Auror bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep his expression flat. “No.”
To Harry's surprise it was Cygnus who intervened. “Wallie,” Cygnus cut his sister off before she could get her second wind. “Don’t waste your breath on him. Evans clearly doesn’t care what we think of him.”
“He should,” Druella snapped. “He’s a fool if that’s true. What kind of Slytherin are you? Are you trying to make enemies of us? Why when we’ve done nothing to provoke it?”
Silence hung heavy in the air between them as a dozen pairs of eyes turned on the Auror expecting an explanation. Harry didn’t have an answer. What was he supposed to say?
“Oh sorry, I’m too busy trying to open a time portal !”
Or maybe—
“I’m trying not to get involved with you lot because you’re all involved in a blood politics cult!”
Or what about—
“Reality is unraveling around us and I can’t waste my damn time on a group of school children!”
Even if he wanted to say any of these things aloud, the vows that the Unspeakables made him swear kept his lips effectively sealed. Instead he asked, “What do you want me to say?”
“An apology for starters—“ Malfoy started. The bruises around the blond’s eyes looked better than they did an hour ago, but the skin was still pigmented.
Harry nodded. “Alright. I’m sorry.”
“What?” Malfoy was incredulous, clearly having expected him to put up more of a fight.
“I’m sorry.” Harry repeated. “I didn’t want any of you to get hurt. If I had wanted that I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of using healing charms.”
“Healing charms?” Druella looked curiously at Walburga. “Why would you heal them after you attacked them?”
“He’s lying,” Walburga said. “Madame Bones healed us!”
“Believe whatever you want,” Harry said. “Like you said, I couldn’t care less what you think. But if you’re going to go out of your way to confront me over some perceived slight, I won't apologize for defending myself.”
“And you call that an apology?” Alphard spoke up, his gray eyes prodding. “You injured two members of the Noble House of Black and the heir to House Malfoy. Do you really expect us to let it go with a half-arsed apology?”
Harry didn’t. That wasn’t how it worked. Especially in Slytherin. But what else was he supposed to say? “What do you want then?” He asked.
“We want you to acknowledge your place!” Walburga shouted. “You strut around here as if you’re too good to be here! As if you think you’re better! Why? Because you have an apprenticeship with the Unspeakables? Because you test well? That means nothing! I could owl my uncle tonight and you'd be dropped from the apprenticeship program by the morning!”
Harry did laugh loudly then. “Please do.” If only it were that simple.
“You think I’m bluffing?” Walburga glared.
“No.” Harry grinned at her, bitterness coloring his words. “I believe you, Black. Go ahead and give it a try. Make that letter as nasty as you can.”
“Y-you–you—“ Walburga sputtered, flustered at Harry’s blasé attitude.
Harry adjusted his glasses, glancing at Riddle. Surprisingly, he wasn’t getting involved. He sat perfectly poised in that chair watching the proceedings as if it were a theater playing out before him. It wasn’t like Harry expected him to come to his aid. But he didn’t think he would be such a passive observer.
His passivity was an obvious permission to the others to continue.
“Are we done here?” Harry asked, suddenly tired of it all.
“No, we’re not!” Walburga sneared. “You broke the rules!”
“And what are those rules exactly?” He asked her. “You keep going on and on about rules, but none of you have told me what they are. Do you expect me to just know them?”
“The rules are quite simple, Evans.” Riddle finally spoke and the rest fell silent. The suddenness of it, the way his voice cut cleanly and clearly through the tension without needing to raise it, caught the Auror’s attention. Even now these children defer to him, going mute like a group of well-trained pups.
Not a master my arse, he thought.
“I would be happy to lay them out for you to clear up any confusion,” the headboy offered.
Because, of course, he would. Harry understood now what the angle was. Why bother confronting Harry himself, when he could let the others do it for him? Riddle didn’t need to chime in when Walburga was so willing to pick up the gauntlet. He could just sit back and wait while the others berated and wore him down then swoop in and be the peacemaker before it could all go too far.
What a smarmy two-faced snake , Harry thought. He hadn’t expected anything less.
The Auror clenched his teeth deciding then and there he was done with these games. “On second thought, don’t bother. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about your rules, I don’t care about your politics, or your bloody opinions and I don’t have the energy to pretend that I care. I told you I didn’t want to be involved, Riddle, and I’ll say the same thing to the rest of you. Leave me out of it. All of it. Don’t bother me and I won’t bother you, alright?”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way, Evans,” Riddle replied.
“Why not?” Harry wondered. “What is it that makes me worth your time?” He glanced at the others in turn, his eyes settling on Walburga. “Worth any of your time?”
Riddle paused with a firm press of his lips. It might’ve been mistaken as a thoughtful expression by anyone else, but Harry recognized the flash of anger across his face. Anger that Harry was calling him out. Anger that there was no damn good reason and they both knew it.
A different sort of tension was growing now. Colder. Icy. If Walburga’s temper had been fiery and scorching as nesting Hungarian Horntail, Riddles was the chill of a dementor, foreboding, and deadly.
After a moment, Riddle smoothed out his expression and spoke. “Why don’t we settle this matter once and for all, Evans, like the civilized wizards and witches we are?”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” The Auror wondered.
“Not quite,” Riddle told him. “In Slytherin we settle our internal disputes formally with a duel.”
“A duel?” Now Harry was frowning.
“Yes. Respect is something that must be earned here and if you want us to respect your autonomy then you must prove you are worthy of it,” the headboy explained.
“And you want me to duel you?” Harry asked clarifying.
Riddle smiled at the question, finding humor in it. “Merlin no, I’m not the offended party here,” he said then turned to look at the Black children gathered around one of the plush sofas.
Walburga grinned a sharp feral flash of teeth as she nodded and turned toward Harry. “I challenge you, Henry Evans, to a wizard’s duel for the injury you have incurred on myself and my brother! Who volunteers as my second?” She turned to others.
“I do,” Druella raised her hand.
Harry hadn’t had much experience with official wizarding duels. Once in first year, Ron had been challenged to a duel with Draco Malfoy and he had asked him to be his second. But Draco had instead used that opportunity to get them all in detention for being out after curfew. They had fallen out of practice in modern times, but Harry had to remember that this wasn’t the Twenty-first Century. This was the mid-nineteen-forties, a different time, a different world in fact. If he refused—Well, Harry wasn’t sure if he could, not without causing an even bigger blowout.
How do I always end up in these situations?
Walburga turned back to him, her expression triumphant. “Well, Evans, name your second!”
Nott was gonna kill him.
Chapter 15: Scars and Buttons
Summary:
“Well,” Walburga prompted after Evans' silence persisted. “Who’s your second? Or do you not have anyone who would stand beside you?”
Evans shrugged. “Not really,” he said, sounding unconcerned with that fact.
Walburga’s smile stretched into a sneer. “Aww. Not even your little halfblood friend?”
Notes:
So apparently I’m the sort of person who does my best creative work in stressful situations, also I just so happen to be the sort of person who makes an outline, then throws that outline out the fucking window. 🤦♀️
Is this a good thing? Is it a bad thing? I’ll let you all judge.
(Thank you for all the condolences. My family member hasn’t passed just yet, but it’s close. I hope because at this point she’s just suffering. Writing fanfic is really the only way I’m holding myself together right now. But I think my previous note from Ch. 14 should still stand cause once she goes I might be a complete wreck. Idk 🤷♀️. They say people grieve differently.)
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Fifteen
Scars and Buttons
“Well, Evans, name your second!”
The pause Evans took was palpable. He adjusted his glasses, a grimace pulling down the corners of his mouth. Walburga was grinning already considering herself the victor before the duel had even been issued.
Foolish girl.
Tom had always thought Walburga was too hasty with her actions, too impulsive, with a hot-headed temper and a fragile ego creating a personality that was as volatile as it was irritating. There was a very specific way one had to handle the eldest Black child and this—This was not it. Evans had surely dug himself an impressively deep hole that even Tom would’ve struggled to get himself out of.
In a day, the little nuisance had somehow managed to anger the whole nest of Slytherins by participating in this schoolyard pissing contest with Malfoy and the Black twins. It might’ve been impressive, if it wasn’t such a colossal headache that upset the delicate unions between these pureblood families. Unions that Tom had spent much of his time keeping peaceable and in balance with each other until Evans decided to go and tip over the bloody apple cart.
Now the Blacks were hissing and damning their pound of flesh whether or not they were the instigators. And Tom knew that they were. He didn’t buy this sob story from Walburga for a second. Because he knew her. And he knew Malfoy. And this whole mess had, in truth, very little to do with Evans at all.
Firstly, Evans had no reason to attack them. He wasn’t the type to go looking for a fight and lately the boy seemed more preoccupied with citrus than his housemates. Secondly, there was nothing for the kid to gain. If it has been one of the Dolohov brothers for example, Tom might’ve believed this fable because Antonin and Nikolai had motive. They hated the Blacks, because it was a little well-kept secret that Lord Black helped fund Grindelwald’s campaign, and because of Grindelwald they had been displaced refugees sent to Britain while the rest of their family had been butchered in one of the mass cleansing in St. Petersburg. They had a reason. But Evans did not. And thirdly, Malfoy had been after Tom’s position in Slytherin house for years. As the eldest in their year and heir to the Malfoy estate and all the prestige and influence that came with it he had pitted himself against Tom on day one. Tom had certainly hadn’t forgotten how the blond truly felt about him after sixth-year when Tom had snatched the position of headboy out from under him. All of this was another of Malfoy’s little power plays. A way for him to undermine Tom’s leadership. Because, like Evans had so aptly put, if Tom couldn’t handle a single mudblood then why should he be in charge?
There was a strict rule that Tom had established in Slytherin. Under no circumstances was there to be any in-fighting amongst those in the house, period. They would not attack themselves. They would not weaken themselves from the inside. They were to look out for one another and support each other's goals so that they all succeed. That was the core, the foundation that Tom had modeled, all their codes of conduct on. And Malfoy, the Black twins, and Evans had spit in the face of this rule. But because Evans had no name, because he hadn’t made any alliances within Slytherin he would take the brunt of the blame for this infraction.
There wasn’t much Tom could do for him now. A duel was the only way to settle this. Should Evans have enough sense to take the proverbial shovel Tom had tossed him and dig himself out of this. If by some chance Evans managed to prove himself as a contender then the rest will largely decide that it is not simply worth the trouble.
This was a test. Should Evans fail, then his time here would only become worse.
“Well,” Walburga prompted after Evans' silence persisted. “Who’s your second? Or do you not have anyone who would stand beside you?”
Evans shrugged. “Not really,” he said, sounding unconcerned with that fact.
Walburga’s smile stretched into a sneer. “Aww. Not even your little halfblood friend?”
Evans frowned. “I wouldn’t describe Rowle as little. He’s certainly taller than you.” Which was true. Walburga and Evans were of similar heights. There might’ve been an inch or two difference between them, with Walburga being the taller one, and still Rowle towered over both of them. “Do I need a second?” Evans asked.
“It’s customary,” Roiser told him. “In case you die.”
Evans regarded her for a moment considering. “Is this a duel to the death, Black?” Evans addressed Walburga without a trace of a smile now. This wasn’t a joke to him anymore. He was taking this seriously now. His green eyes flickered from Roiser to Walburga. He was assessing them, not just with his eyes, but with his magic. Magic buzzing in your ears, buzzing under your skin, loud and dangerous and all the sudden there. “Have you ever killed anyone?” He asked them.
Then those same green eyes passed over the occupants of the room; his expression hard to decipher. There was an air about him, a tension, his magic unconsciously reaching out to the others in the room—searching, hunting. It felt like a prickling under the skin, a sensation of a sharp, cool blade scraping along the tender flesh of a jugular. It felt like the wards around Evans' bed.
Tom wasn’t the only one affected. Walburga’s smile dropped, Roiser’s brows furrowed uneasily as she leaned closer to Cygnus on the sofa. It made the hairs in the back of Tom’s neck stand on end when Evans’ eyes settled on him last.
“Have any of you ?” There was a look there. Something knowing. An understanding in those eyes. It was exposing. It was uncomfortable. It made it hard to swallow.
What is that? Another accusation, Tom wondered. But no. It couldn’t have been. No one knew about that. He had made sure. No witnesses. Nothing to link him there.
“D-don’t be so dramatic!” Walburga stumbled over her words, a clear sign of her nerves.
“It’s a simple yes or no question,” Evans replied.
“Of course, not!” Roiser answered the question. “That’s illegal.”
“Okay. Then do I really need a second?” He asked.
“If you don’t want one—Fine! Don’t have one,” Walburga told him. “Just name the time and place, Evans. ”
Evans paused to consider it. Green flickering to Tom again. Evans tilted his head; a sudden raise of his dark brows. An idea, perhaps? Then he turned back the girls and smirked. “A quarter til seven on Samhain,” his words held a magically-binding promise, an oath that’s words reverberated through the air as the buzzing sensation of Evans’ magic swelled. He met Walburga’s steely gray eyes and Roiser’s wondering blue gaze in turn, shoulders settling back as his chin jutted forward. A silent dare in his eyes as he finished, “ in the Chamber of Secrets— ”
Wh—
—at?
Tom froze as the buzzing came to an abrupt stop, his jaw going slack. The challenge solidified. Magically-bidding. Official. Irrevocable.
Did he just—
“Are you bloody serious?!” Malfoy was the first to react, loudly and without censure. His blond brows rose almost to the arches of his widow’s peak. “The Chamber of Secrets doesn’t exist!”
“Huh, really?” Evans looked confused. “But I read about it in Hogwarts: A History .”
“It’s a myth! A-A bloody story for foolish children, you dolt,” Malfoy sputtered. “Everyone knows that!”
“Then why did the duel become binding?” Evans looked at Walburga and Roiser, whose faces had turned ashen. “You felt it too, right?”
Everyone bloody felt it! Tom felt his fingers biting into the palm of his hands. Why the hell—
“I-“ Walburga’s eyes flickered to Tom for a moment, “I don’t know where that is! No one does!”
“Really?” Evans was disbelieving. “Not one of you knows?”
“Of course not!” Roiser snapped. “It’s a legend. If it exists it’s been long hidden and abandoned!”
“Huh.” Evans frowned. “That’s interesting.”
“Pick somewhere else!” Walburga demanded.
“Eh, I don’t want to,” Evans shrugged.
“Excuse me?!”
“I don’t want to,” Evans repeated.
“How do you expect them to duel you at a location where no one knows where it is?” Cygnus interrupted. “Be reasonable, Evans.”
“I already tried that,” he said. “You’re the ones who insisted on this duel. You can always just rescind the challenge.”
“You mean forfeit? No way!” Walburga snarled.
“Then I guess you’ll just have to find it then,” the boy told her.
Why that bloody wanker! Sweet Salazar! The brat was serious!
Tom was flabbergasted.
He was stunned.
How could he be serious? Didn’t he know that failure to participate in an official magically-binding duel at the proposed time and place could result in the absent party losing a portion of their magic?
Surely, not. Right?
No.
He couldn’t have known. Because that’s insane. No one would take that risk. This wouldn’t just affect Walburga and Roiser. Evans also didn’t know where the chamber was. And even if he somehow-Hecate’s-sweet-magic did, he wouldn’t be able to enter without being a—Without being—Without being Tom…
Something nagged at the back of his mind. Maybe that was the point? But how would he—how could he know something like that? There’s no way.
But again, Evans knew things about him. Spoke to him as if had known Tom for years. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
What the hell is he planning?
Tom couldn’t understand him at all. The moment he thinks he has him pinned down, he somehow wrangles himself out of it. It was unpredictable. It was almost, dare he say, brilliant to turn the dynamics of a binding duel against Walburga. But it was reckless to endanger oneself to make a point.
Something a gryffindor would do, Tom considered.
“You think you can strong arm us into rescinding this duel? Is that what you’re trying to do?” Roiser wondered.
“Exactly,” Evans didn’t bother to deny it.
“Are you mad?!” Walburga shrieked. “You’re bound by this same as us! You’d willingly risk your magic for this?”
“Sure. But I’m not forcing you to do anything. You have an out, you’re just too prideful to take it, Black,” the boy pointed out. “You have some time to think it over. Or who knows, maybe you’ll luck out and find it. I don’t care. I’m going to bed.”
“You can’t just—“ But Evans didn’t stay to hear whatever Walburga was about to say. He breezed out of the room leaving the rest of them too stunned to stop him.
What
The
Fuck?
“Well,” Mulciber whistled, “that was a disaster.”
“No kidding,” Alphard agreed. “Tom, you have to get him to change the location.”
How? If he had anything on Evans, anything at all, he might’ve been able to strong arm him into it. But he had nothing. Nothing. Shit.
“I’ll speak with him,”he stood and left the common room.
Fortunately, when he arrived at the seventh-year dorm, Evans hadn’t yet enclosed himself within the wards. He stood in front of his trunk in the midst of changing his wrinkled uniform shirt for a lighter sleep shirt, buttons halfway undone. He turned, eyes and magic alert. There was an acidic taste in the air, irritation rolling off him in waves.
“ Merlin’s bollocks! What now?” He barked, his hands dropping to his sides. Tom’s eyes followed the movement, taking note of the raised flesh of pinkish scars on display through the fabric.
“We need to talk,” Tom told him, tearing his eyes away to meet the boy’s face. The scar on his forehead matched the one over his heart. It was a curse scar; dark magic—but Tom couldn’t recognize it on sight.
“No,” Evans shook his wild mop of curls stubbornly. “I’m done talking. I’m done listening to what you lot have to say. I’m tired. It’s late. I’m going to bed—“
“Evans be reasonable,” Tom began to beseech, but the boy whirled on him, eyes blazing brightly. The green shimmering with barely controlled anger as he jabbed two fingers at him.
“Back the fuck up, Riddle!”
Tom stumbled as something solid and forceful shoved at him. He caught himself, stepping half a step backwards, raising his hands in a placating gesture. It was wandless and nonverbal magic and it could’ve shoved him right over if Evans had let it.
That was different…
“I think I’ve been pretty fucking reasonable so far! I warned you to leave me alone! I warned all of you! But you just kept fucking pushing! You all did and I’m fucking done with it!” Evans' hands returned to the buttons of his shirt and swore as he ripped one and it fell and bounced on the floor.
“You can’t expect Walburga and Druella to find the Chamber of Secrets, Evans. That’s madness,” Tom told him. “You aren’t just risking their magic, but your own as well.”
“They’ve got until Samhain,” the other boy grumbled and tore off the offending fabric of his uniform and tossed it carelessly on his bed. “Besides, I’m pretty sure magically-binding wizard duels are against the school’s honor code. So unless you want your name to get dragged into this, I’d fucking drop it.”
Riddle drew back, surprised at the boldness. “Are you threatening me?” That hadn’t happened so blatantly since fifth-year.
“You threatened me first!” Evans shouted, his face flushing red. “I was minding my own fucking business! You—“ he jabbed his finger at him “came after me! You decided to poke your long-arse nose where it didn’t belong! You were the one who went to Professor Slughorn and started bitching!”
Tom took a deep breath, trying to keep his head cool and clear. I’m going to ignore the nose comment for now—pick your battles, pick your battles…
“He asked me how you were,” Tom explained. “I only spoke the truth. And I’ve never threatened you.”
“Bullshit!”
Tom felt his forehead wrinkle. “When? When have I threatened you?” He asked.
“Yesterday in the passageway. And today when you sent Malfoy and the Blacks to do your dirty work! And just now, when you shanghaied me into this duel that I didn’t want to get involved in!”
What the fuck is he talking about?
“I recall that it was you who had your wand drawn on me yesterday,” his jaw clenched. “And I didn’t send Malfoy and the Blacks after you—”
“Bullshit!” Evans grabbed his sleep shirt from his trunk and glared. “You’ve been on my arse from day one!”
“ Jesus-Christ! ” Tom shouted, running his hands through his hair to keep from strangling him. “If you weren’t so bloody-fucking-difficult I’d gladly leave you the fuck alone! Merlin! You’re not worth the aggravation!”
“Then leave!” Evans pointed his finger at the door. “I’m not keeping you here, Riddle. You can go whenever you want!”
With gritted teeth, the headboy stubbornly did not move. “No. Not until you change the location, Evans.”
“Why aren’t you asking Walburga to rescind the duel?” He asked him. “Why try to persuade me, when she was the one who proposed the duel in the first place? What? You think I’m an easier target?”
“Well, clearly you’re not,” Tom disagreed. “You’re just as stubborn as Walburga.” Maybe more so— Salazar.
“Then why?” Evans dark brows furrowed. “Are you afraid of her?”
Tom snorted. “Hardly.”
“Then what is it? You could make her do it, if you wanted to.” He spoke with such assurance in that statement, as if he knew just exactly what Tom could do if he wanted. As if he knew the thoughts Tom entertained when he was alone.
“…I don’t know what control you think I hold over them,” Tom began. “It’s almost flattering, if it wasn’t so overestimated. But I can’t bully everyone into doing what I want.”
Evans paused, his expression disbelieving. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“What do you mean?”
The boy shook his head and sighed. “Look, I’m not going to put Walburga’s and Roiser’s magic at risk. I’ll change the location. I’m just letting them panic for a bit.”
Tom paused; caught off guard by that response. Which seemed to be quickly becoming a trend with Evans. “Seriously?”
The smaller boy shrugged and put his sleep shirt over his head. “They deserve it, they’re annoying.” The fabric muffled his voice as he pulled on the shirt, as he did Tom eyes trailed along the exposed skin taking note of more raised scars, curse scars and non-curse scars crisscrossed from his protruded collarbone all the way down to the sharp angle of his hip. Evans wasn’t just skinny. He looked borderline anorexic. It reminded him of summers spent at Wool’s and wartime rations.
Tom hummed, studying the marks. He might’ve expected a boy raised around cursebreakers to have a few scars, but not so many. And certainly not so many curse-scars. He caught a familiar mark on his side, a round circular burn and knew that they were muggle cigarettes pressed to the skin. It painted an image in his mind; holding up a mirror that was uncomfortable to look at and be reminded of similar scars hidden beneath his own robes.
Evans' head popped out of the neck hole a second later, but Tom had seen more than enough. The boy pulled the hem of the shirt down and readjusted his glasses that had gotten askew. “Maybe this will teach them not to rush into duels with someone they know nothing about. If anything it’s a lot nicer than I could’ve been” he said. “ Dumb kids. ”
Did he really just call them kids? This was coming from a fifteen-year-old kid himself.
“Then you were already planning on going through with the duel?” Tom asked.
Evans shrugged. “I don’t want to. But I figured if they don’t back down then—yeah, I guess I’ll have to.”
“You don’t sound too worried about that,” Tom observed. “You know Walburga is a fairly accomplished duelist, right?”
“Exactly—” Evans flicked his fingers toward the crumpled up shirt which stretched out and smoothed its wrinkles and laid flat on the bed. Another wandless, nonverbal spell. “She’s a competitive duelist. That means she learned how to fight on a straight line with perfect posture, calculated wand movements, and flamboyant spell work. She doesn’t improvise well, she doesn’t use the terrain to her advantage or guard her blind spots. Her shield charms are strong, but her countercurses need a lot of work because her idea of defense is to use a barrage of offensive spells to push her opponent out of bounds as quickly as possible. Which is bloody-fucking-useless outside of competition. So, no, I’m not worried.”
Tom regarded Evans as he began looking around for his missing shirt button. “You talk like you have some experience,” he said.
Evans ran his fingers through his hair, somehow messing it up even more. “More than I’d like to frankly— Where is that bloody button? ”
“Then should I just tell them you’re messing with them?” Tom spotted the missing button by his foot. Something possessed him to step on it before the other boy noticed.
Evans crouched down to cast a lumos under his bed. “I don’t care what you tell them,” he said. “You can tell them to fuck off and go to bed if you want. As a matter of fact, tell them I said it.”
Tom smiled. Who knew Evans' snark could be funny when it wasn’t directed at him? “How about I propose an alternative?” He suggested.
Evans looked up at him. “What alternative?”
“Let’s say, we let them stew tonight. Tomorrow you inform Walburga you want to change the location of the duel and I’ll volunteer as your second—“
Evans squinted at him and frowned. “I don’t need your help,” he told him.
“I’m not doing it for you,” Tom said flatly.
“Then why?”
“Because I do my own dirty work, Evans. And because this whole thing—“ he twirled his finger in the air to encompass this whole situation—“really has nothing to do with you.”
“You are not worried about your reputation?”
Tom scoffed. This was about his reputation. “Yes or no, Evans?”
He stared at him with a perplexed expression on his face. As if Tom was a jigsaw puzzle that he couldn’t quite fit together. He turned away, shaking his head. “Whatever, Riddle, but on one condition: keep the rest of them the hell away from me until then.”
Tom grinned broadly. “Sure if you sit with me in class.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” Evans whirled, clearly displeased at the thought.
“Because our timetables are the same and because none of them will bother you if I’m right there,” he said.
“Yeah and what’s to stop you from bothering me?”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Tom grinned down at him. “Promise.”
“Eh…” the other boy closed his eyes and groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard. “Fine! Whatever—just leave me alone now. I’m tired of looking at that smarmy smile of yours. Shit’s bloody creepy.”
Tom's smile stretched wider and Evans looked like he wanted to be sick. Might’ve been the only person who’d describe him that way. That in itself was amusing, realizing he could get on the other boy’s nerves just as much if not more than he got on his.
“See you tomorrow, Evans.”
As he turned, he summoned Evans' missing button into his open hand. The last thing he heard was Evans swearing loudly. “Fuck this whole day!”
Chapter 16: A Word of Advice From One Slytherin to Another
Summary:
Nott cursed under his breath. A curse that wasn’t in English, but Harry knew its meaning by tone alone. “You are unbelievable,” he breathed. “Truly. If anyone else had told me that, I’d say they were full of it, but you…You’re the bloody boy-who-lived—A fucking cockroach.“
Harry grimaced. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”
The Unspeakable shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face. He looked as if he was experiencing his own existential crisis in that moment, like how Harry had looked in Divinations. Eventually he said, “Whatever pisses you off more. Seriously, Harry, fuck you for telling me all that.” He looked at him then, seemingly reevaluating him, and then laughed the same sort of manic laugh from thirteen days ago lying on that rubble strewn street. “I can’t with you today. I’m done. Alright? This is the fucking threshold. Just—you sort out this shit with Slytherin and don’t involve me in it, okay?”
And with that said, he grabbed his bag from the floor and stood. “But a word of advice, you need to stop thinking like a lion and more like a snake.”
Notes:
Ohh boy, it’s been what? 3 months since the last update? Yikes 😬. Tbh, this chapter was sitting around half-finished for a good while, but I couldn’t bring myself to finish itbecause when I first started it I was sitting at my mom’s deathbed and when I finished it’ll be five days before the 3 month anniversary of the day she died. Every time I tried coming back to it to keep writing I kept getting flashbacks—which fucking sucked. So I needed to step away for a bit for my own mental health. And in the process of doing that I ended up not only writing a short spin off, but also started doing a podfic of this work that I posted yesterday.
This chapter didn’t turn out how I thought it would, but they rarely do. I can’t outline for the life of me, so I have to add more chapters now. (I sure y’all are more than okay with that!) So that duel may take a bit longer than anticipated. (I know y’all aren’t happy about that!) But hopefully this fic will be easier for me to write now that I’ve gotten past this chapter. (It’s probably not going to be one that I’ll reread for obvious reasons.) Still, I do like how it turned out overall.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Sixteen
A Word of Advice From One Slytherin to Another
Harry pressed his face into the blankets of his bed wanting to scream. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I fucking hate this damn place!
His glasses dug painfully into the bridge of his nose as he tried to get a handle on his emotions. Riddle’s words were still ringing in his ears.
“See you tomorrow.” He had sounded so smug. So bloody self-assured. Goddamnit!
Why did he just agree to that? He was kicking himself internally. That was stupid. Reckless. All because he wanted his damn peace. All because he just wanted to collapse on his bed and sleep until this nightmare was over. He had agreed to spend time with the bloody git and it was so fucking dumb.
This was just the tip of the bloody iceberg. He knew that if he gave the bastard an inch it would only be a matter of time before he was inserting himself into every aspect of Harry’s day. He could already picture him following him in between classes, asking question after question, and making his snide observations. How was he supposed to get away from him?
Harry supposed there were those detentions with Professor Beery and Professor Slughorn. And being Headboy, Riddle was busy with patrols schedules and prefect duties, and N.E.W.T.s this year meant he’d spend a lot of time studying or running the dueling club. How much time would he be able to realistically spend stalking him? Not much. If it was just him Harry had to worry about maybe it would be manageable. But it wasn’t just him, the Auror had no doubt in his mind that the headboy would recruit others to keep an eye on his movements.
Riddle had a whole housefull of little sycophants to do his bidding. Nott was bloody lucky he wasn’t dealing with this. Bastard.
Maybe there was a way Harry could divert Riddle’s attention to him? Maybe if Harry acted as boring as possible, he’d lose interest? What did Hermione call it? Gray docking—No, gray rocking. Yes. He was sure that was a better plan than what he had been doing.
He’d make sure Riddle would see him as worthless. After all, hadn’t he already said as much tonight?
“You’re not worth the bloody aggravation!” That’s what he said.
It shouldn’t be hard to push him to affirm that conclusion. Harry was sure he could do it. He just needed to treat this like an interrogation. Keep his answers short, don’t get emotionally involved, bare minimum only.
Harry took a deep breath.
Then another.
“ This is fine. You’re fine. Okay. Just breathe ,” he told himself.
He had always been bloody awful at meditating and sitting alone with his thoughts. Oh, he was usually fine on his own. He could be by himself for hours or days on end if need be just as long as he had something to do and occupy his mind. It was moments like this, moments of stillness, when mental exhaustion was setting in, that Harry’s thoughts would start rushing.
Ginny called it anxiety attacks. Harry just thought it was bloody annoying. He’d turn over every possible scenario and sometimes impossible scenarios too in an attempt to predict what might happen next. Sometimes he would jump to the most arguably unreasonable conclusions that even he admitted was borderline paranoia.
Honestly, he was stressing out too much about this. It wasn’t like he couldn’t handle Riddle if it came down to it. He was still just a sixteen-year-old kid. Of course, he was more dangerous than the average, more talented, possibly more unhinged.
Although thinking about it, Riddle had acted rather maturely so far. He hadn’t reacted to Harry’s baiting. He hadn’t gone out of his way to humiliate him or outright threaten him into submission. He had reasoned with him, in fact. He had even gone so far as to admonish bullying…
Still, it didn’t escape his notice that he was wearing the Gaunt ring and the Auror knew that it meant he had already murdered the Riddles by this point. He had already killed Myrtle Warren. He had already framed Hagrid and his Uncle, Morfin, for his crimes and both of them were probably residing in Azkaban. (Albus Dumbledore wasn’t here to intercede on Hagrid’s behalf.) Which meant that he had likely already split his soul, not once, but twice at this point.
He was just sixteen. And yet, he was well on his way to becoming Voldemort. It was probably too late to do anything about it. Maybe before the horcruxes, it might’ve been possible, but now he was already too far down that path of self-destruction. Perhaps the only thing to be done was to destroy him before it could ever escalate to that point.
Is that fair, though, to punish him for something he never did? Harry had been warring with that question for days. And still, he hadn’t been able to answer it. Would it be better if he stepped in? Would it be better to stay out of it?
Harry wanted to stay out of it. He didn’t want to have to dredge all this up again. He wanted it to remain buried. And yet, being in Hogwarts again, sitting in class with Tom Marvolo Riddle, and having all these memories get pulled from the recesses of his mind to the forefront had him struggling.
Harry was torn.
Riddle seemed so, dare he say, normal at times. A model student, headboy prefect, dueling club captain on the surface. But that was a mask. It wasn’t his true self. Harry hazard a guess that no one knew what Riddle’s true self was at this point in time, not even him. He might’ve had an inkling. He could even guess at it. But he didn’t know-know . It was hard to separate the headboy from the monster of the man he became in Harry’s past.
This attention he was giving him… Was it some kind of need for validation? Genuine curiosity? Or was it just him assessing Harry as a threat? The Auror couldn’t figure it out. If he could it would’ve helped him know how to better handle it perhaps.
Too tired to think about it anymore, Harry pushed himself away from the bed and stood. He moved too quickly and he felt himself sway as a feeling of dizziness overtook him.
Ugh. Grabbing onto the bed post, he closed his eyes and waited for that feeling to pass. He already had a migraine forming behind his eyes. And those nutrient potions weren’t doing anything but increasing that noxious nausea threatening to climb up his throat.
Sleep. He needed to sleep. It had been what? Two—three days? That is roughly forty-eight to thirty-six hours, maybe thirty-eight…
He’d worry about all this when he woke up. Grabbing the shirt from the bed, he threw it into his trunk; missing button be damned. Locking it so the contents couldn’t be tapered with and fell into his bed barely having the presence of mind to remove his glasses or shut the curtains with a wave of his wand.
Ah— Harry sighed once the light from the room was snuffed out and he was left in blissful silence and impenetrable solitude. That’s better. That’s way better. The last thing he remembered was rolling onto his stomach and tucking his arms under the cool side of his pillow.
And then he slept.
It was the kind of heavy sleep brought on by severe exhaustion. The sort of sleep that made your body feel like it was floating suspended in a black void of a dreamless abyss. Even without the wards, Harry was sure he could’ve and would’ve slept through anything in this antigravitational sensory daze where even a comet hitting the Earth wouldn’t raise him.
For all intents and purposes, Harry was blissfully dead to the rest of the world. Dead. At rest. In peaceful oblivion—
Then something called him back.
“-vans, Mr. Evans!”
Harry groaned. No. Go Away.
“M—vans!”
The Auror cracked open a bleary eye. A blurry shape moved. Suddenly both eyes were wide open and Harry was halfway upright with his wand drawn before his mind caught up with the rest of his body.
“ Whoa— Easy there, lad, it’s just me, Madame Bones, and Professor Izanagi.” The round colorful shaped spoke sounding a lot like the Slytherin head of house.
“Slughorn?”
“Yes. Are you alright, Mr. Evans?”
Harry fumbled for his glasses, whilst not taking his bleary eyes off the shapes in front of him. With deft fingers, he snatched them up and put them on his face. And then he saw that it really was his head of house, Madame Bones, and the ancient runes Professor standing at the foot of his bed. Slughorn had his hands raised in surprise.
Harry lowered his wand. “I—“ he looked around the room, seeing the other beds empty. “What’s going on?” He asked.
“We’ve been trying to wake you,” Madame Bones answered first. “Can you move at all, Mr. Evans?”
Harry’s mind was still in a fog. “Why? What time is it?” He wondered.
“About a quarter til one,” Slughorn told him.
“In the morning?” Harry squinted from behind his glasses, green filtered sunlight cast ripples of shadows around the room. It definitely wasn’t the middle of the night. “What happened?” He wondered.
Clearly he had overslept. By a lot. By a whole lot.
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Madame Bones rested a hand on her hip and tutted with disapproval. “Your housemates thought you might be unwell…”
Harry’s mind and body were still trying to reconcile with each other. “I—“ he wetted his lips, his mouth feeling dry. He still felt utterly exhausted. It felt like more than just a simple lack of sleep. His eyesight was still blurry even with his glasses, as if the lens were smudged or something. Harry tried to wipe them off to no effect.
Moving to sit up had the room almost turning topsy turvy like a seesaw. He felt like he was gonna be sick. It was the kind of nausea you’d associate with portkeying. A dizzy, spinning sensation that made him stop moving in hopes that it’d pass.
“Are you unwell?” Madame Bones asked again. Her tone worried. Harry nodded. Merlin this was worse than a hangover…
“Mr. Evans,” Professor Izanagi interrupted, “we cannot get to you with the wards around your bed. We need you to step out of them. Can you do that for us?”
The wards? Harry looked at the runic sigils he had painstakingly carved into the bedposts, suddenly understanding why none of the faculty moved closer. They physically couldn’t. Harry’s own magic was keeping them at bay a foot from the bed, unable to touch him, or for that matter help him.
Oh…
Harry hadn’t considered this problem when he first put them up. The only thing he had been concerned with was having a quiet, safe place to sleep without possibly being attacked while unconscious. It was a habit he had picked up during the war. A hard learned lesson to ward any place where one might be vulnerable in an unknown location. It was a precaution to alert him to any attacks and a protection to give him time to counteract said attacks.
In retrospect, the wards he used were a little too advanced to be used in a school dormitory if even his professors were having a tricky time dismantling them. And clearly, they were if they were asking him to move past the warding radius. With a grimace, Harry threw the covers off and used one of the bedposts to hoist himself up and off of the mattress. As he wobbled on his feet Professor Slughorn instructed him to take his hand, which Harry did falling forward only to be caught and supported by the wizard. A smaller, cool hand brushed aside his dark, matted bangs feeling his forehead.
“Oh dear!” Madame Bones exclaimed. “He’s running a fever.”
He was?
“Yes. You are,” the mediwitch answered. Had he said that out loud?
A sudden cool breeze ruffled his sweaty hair as the witch cast a nonverbal cooling charm on his person. “I fear we’ll have to get him to the infirmary,” she told the two professors. “I’m worried that that sleeping draft in his exhausted, malnourished state might have triggered a case of magical core depletion crisis. You haven’t been taking your nutrition potions like you’re supposed to, have you Mr. Evans?”
Harry tried to wrap his mind around what the witch was saying. When had he taken a sleeping draft? He didn’t remember that at all…
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his voice sounded slurred to his own ears.
“That’s alright, lad,” Slughorn told him. “Here, drink this and we’ll see about getting you checked out, alright?”
A vial pressed to Harry’s mouth, but Harry didn’t drink it. “What is it?”
“Pepper-up,” the potion’s professor explained. “It’ll help us get you there without you passing out.”
Too tired to protest further, Harry took the potion offered to him relieved when its contents abated the pounding, blinding migraine to a bearable throbbing at his temples. Madame Bones and Professor Slughorn hurried him along, while the ancient runes Professor remained behind still studying the wards Harry had left around his bed.
The trip from the common room to the infirmary passed in a blur. He was sure at some points his Professor had casted a featherlight charm on him when it came to getting up the stairs to the infirmary wing. Madame Bones wasted no time putting Harry in the closest available cot as she instructed Professor Slughorn to grab her a vast assortment of potion vials from her stores and proceeded to cast an array of diagnostic charms on him.
She was not pleased when doing so only confirmed what she had feared. “Oh, you reckless, foolish boy! How could you let yourself get to this state?”
“I’m fine,” was Harry’s stubborn, reflexive reply.
“You are not at all fine!” Madame Bones barked at him. “Your magical core is severely depleted, on the brink of wholly shutting down. What in Hecate’s-sweet-magic have you been doing to get it to this point?”
Harry didn’t answer. He had honestly thought he was doing rather alright last night, all things considered. It certainly hadn't been the most tired he had ever been, but the way the mediwitch was talking made it sound like he had almost fallen into a coma. “I don’t know,” he said again. “I felt fine last night.”
“I might be able to better explain what happened,” Slughorn’s started. “You see I noticed how tired you looked last night and I thought it might help you rest if I slipped a couple drops of a dreamless sleep potion in your tea. I had no idea it would have such an effect on you, Henry, I’m terribly sorry lad.”
Oh…
Harry blinked slowly as the potions professor rang his hands. That would explain it. After the war, Harry had developed a dependency on dreamless sleep, so much so that his body had begun to develop an adverse reaction to it. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione had helped wean him off finding other alternatives to combat his relentless nightmares when the potion proved to put him in an almost vegetative state. “I have an allergy to that potion,” Harry told the wizard.
“Yes, I realize that now,” Slughorn said. “It was a grave mistake on my part. I should’ve asked first.”
He should’ve. But there was nothing to do about that now. Harry assured the professor that he was fine, or would be fine. He just needed some time for it to pass out of his body. Madame Bones was not at all convinced by this explanation and had refused to let Harry leave until he had not only flushed the potion from his system, but also took a dozen others to compensate for the adverse effects (including the dreaded nutrient potions.).
“I want to keep him here a couple days to ensure that he rests,” the mediwitch told Slughorn once she was satisfied that Harry had consumed enough of the potions. “His magical core needs some time to repair itself before I feel it would be safe for him to participate in practicing any spellwork in class.”
“Yes. I agree,” the potions professor nodded—
Well, Harry fucking didn’t agree.
But any protest he tried to make fell on deaf ears. Madame Bones even went so far as threatening to physically restrain him, if he so much as moved to get off that cot. And Harry, knew by the narrowed-eye glare she kept sending him that she meant every word.
Great. Fan-fucking-tasic.
With nothing else to do, Harry laid back against the pillows of his cot and glared at the beams of the ceiling. He had spent so much time in the infirmary over the years, possibly on this specific cot even, that he knew each grain of wooden beams by heart. He could close his eyes and draw perfect replicates of the patterns.
He really bloody hated this sodding place…
It was after two hours of mind-numbing boredom, that someone actually showed up to check in on Harry. Two someones, one of which was Nott (which Harry sort of expected) and the other a boy with a head of unflattering yellowish-green hair that Harry didn’t register as Cygnus Black until he noticed the Slytherin emblem on his uniform.
“Merlin, what the hell happened to you?” Harry blurted out. Cygnus glared as he sat himself down in a chair by his bed.
“Your bloody wards is what happened,” the Slytherin snapped.
“That color looks awful on you,” Harry told him.
“You think it looks bad on him, it looks twice as bad on Malfoy,” Nott told him, taking the other seat.
“Malfoy?” The Auror blinked. “What were you both trying to do?”
“We were trying to wake you up. Which proved to be bloody impossible with those wards, Evans,” Cygnus said. “And you’re welcome by the way, looks like we got Professor Slughorn just in time.”
“Oh, so you’re the reason I’ve been sequestered to this bloody bed—“ Harry narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t blame him for your own poor selfcare—“ Nott dug through his school bag. “I took the liberty of retrieving your homework so maybe you can keep yourself out of my hair for a few days.”
“You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” Harry drawled, taking the stack of papers from the unspeakable.
“I would.” Nott agreed. “Not that I actually expect that you’d be able to accomplish such a feat. Merlin knows, you’re incapable of keeping yourself out of trouble. You’ll probably get attacked by a roaming Cornish Pixie next.”
“Hey, don’t jinx me,” Harry said, then raised a brow at Cygnus. “And why are you here? Not that you can’t be, you’re just the last person I expected to volunteer as a candy-striper.”
Cygnus Black looked confused. “Candy-striper?” He repeated the words, clearly not understanding them in the context Harry had used them.
“He means a mediwitch’s assistant,” Nott explained. “It’s a muggle term from North America.”
“...oh.” Cygnus glanced from Nott back to Harry. “I needed to speak with you…” The Slytherin paused, looking pointedly at the ravenclaw in the chair next to him, “privately, if you please.”
“What do you need to speak to me about?” Harry wondered, feeling both weary and wary of what he felt was sure to be yet another confrontation with a housemate.
“It’s about my sister, Walburga…” Cygnus sighed, sounding himself a touch exasperated.
Harry frowned. “What about her?” He asked, but Cygnus instead of answering gave another significant look at Nott. Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Look, anything you need to say in front of me, you can say in front of him,” he said. “Ted won’t snitch.”
Nott arched a blond brow and glanced back at the Auror. “Is there something that is worth snitching about?” He paused then pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “What did you do this time?”
“Why do you always assume I did something?” Harry wondered.
“Because you are usually the culprit,” Nott answered.
“Not this time—”
“He’s right,” Cygnus cut in, halting the impending bickering match in its tracks before it could get any traction. “Evans didn’t start it this time.”
“Oh, well color me surprised,” Nott remarked. “And what exactly is it?”
“I got challenged to a duel,” Harry spat it out in hopes that just blurting it out will get the whole mess out of the way faster.
Nott paused and gave him a disapproving look. “A duel? And you accepted?”
This time Harry couldn’t resist the eyeroll. “I tried to de-escalate things—” Cygnus scoffed. “I did,” Harry looked pointedly at the slytherin. “But your sister didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“If you had simply apologized—”
“Apologize for what?” Harry cut the Black boy off before he had a chance to finish that sentence. He was getting rather sick of people telling him what he ought to do. “I was minding my own damn business, you’re the ones—you and Walburga and Malfoy— were the ones that started that fight. You sought me out. I will not apologize for defending myself, nor should I for that matter!”
“Look,” Cygnus held up his hands. It was an act of surrender. “I don’t want to fight with you. I didn’t come here for that, Evans.”
“Then why are you here?” Harry asked.
“I’d tell you, if you’d just kept your mouth shut for two minutes and let me speak,” Cygnus snapped.
“Fine! Then I’ll give you two minutes, go!” Harry mimed a motion of zipping his own mouth and waved Cygnus to continue.
“I know my sister can be confrontational, and impulsive, and hot-headed at times…But Wallie’s worst quality by far is her stubbornness,” Cygnus began. “I tried convincing her last night to rescind the duel. Alphard and I both tried convincing her. But she refused.”
“...Okay… Are you really that surprised?” Harry wondered.
“A bit,” Cygnus' lips twitched in wry amusement. “I thought perhaps this time, her own sense of self preservation would prevent her from jeopardizing herself in such a way as to risk her magic—But she’s too bloody stubborn. Even with the argument of the risks to her magic, she refuses to change her mind because she knows it’s a powerplay. She won’t bend before you do. It’s a pride thing with her… Ordinarily I’d leave her to it, but she’s dragged Druella into this and that I cannot abide. So I’ve come here to ask you on the behalf of my betrothed and my stubborn sister to change the location, Evans. If you do this I’ll volunteer to step in as your second. Please. ”
That last word was hissed through gritted teeth, but it was no less sincere. Harry could tell this was taking a lot for the other boy to do. To even come here to speak with him. Much less plead with him on the behalf of people he cared for… It wasn’t something Harry had expected. He had always thought that whoever the father of Bellatrix Lestrange was would be just as set in his ways and bigoted as his daughter had been. And perhaps, the Cygnus from his reality had been those things, but this version had enough foresight, enough humility to play the advocate on his sister’s behalf. He cared enough for his family to plead to someone he thought was beneath him.
That took some integrity…
“I’m confused,” Nott interjected, turning to Cygnus. “Why does Harry need to change the location of the duel? Where is it set to be? And when for that matter? Who did you name as your second? I swear, Harry, if you named me—”
“I didn’t name you,” the auror glared. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Ted. I know better than to drag you into my messes as you call them.” Then turning to Cygnus, Harry asked, “Did Riddle not speak to you?”
Confusion returned to Cygnus’ face. “Why would Tom speak to me?”
“That bloody wanker…” Harry grumbled wanting nothing more than to hex an especially vexing headboy right about then. “Look, Black, I appreciate what you’re trying to do in coming here. That takes a certain amount of integrity that I respect. But it’s not necessary. I already worked it out an arrangement with Riddle.”
“...oh. I see.” Cygnus paused to consider that, looking for a moment displeased. “And you thought Tom would’ve let me know?”
“I assumed so,” Harry shrugged.
“Well, he didn’t.”
“I know…” Harry regarded him curiously, trying to decipher the stoic boy’s expression. There was a hardness to his gray eyes, something biting like sharp steel. Anger. Yes, Harry was sure the other boy was angry. But not at him… “Riddle doesn’t normally let people know, does he?”
“He doesn’t make a habit of it. We only know what he tells us,” Cygnus' jaw clenched and unclenched as he forced a chuckle. There was no humor in it.
“That’s a shitty way to treat a friend,” Harry remarked, purposefully using those words to jab at that tender sore spot on display to see how far this boy’s loyalty went. Cygnus’s answer surprised him.
“Tom doesn’t have friends.” The slytherin gave him a look, his eyes expressing a truth that couldn’t be spoken aloud. It was a warning just as much as it was an admission. But Harry knew what he was trying to tell him. Because he knew what Tom Riddle would someday become.
Harry nodded. A sign of his understanding of the message. “Some people are like that,” he said.
Cygnus shook his head. “Well, then if you’ve already agreed to change the location then there’s no reason for me to hang around here,” the boy stood. “Rowle and I have detention with Professor Beery, if you recall.”
Lucky. The Auror would rather be in the greenhouse pulling up weeds than sequestered to a sick bed. “Don’t want to keep me company?” Harry asked, already knowing the answer.
Cygnus smirked. “I don’t like your company, Evans.”
“Feeling is mutual, Black,” Harry regarded with a tilt of his head. “Can’t have you falling in with the riffat and ruining that stellar reputation of yours, can we?”
“Both of you have already ruined my reputation,” he stood from his chair. “I hope you die here.”
That did make Harry laugh. “Fingers crossed,” he smiled, holding up his left hand with his middle finger curled around his index finger at the same time Nott uttered a resounding “Amen.”
Harry chucked the closet object on hand at Unspeakable. Unfortunately, said object just so happened to be his pillow. Fortunately the sound it made against Nott’s surprised face was pretty satisfying.
“—the hell, Harry?!”
Cygnus snorted, stifling a laugh behind his fist. He made turned to leave, but Harry stopped him saying, “ Invorto ad mori.”
Black turned, confused. “What?”
“It’s the counter-charm for the hair,” Harry explained. “Counter-clockwise triangle, followed by a downward slash.” He then demonstrated the wand movement with his hand.
Black paused, his brows furrowed as he regarded Harry with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “Why?”
“Because I’m not a complete arse,” Harry rolled his eyes. “And despite what you all might believe, I’m not actually out to get anyone.”
Black seemed to accept that response with a nod. He didn’t say thank you. Instead he tossed a careless, “See you later, Evans,” as he left the infirmary.
“That was nice of you,” Nott remarked, tossing Harry’s pillow back at him. Harry batted it away with one hand, and it fell onto the floor. Neither of them moved to get it. “You’ve gotten soft in your old age,” the Unspeakable mocked. “The Harry I went to school with would’ve let him figure that out on his own and laughed about it for weeks.”
“Yeah, well, the Harry you went to school with was a scared kid trying to distract himself from a Dark Lord out for his head and an impending war,” the Auror frowned. “And it’s not getting soft. It’s just growing up. I’m not fifteen anymore. I have other things to do than picking on a bunch of kids.”
“Ah, so you do have some maturity,” he rolled his eyes. “Good. I was beginning to worry this whole thing also screwed with your brain. So do you want to explain this duel?”
“Not really,” Harry grumbled, reaching for the stack of homework assignments. “They ambushed me last night in the common room, apparently Walburga had a chip on her shoulder after that mess in the corridor and got in my face, she wouldn’t back down til I agreed to a duel. So I did in the Chamber of Secrets.” The Auror told him this absentmindedly as he thumbed through the pages.
Nott made a choking, sputtering noise. “Are you bloody mad? The Chamber of Secrets? Merlin—“ Harry glanced up. The Unspeakable looked at him like he was struggling between cursing and laughing and pulling his hair out at the same time. “What about your magic?” He asked.
“I already agreed to change the location,” Harry reminded him.
“Why would you even propose such a location in the first place?” Nott wondered.
“I thought it’d give them a chance to reconsider,” Harry explained. “I was being nice.”
“You call that nice?” Nott laughed in disbelief. “You need to reread a dictionary. No wonder Black came here to plead with you…Circe—No one even knows where the Chamber of Secrets is—“
Harry cut him off, blandly. “I do. Second floor, girls’ toilets behind the sinks—”
Nott floundered, “Wait— what? How do you—“
Harry cut him off again, “You remember second year and all that heir of Slytherin shit—“
“…yeah—Wait, are you saying that you’re—“
“No.” Harry shook his head. “But You-know-who was. And it just so happened that one of his soul pieces ended up in Ginny’s hands and possessed her and opened the Chamber yada-yada. And, of course, I was the one who had to go down there and get her because I was the only one who could open it and Lockheart was too bloody incompetent…”
Nott didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. Fortunately, Harry didn’t give him a chance as he continued, saying, “He was so bloody incompetent, in fact, that his own spell backfired when he tried to obliviate me with Ron’s cracked wand. That’s how he ended up in Saint Mungo’s by the way. What a fucking idiot…How was he a Ravenclaw?”
“W-why did he try to obliviate you?”
“Oh, because he wanted to take credit for stopping the attacks and defeating the basilisk and he didn’t need two witnesses after stupidly confessing that all his accomplishments were just stories he stole from other wizards and obliviated to keep quiet so he could write all his dumb books,” Harry said.
Nott made another choking sound, “—b-basilisk?” The Unspeakable repeated the word; scarcely believing he had heard it—Looking for a moment that he was hoping he misheard it. And then looking particularly nauseated when Harry merely nodded and shrugged. “…bloody hell—“ He breathed, then again louder, “Bloody hell, Harry.”
The Auror pressed his lips together, frowning. “Yeah…I know.”
“That thing is still down there?”
“Yep.”
Nott pinched the bridge of his nose as if he was trying to fend of an growing migraine. “I don’t think I want to ask any more questions, but what happened to it? How did you get out?”
“Killed it,” the Auror told him.
Nott truly looked like he was struggling between his own curiosity and his need for self preservation. The Unspeakable didn’t want to know, he clearly knew it was a bad idea, but his own thirst for knowledge and academic inquisitiveness prevented him from letting sleeping dogs lie as it were. “With a cockerel?” He croaked, sounding anything but confident in that guess, like he knew that the truth was not so simple.
Harry shook his head. “With the sword of Gryffindor,” he said.
Nott cursed under his breath. A curse that wasn’t in English, but Harry knew its meaning by tone alone. “You are unbelievable,” he breathed. “Truly. If anyone else had told me that, I’d say they were full of it, but you…You’re the bloody boy-who-lived—A fucking cockroach.“
Harry grimaced. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”
The Unspeakable shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face. He looked as if he was experiencing his own existential crisis in that moment, like how Harry had looked in Divinations. Eventually he said, “Whatever pisses you off more. Seriously, Harry, fuck you for telling me all that.” He looked at him then, seemingly reevaluating him, and then laughed the same sort of manic laugh from thirteen days ago lying on that rubble strewn street. “I can’t with you today. I’m done. Alright? This is the fucking threshold. Just—you sort out this shit with Slytherin and don’t involve me in it, okay?”
And with that said, he grabbed his bag from the floor and stood. “But a word of advice, you need to stop thinking like a lion and more like a snake.”
Harry frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you were sorted into a house of arse-kissers. If you want to get all the ingredients and books we need, you better start puckering up. What we’re hoping to accomplish, it takes resources, money—“ Nott rubbed his fingers together—“connections. Use them. Use him if you have to.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, “How am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know,” the Unspeakable said. “You know him best, right? I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Because you’re right, you’re not the Harry I knew, so stop acting like it.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Harry scoffed. “You’re away from all this in Ravenclaw.”
The Unspeakable rolled his eyes. “Believe me, Harry, Ravenclaw has its own unique set of issues. But I adapt. I suggest you do the same.”
And with that said, Nott spun on his heel and left.
Harry watched him go half wanting to hex the back of his blond head and half wanting to get up and go with him. To argue about this. To curse at him. To complain at the unfairness of it all—He sighed, moving his glasses up to rub at his eyes.
When has his life ever been fair? Never.
Adapt, he said like Harry wasn’t good at that. Like he was incapable of it. It was a challenge, a dare, just as much as a rebuke…
Harry had never been one to back down from a dare.
Fuck.
Chapter 17: A Persistent Little Ember
Summary:
This was why most wizards weren’t allowed to study time magic. This was why the Department of Mysteries studies into time were so heavily regulated by the Ministry of Magic. Because when it went wrong, it went very wrong for everyone.
Notes:
Woo! Finally finished this chapter! This one was a bit complicated cause I was trying to figure out the mechanics of the time magic involved. It involves a bit an exposition, but it’s necessary exposition nonetheless. My current outline has the next chapter being a Fortescue POV, but I’m thinking I might do a Theodore POV instead since it feels like awhile since we’ve had one of those (And I feel like we’re over due.) and save the Fortescue POV for a later chapter.
Thank y’all for the wonderful comments and continued support of this fic. I drew a little pic of Augusta Rookwood for y’all that I’ll put at the end of the chapter.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Seventeen
“A Persistent Little Ember”
Paperwork was piled in precarious stacks upon her desk. It was a steadily growing mountain and it seemed that every time Augusta took a file out of a pile to look at it, six or more, would soon take its place; dropping down from the levitating post baskets that whizzed overhead. The Unspeakable cursed as three more files hit her desk with a thud, knocking over one of the stacks of folders and tumbling over; bumping her mug of coffee off the desk.
It shattered and the female Unspeakable swore loudly at the mess. Bloody hell!
She waved her wand and vanished the puddle of coffee and shards of the yellow ceramic mug on the floor. Then rubbed at the pounding ache in her temples.
It seemed that in the last two weeks, her work load had somehow tripled. And she knew what, or more who, was to blame for it. Those two bloody time-travelers had been wreaking havoc on the timeline. They were not supposed to be there in that time or reality and the universe fucking knew it and was throwing a tantrum because of it. In the last three days alone, there had been such a shift in the equilibrium of reality that a flood of various anomalies had been reported to the department. Those reports had ranged from something as small as missing owl post to shifting ley lines interfering with Ministry wards to a sinkhole forming in the middle of muggle London with no real cause.
A sinkhole that Rookwood and Novikov had been tasked with studying and figuring out how to stop it from growing any larger than a muggle motor car. They were not having much luck. And it seemed, every day it was an inch or two larger in diameter than the day before. And that sinkhole just so happened to be in the location where the two time-travelers were discovered.
Was that a coincidence? Augusta didn’t think so.
This was why most wizards weren’t allowed to study time magic. This was why the Department of Mysteries studies into time were so heavily regulated by the Ministry of Magic. Because when it went wrong, it went very wrong for everyone.
Any Unspeakable working for the Department of Mysteries knew the story of Eloise Mintumble. An Unspeakable, a prodigious witch and pioneer of Time Magic, she had had an experiment with dust go so horribly wrong that she wound up opening a time portal that transported her and five other Unspeakables from the year eighteen-ninety-nine back to the year fourteen-hundred-and-two. Five days were spent trying to recover them and reopen the portal, but of the six Unspeakables only Eloise Mintumble made it back to her original time. Nevertheless, the effects of traversing such a temporal distance of over four-hundred years had aged her so drastically in a matter of seconds from a young witch of nineteen to a mummified husk that she did not survive more than an hour once she returned.
And if that had been the end of it, perhaps then the whole incident could’ve been brushed under the rug as it were and hushed up by the higher up Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries. But that wasn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot. It was merely the beginning of a series of unexplainable events that proceeded to afflict their world for years following the incident.
The healers at Saint Mungo’s called it the Vanishing Plague. Not to be confused with the Vanishing Sickness, wherein the infected person merely becomes invisible, but doesn’t entirely cease to exist. The Vanishing Plague lasted from eighteen-ninety-nine all the way up until the nineteen-thirties where unexplainably and without any warning entire wizarding families, muggles, animals, and plants magical and non-magic alike would just up and vanish. The D.O.M. was able to keep some record of these disappearances, but not all of them. And the true scope of the damage was still predominantly unknown even to that day.
Fortunately, Augusta hadn’t received any reports on missing people yet; albeit the missing owl post wasn’t a good sign. But she feared, as did Novikov and the other Unspeakables who were aware of Mister Potter and Mister Nott, that it would only be a matter of time before the Vanishing Plague started up again in full force.
And with the war against Grindelwald who's to say how people are disappearing before it’s too late?
Sometimes, Augusta had wondered why Novikov hadn’t simply decided to kill them like Head Unspeakable Medlar had wanted. That could’ve avoided much of the larger ramifications. If they didn’t interact with the timeline, they wouldn't be able to negatively influence events, and perhaps again the whole thing could be hushed up and stashed away in the records room. But again, Novikov’s ambition, his curiosity and thirst for knowledge took precedence over cautious proactivity. Augusta, also, had to admit that her own curiosity and ambition drove her to follow in his footsteps.
After all, progress wasn’t made without some significant risks. Understanding did not come without sacrifice. And truth, well…Truth needed to be pursued doggedly and with conviction. The job of an Unspeakable was to seek out the greater truths of their word, to understand, and make sense of the chaos around them. Their job was to find the line, so others didn’t cross it, and be consumed by that chaos…or be consumed by magic itself.
Magic always had a price. And Augusta’s job was to understand exactly what that price was to know whether or not it was worth paying. Mister Nott’s and Mister Potter’s presence was a risk, of course, but the knowledge that could be gained from them…
That had to be worth it.
“I guess congratulations are in order—” A shadow passed over her and Augusta frowned, turning to her black-robed colleague, Unspeakable Meadows, and his wide-toothed smile— “didn’t know you were expecting!” His brown gaze lingered on the blue rubber balloon hovering overhead with the words, it’s a boy, stamped in bold white print.
Augusta sighed.
As if her day wasn’t stressful enough, she had had to suffer sitting under that damnable balloon since Unspeakable Travers had brought it in as a joke that morning. It was a rather moronic joke in her opinion. Very low brow. Augusta was now the unfortunate legal guardian of both Henry Evans and Theodore Rowle. The adoption paperwork of the two fictional teens had been finalized that morning and Unspeakable Travers had been the one to deliver it gleefully with a skip to his step and shit-eating grin along with that stupid balloon.
She had tried popping the bloody thing, but doing so had only showered her and her desk with sparkly blue confetti before it reinflated back to its unpopped state.
“I’m not pregnant.”
“...Oh?” Meadows frowned, tilting his head curiously. “Then what’s with the balloon?”
“Travers,” Augusta didn’t need to elaborate further because everyone knew Travers was a bit of an arse.
“Ah, thinks he’s being funny again?”
“Yep.”
“You know he likes you,” Unspeakable Meadows said.
Oh, she was well aware. He never shuts up about it. Even after repeated refusals to go out for a pint after work. “He’s incorrigible,” Augusta turns and glares over her shoulder at the wizard in question absorbed in some task involving the humming bird in the bell jar. She was half tempted to send a stinging hex toward him in retaliation, but such an action would be unprofessional and get her written up with the Head Unspeakable. Turning back to Meadows she softens her glare and asks why her colleague was there and if they needed something.
Unspeakable Meadows removes an envelope from his robe pocket and hands it to her. “Reception asked me to give this to you. Just came in from Hogwarts,” he told her.
Augusta resisted the urge to groan audibly at that; knowing that a letter from the school meant nothing good. What sort of trouble did those two get into now? Breaking the wax seal, the Unspeakable’s eyes skimmed the missive quickly and shook her head in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“What?” Meadows asked, curious. “Is it bad news?”
“One of the subjects got themselves in the infirmary,” the witch pinched the bridge of her nose. “His head of house writes that it was some type of magical exhaustion triggered by an allergic reaction.”
“...oh, dear…”
“I’m going to have to go up there and make sure that it’s nothing more serious,” the witch grumbled.
“I’ll let Novikov know,” Meadows assured her.
“Thank you,” Augusta nodded as he walked off and closed the report she had been reading—something about the unusual migratory patterns of the monarch butterfly— and put it aside for later.
She floo-called Professor Slughorn immediately upon leaving Level Nine and proceeded to explain her desire to check up on Mister Evans herself for much longer than the customary three to five minutes. He kept insisting that it was not necessary to make the trip and Augusta, already at the end of her patience for that day, may have gotten a bit brisk with the old classmate. She had never liked Horace when they attended Hogwarts together. She remembered that the wizard had been the worst sort of kiss-arse imaginable and was glad to be rid of him come graduation.
Was she surprised that he became a potion professor? A little. He wasn’t a brilliant brewer. He didn’t revolutionize the study of potions or anything of the like Fleamont Potter was rumored to be doing. In spite of that, however, what he lacked in potion-making ability he more than made up for with his ability to bullshit. He did go on to achieve a Potions Mastery under the apprenticeship of Ruben Winikus after graduation. Augusta supposed that it made sense given his propensity for schmoozing the other professors and staff that Slughorn was able to land an apprenticeship under the inventor of Skele-Gro. And from there, with the boon to his reputation, any door would’ve been opened to him solely by association. It hardly mattered that he was an average wizard masquerading as something more. Headmaster Dippet likely snatched him up as soon as the potion master position became available.
…Still, there was only so much of that schmoozing behavior the Unspeakable would stand. She had more important things to be doing than arguing with a school teacher; the ever-growing sinkhole in London weighing in the back of her mind. Eventually, she came right out and asked, “Am I not allowed to check up on my son, Professor?”
That brought the wizard up short. “Your son?”
“Yes, Henry is my adopted son,” the Unspeakable explained.
“I-I wasn’t aware of that, Miss Rookwood. Apologies, I thought, this was D.O.M. business—” the man stuttered— “Of course, you can come and check up on Henry. I’d never presume to tell a mother otherwise.”
“Glad to have cleared up any confusion, Professor,” Augusta had grinned something that had too many teeth to mask the annoyance in her expression. She saw the professor wince behind his desk before he waved her own through the floo.
“Come, please, I’ll walk you to the infirmary myself,” the wizard was hasty to offer; standing from his chair.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
They walked the corridors together side-by-side. The wizard, just as catty as she remembered, regaled her with praise about Henry’s academic performance, to which Augusta listened with a half-hearted ear until he mentioned something about trouble with his housemates. “Trouble?” Augusta repeated the word with an arch of her blonde brow. “What sort of trouble?”
“It was nothing. A small scuffle between them. You know how children fight,” the professor was quick to assure her—Except Potter wasn’t a child…“He’s been properly punished for the infraction, I assure you, a month's detention.”
“A month?” Augusta frowned. “For a minor scuffle? That’s a bit strict, isn’t it?”
“I suppose…but we take those matters very seriously.”
“Was he injured?”
“No, ma’am—” Ugh. It was strange being called ma’am by someone so close to her own age. She did not like it. Ma’am was for older women. Women older than her.
“Who did he fight with?” She wondered.
“Abraxas Malfoy, Cygnus Black and his sister, Walburga. It was all a misunderstanding, I assure you. No one was too beat up by the experience. I explained everything in more detail in an owl I sent to you yesterday. Did you not get it?”
Again the witch wanted to groan audibly. The bloody missing owl post—great! This day was getting on her last bloody nerve. “I'm afraid I didn’t, Professor. There’s been some issues with the post at the Ministry. It’s being looked into.”
“...oh.”
“And what caused this allergic reaction exactly?” Augusta wondered.
Professor Slughorn noticeably twitched. “Dreamless sleep,” the wizard answered.
“Has he been having trouble sleeping?” The unspeakable wonders.
“Noticeably so, I’m afraid. Madame Bones, you remember our school’s mediwitch, says that the boy has been pushing himself into a state of exhaustion and the sleeping potion exacerbated it unfortunately,” he explained.
That idiot. Circe give her patience. “What has he been doing?”
Again, the Slytherin Head of House faltered, and the expression on his face was uncomfortable to say the least. “We should actually discuss that in my office, if you don’t have to rush back to the D.O.M. immediately…”
Augusta felt her stomach drop. “What has he done?”
“It’s not a big deal,” the wizard assured her. “It’s just the wards on Henry’s bed have been somewhat challenging for our Ancient Runes professor to undo. I was wondering if you might perchance have some time to take a look at them and offer a professional opinion—”
The Unspeakable blinked. Then blinked again; stunned as she tried to process that. “He warded his bed?”
“Quite expertly.” The professor gave a nervous chuckle, turning his face away from Augusta who was struggling with the urge to laugh in disbelief or to swear furiously. She could feel her blood pressure rising.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
She wanted to gnash her teeth on something. But she didn’t have any biscuits in her robe pockets, so she had to settle for grinding her back molars together as she swallowed back her irritation. “I would be happy to take a look at those wards, Professor,” she gritted out.
“Are you sure? I would hate to inconvenience you, ma’am—” It was far too late for that— “I know you Unspeakables are busy at the Ministry,” he said.
“I insist.”
This was part of her job too: putting out fires before they could spread. And it seemed that Potter was a persistent little ember setting everything around him ablaze. He was an incendio growing into a blazing fiendfyre that threatens to burn down the world.
Fucking hell!
She was not getting paid enough for this.
With clenched fists, they rounded the corner arriving at their destination. Her eyes scanned over the room, taking in the made up cots, and large windows that flooded the place with warm afternoon sunlight. She had spent a fair bit of time here in her sixth-year as Madame Bone’s volunteer student-assistant. It had taught her much about healing and potions and allowed her to fast track herself into an apprenticeship under Unspeakable Novikov. The mediwitch ducked her head out of her office as they entered, recognizing the Unspeakable on sight with a wide, friendly smile.
“Miss Rookwood, it’s been awhile,” the witch approached them and shook Augusta's hand.
“It’s good to see you again, Madame,” she turned.
“You’re not a student anymore, you can call me Tabitha,” the witch told her. “I heard you’ve been working for the D.O.M, what are you doing here?”
“She’s here to see Evans,” Professor Slughorn explained. “Miss Rookwood is his mother.”
Tabitha Bones looked surprised at that and gave her an odd look to which Augusta ignored. It was probably due to the fact that when she was a student here, Augusta had spent much of her time with the mediwitch complaining about the idiot boy her parents had wanted to betroth her too and how she had no desire to become breeding stock sold off to some pureblood family. Especially one so daft and inbred as the Goyles. She had never desired to be a mother. And she had made it abundantly clear to everyone. And she had caused quite a public scandal in her seventh-year when her parents had publicly disowned her via howler when she accepted a job at the Department of Mysteries. Hence the odd looks from both the mediwitch and the Potions professor.
“Yes, well, he’s right over here,” Mediwitch said and led Rookwood to a partition around one of the beds which was clearly occupied. As they neared, Augusta could hear a hushed murmur of voices. There must’ve been some sort of muffling charm cast because she couldn’t quite make out what was being said. She thought she heard the words Ravenclaw and Riddles. Pushing aside the partition, Madame Bones announced their presence with a brisk, “Mister Evans, your mother is here to see you—”
Potter wasn’t alone it seemed. There was another student occupying a chair near the bed. A boy with dark hair and dark, gray eyes and high, prominent cheekbones. They both paused mid-conversation and turned to the new arrivals; Rookwood zeroed in on the Headboy badge pinned to the lapel of the other boy’s robe before she turned her eyes on Potter. Potter looked at her, clearly unhappy, and exclaimed in disbelief, “Sorry, my what?!”
“...your mother,” Madame Bones repeated, a bit taken aback by the response. She gave Augusta another look which also went ignored.
“I heard you got yourself in the infirmary,” Augusta stepped forward, “The school sent me an owl. You’re Head of House seemed rather concerned and I thought I’d check up on you…”
If anything that explanation soured the wizard’s youthful-looking face more. Potter’s hair was in a state of bedlam, the springy raven curls looked just as disheveled as they did that first day they met in the British Aurors’ Office covered in soot and debris as if the wizard had been running his fingers through it in agitation. She eyed him critically then. There were darker circles under his eyes, his skin had a paler sickly hue, and his face looked a bit thinner as if he had somehow lost weight in the last six days. He obviously wasn’t taking care of himself or his appearance. The sleep shirt he was wearing was done up haphazardly with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows allowing a myriad of scars on his forearms to be on display. “As my mother…?” He repeated the words, still not believing them.
“Of course!” The witch chirped. “What sort of mother would I be if I didn’t?”
The Headboy, watching this interaction with apparent interest, stood and introduced himself with an extended hand and charming, dimpled-smile. Someone that young had no right to be so good-looking. He told her his name was Riddle, Tom Riddle, and the green and silver tie and Slytherin emblem on his uniform told the Unspeakable they were housemates before the schoolboy told her that himself. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Riddle. It’s good to see Henry making friends—”
“We’re not friends,” Potter cut in, now scowling at Riddle.
The other boy was not offended and laughed. “Not yet—” He glanced back at the wizard in the hospital bed and smirked— “I’m still working on it,” he told Augusta.
The Unspeakable snorted, amused. “Then you must have the patience of a saint to pursue that endeavor,” the witch said. “Are you managing to keep him out of trouble?”
“Trying to, Ma’am,” Riddle grinned. “It’s not an easy job.”
“He doesn’t make it easy,” The Unspeakable agreed and there was a sound behind her from Madame Bones that sounded like agreement.
“Why am I being ganged up on right now?” Potter glared between all three of them.
“We’re just teasing,” Augusta cooed at him. “Besides, you've gone and made yourself an easy target. You can’t hang a pinata up at a birthday party and expect no one to take a swing.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll get out of the way and let you visit with your mum, Evans,” Riddle said. “You if need any help with those homework assignments just let me know, alright?”
Potter rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Riddle.”
“I’ll drop in to see you tomorrow to see how you’re faring,” he told him before bidding Augusta one last polite farewell and leaving with Madame Bones in tow.
The Unspeakable watched them leave in amusement. “Well, he seems like a nice helpful boy,” she remarked.
Potter scoffed. “He’s a bloody menace! Don’t let his looks fool you,” he told her. “That kid has the makings of a serial murder—”
Augusta laughed. “What a bold accusation toward someone offering to help you with your homework. It’s a bit rich coming from you.”
“Why are you here?” Potter hissed. “Did you lie and say you were my mother to get in here?”
Augusta adjusted the partition to conceal both of them from the sight of Madame Bones and a casted a sound muffling charm around them. She took one of the vacated seats by Evan’s bed and crossed her legs and arms, looking for all intents and purposes the disappointed parent. “First off, I didn’t lie,” she told him. “I drew the short straw and the adoption paperwork was finalized this morning. I’m officially yours and Theodore’s legal guardian. Yay me!” The last sentence was heavily sarcastic as the witch rolled her eyes. “Secondly, Professor Slughorn wrote to the department about your current predicament and it’s my job to come up here and check to make sure it has nothing to do with your current hijinks with Time Magic.”
“It doesn’t,” the wizard told her. “It was an allergic reaction. Nothing more.”
“Again, I’ll be the one to determine that,” Augusta huffed and then turned and noticed the box of unopened Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans set on the end table by the bed. “A gift from your friend?” She picked up the box of sweets and opened it without permission from the wizard; popping one of the toffee flavored beans into her mouth.
“Again, we’re not friends,” Potter told her. “And those are probably poisoned or something.”
“Because he’s a serial murder?” Augusta arched her brow and popped another bean into her mouth. This one was strawberries and cream. “I suppose we’ll find out in a few minutes, won’t we? Let’s not pretend that you would not be happy to be rid of me. The feeling is mutual, sweetheart. You have no idea the amount of paperwork that has been dropped on my desk because of you. It will likely be buried in it by the time I get back.”
“Then hurry up and get on with it and stop eating those bloody lollies,” Potter snapped at her, in no mood for pleasantries. To spite him, Augusta ate another bean—Cheddar cheese flavored—before drawing her wand and running through various diagnostic spells.
“You seem more lethargic than when I last saw you,” she remarked after a few minutes and a few half a dozen spells. “Have you not been sleeping well?”
“I sleep fine,” the wizard grumbled.
“Those bags under your eyes would say otherwise,” she countered. “Have you been having any nightmares? Or increased restlessness?”
“No.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
Potter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, before readjusting his glasses. “It’s not anything to do with this,” he told her. “I’m an insomniac. I’ve had difficulty sleeping long before I ever came here.”
“Hence the allergy to Dreamless Sleep,” Augusta observed. “Your Head of House told me that’s what caused this. Allergies to potions are typically a result of overuse.”
“Yeah…exactly.”
“What I don’t understand is why would you take Dreamless Sleep if you knew you were allergic?” She wondered.
“I didn’t take it on purpose. Professor Slughorn slipped a few drops into a cup of tea last night, thinking it would help me sleep,” the ex-auror explained.
Augusta laughed. “You’re telling me you were poisoned by a school teacher?”
“...yes—”
“How embarrassing for you as a Head Auror. You’d think you’d check all your drinks for tampering,” she laughed again at the thought.
“You’re not mad?” The wizard wondered.
“Oh no, I’m furious,” she was quick to correct the assumption. “And I’d be twice as furious if you were harmed by this, but it appears as if Madame Bones is doing a splendid job in nursing you back to health. You’re gonna be just fine.”
“Yay,” the ex-auror intoned dryly. “Then you can leave now.”
The Unspeakable put her wand back in her pocket and picked back up the box of sweets; dumping a handful of beans into her palm and picking out the bad ones. She had always had a knack for discerning which ones were the gross flavors and setting them aside. “I’m not leaving quite yet. You and I need to talk,” she said.
“What about?”
Augusta gave him a bland, unamused look. “I think you recall what I said on the platform of Nine-and-three-quarters…Surely, your memory is not that short and yet Professor Slughorn tells me that you’ve completely disregarded what I said. What did I say, Harry?”
Potter hesitated.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”
“Heads down, hands clean,” he answered.
“And have you been doing that?” The Unspeakable asked. She didn’t wait for the other wizard to answer. “No. It’s been less than a week. Six bloody days, in fact, before I’m sent not one, but two. TWO—” she held up two fingers— “owls from your Head of House. And the first one, I didn’t even know about until today because the bloody owls are vanishing and I had to learn that not only are you being a dumbarse with your health but you’ve also been bullying children and vandalizing school property. What part of any of that is keeping your sodding head down?”
“I’m not bullying children,” Potter argued.
“What else do you call it when a fully-trained auror participates in an impromptu duel with a group of kids who haven’t even taken their N.E.W.T.s yet?” She reasoned. “It’s bullying. And someone of your age should know better.”
“I was defending myself. And it wasn’t just me. Ted inserted himself in the middle of it and escalated the situation,” he told her. “I could’ve had it handled by myself if it weren’t for him.”
“Blessed Rowena ,” Augusta groaned, shaking her head. “You two are going to give me an aneurysm. Are you trying to get yourselves locked up in level Nine? Do you want to be pulled from this place and strapped down to a dissection table?”
“...no.”
“Then start bloody behaving yourselves,” she snapped at him.
Potter was looking at her strangely with a deepening furrow forming between his brows. “I’m confused,” he began, “don’t you and Novikov want to strap us to a dissection table?”
Augusta wanted to strangle him. She settled for shoving a whole handful of flavored beans into her mouth. It was a reckless action. But the terrible taste did nothing to distract her from the image of her hands squeezing around that boyish wizard’s thin neck. “Nuh-ee-oodly-on’t!” She spoke around a mouthful of beans.
Potter looked more confused. “Huh?”
Augusta swallowed, speaking more clearly. “Do you think we’re fools?” She asked. She had to repeat the question twice before Potter understood her.
“I- what? ”
“Do you think Novikov and I don’t know what you and Theodore are doing?” She rephrased the question. “Do you think we’re that oblivious? Do you think we’re that stupid to assume that neither of you would use your time here as an opportunity to open another time portal?”
Potter sputtered, looking at a loss.
“As a matter of fact, do you think we’re trying to stop you from doing just that?”
“Y-You’re not?” Potter was floored. “But I thought—Aren’t you trying to keep us here? To study us?”
“Of course, not,” she rolled her eyes. “That would be disastrous.”
“...” Potter started blankly at her; clearly not understanding. “But why?”
“Do you know nothing of Time Magic?” She asked him.
“I’m not an Unspeakable,” he frowned at her. “You can’t seriously expect me to know anything about it.”
Of course! Far be it for Nott to have explained anything of value to his partner about the ramifications about what was happening. Some days she really hated this job. Today was definitely one of those days. “Magic always has a price,” she told him. “And the price of Time Magic is especially steep for not just the travelers but for everyone they interact with and everyone they haven’t interacted with. It is a means of changing reality.”
“...okay…”
“Do you know what a paradox is?” She wondered.
“A contradiction,” he answered.
“And a time paradox is a contradiction of events,” she told him. “It’s rewriting the past to change the present.”
“But you can’t change the past,” the ex-auror said. “It’s impossible.”
“Exactly!” Augusta pointed at him. “Larry Niven’s Law states that time paradoxes cannot exist not without creating a series of predetermined events to which there is no deviation. Ergo, you and Theodore could not have traveled here unless you have already been here before.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s fairly self-explanatory,” she said.
“No it’s not. I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” he said.
Merlin—
It was like trying to talk to a child. Augusta had never been great at that. She didn’t have a maternal bone in her body—much less the patience. Thought about it for a moment for how to best explain it to him. Remembering a notepad and quill she kept in her robe pocket, the Unspeakable removed it and opened it to a clean page and turned it sideways. She then drew three small points in a straight line and labeled each of them A, B, and C. Then she drew a stick figure representing a person under point B and an arrow overhead pointing to point C.
She showed Potter this diagram, her finger tapping on the stick figure. “Alright this is how a person perceives time,” she said. “To us it appears linear. There’s a straightforward sequence of events from our past—“ her finger taps point A—“to our present—“ then she taps the stick figure—“ then our future,” her finger lands on point C. “But just because we perceive time this way doesn’t mean this is actually how it is.”
Augusta then ripped out the page from the notepad and laid it flat on her palm. “Time, in truth, is a flat plane in which the weight of matter and gravitational forces bend and warp. You’re not supposed to be able to travel to point A if you’re already standing at point B, because we can only move in one direction toward the future. However, with enough gravitational force, time will bend—“ She curled the paper in her hands, rolling it into a cylindrical tube—“ into a loop in which point A will be directly in front of you and point C will disappear entirely, so the past becomes your future and the present your past. But this has the potential to create a paradox and time cleverly accounts for it creating a second copy of the traveler as it were in which none of the events that follow deviate from what has already happened. Say however, you traveled to a time before you existed or a world in which you don’t exist at all, time would create something we Unspeakables refer to as a Gordian Knot.”
Augusta uncurls the paper and presses it flat in her palm. Then she proceeds to fold it lengthwise twice, so it is a thin, long strip. On one side she draws small triangles until she reaches the end, then she fills the other with squares. “There are two separate timelines. A world consisting of triangles and one of squares,” she shows the wizard both sides of the strip. “But for someone to travel from the triangle world to the square world not only does time need to bend, it also needs to twist—“ She twisted the strip once and connected the two end, holding them between her thumb and index finger—“and this twist creates a mobius strip which in mathematical terms is a one-side loop, thus taking what should be two separate timelines and making them into one.”
“…then you’re saying that my world and your world are connected?” Potter looked hesitant at the mobius strip in her hand as if it were some dangerous object.
“Yes,” Augusta nodded. “Our worlds have become deterministic on each other. Whatever happens here, influences your world and vice versa.”
“And the events of this world would bleed into mine?” The wizard frowned as he considered the ramifications of that. A grim, hard look entered his eyes as he turned his gaze from the mobius strip back to Augusta’s face. “Does that include the war?”
Now Augusta was frowning too. That was a question she hadn’t considered until now. Merlin—That would be disastrous. “Possibly,” she told him after considering the question.
“Then your Grindelwald could end up in my world?”
“Theoretically, I suppose,” she said. “Which is why it is paramount that we undo this knot and sever the bridge between them.”
“And how do we do that?” The wizard wondered. “How do we sever the bridge?”
Augusta shook her head at a loss. “Honestly, I don’t know,” she said. It wasn’t like there was a blueprint to follow for this sort of scenario. A lot of an Unspeakable’s work was theoretical. It involved arithmancy and calculations to anticipate and prevent future problems like these from even arising. There weren’t enough studies done into what to do to fix an already existing loop of this magnitude.
Potter sputtered in stunned disbelief. “You don’t—You don’t know?! How can you not know?!”
“This is an unprecedented problem, Harry,” she told him. “There hasn’t been a magical disaster so catastrophic since Mintumble.”
“Mintumble…I’ve heard that word before,” he said. “Nott said it.—I mean Ted.”
“Every Unspeakable knows about Mintumble,” Augusta told him. “It’s the cautionary tale they tell you during safety orientation.”
“He said she got herself stuck back in time,” Potter mumbled.
“Yes,” She nodded. “And the consequences of that were felt for years afterward. Grindelwald believes that the greatest threat to our world is muggles—” The Unspeakable scoffed—“Muggles? How ridiculous! The truth of the matter is that the greatest threat is in fact you and Theodore and people like you—travelers that pass between time and worlds…”
“Is there any way to fix it?”
Augusta sighed and set the paper aside. “Novikov proposes that if another time portal is created, it could reverse the gravitational pull and undo not necessarily the whole loop but the twist in it. So that there will be two separate loops and from there he believes that the gravitational force creating the loop will naturally weaken over time, thus returning time back to a flat plane,” she began.
“It sounds like there is a but somewhere in there,” Potter interrupted her.
Augusta felt her mouth twitch, half tempted to smile in wry amusement. The boyish wizard had hit it right on the nose. “ But—“ she put extra emphasis on the word—“it’s all conjecture. He can’t say for sure what will happen if another portal is created. It could fix things. It could make it worse.”
“Worse how?” Potter wondered.
“Well, Medlar believes that undoing the knot could in fact destroy both worlds entirely,” she said. “I don’t know if I believe that. But I do know that this is not a problem that is going to go away for either of us, even if you and Theodore do manage to make it back home, chances are the loop or loops will remain.”
“And what happens,” Potter began, “if the loop remains? What happens?”
“I believe the distinction between here and there will start to dissipate, as the two realities begin to overlap, your world and this one would blend together,” Potter did not look like he liked that explanation. If anything his expression became even more grim.
“…I guess that explains the oranges,” he remarked.
Augusta turned, curious. “Oranges?”
Potter then proceeded to explain the bizarre phenomenon happening to the citrus fruit in the Hogwarts kitchen. Rotten skin on the outside, ripe fruit inside is how he described it. He told her that Nott said it was two oranges existing in the same space—Augusta nodded. “Yes, that sounds about right,” she said. “What you’re seeing is the beginning and the end of a life cycle. Ordinarily, you can’t observe both the beginning and end of something simultaneously, but the warping of time also warps our perception of reality. It allows us to see what most of us would be unable to. Most people live their entire lives blind, like in Plato’s cave allegory, we’re only seeing the shadows projected on the wall. Very few of us ever turn around to see what’s behind us. Most people would prefer to avoid it. There’s a sense of safety in ignorance. Then there are others, truth seekers, that aren’t satisfied watching the projections. They have to know more. It’s a compulsion. I suspect that, like me, you are the latter, Harry.”
“I’m not like you,” Potter glared at her. “I don’t want to be involved in any of this. I just want to go home. I want my family back.”
Augusta hesitated, feeling off kilter by the emotion behind his words. A part of her understood that loss. A part of her even sympathized. “I want that for you too,” she told him and she surprised herself by how much she meant it. Then she sighed heavily, picking up the box of flavored beans again. “Despite what you may believe, I’m not your enemy here. You could be a real asset to the Department, if you and Theodore would cooperate with us we could all get what we want.”
“And what do you want exactly?” Potter wondered.
“Knowledge,” Augusta said and popped a bean into her mouth.
The Auror snorted. “A typical Ravenclaw answer.”
Augusta shrugged and swallowed, the taste of sour lemon lingering on her tongue. “Well, I was a Ravenclaw,” she said. “Quite a few Unspeakables are—Have you noticed anything else unusual?”
“Professor Trelawney claims the ghosts have disappeared,” he told her. “And apparently the History of Magic Professor isn’t supposed to be here.”
The witch frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Hogwarts used to have ghosts, lots of them, and according to Casandra Trelawney, they all disappeared about thirteen days ago. One of them was a Professor Binns that taught History of Magic, but when he disappeared Professor Fortescue took his place,” he explained, increasing her growing confusion.
“Professor Binns…” Augusta repeated the name trying to recall it. She had a vague sense of familiarity. The kind of familiarity you’d feel if you caught a few notes of a melody and then found yourself hearing that same melody years later and being unable to recall where and when you heard it. She rubbed at her bottom lip as she tried and failed to conjure an image of any particular specter. She came up blank.
It made her feel anxious. Was this how the Vanishing Plague starts back up again? She had no doubt that Potter was telling her the truth which made all this a much bigger problem. “And who is Professor Fortescue?” She wondered. “Is he a ghost?”
“No,” the Auror shook his head. “He’s alive. At least he looks alive. He seems normal. Just like any other Professor.”
“Do we think he’s a traveler like yourself? From your world?”
Potter shook his head. “…I don’t think so. I mean there was a wizard named Fortescue who owned an ice cream shop on Diagon Alley, but he died so…”
“An ice cream shop?” Augusta repeated more to herself than to him. She thought it over. Considered the logical next question which she proposed aloud. “If he’s not from this world…and he’s not from yours, where did he come from?” And then before Potter could even respond to it, she leapt to the only explanation there was. “There has to be a third.”
“What?”
“A third world,” the Unspeakable explained, “one that’s different from mine and different from yours and tied up in this mess. It’s the only explanation.”
Potter blinked, still processing what she just said. “You think there’s a third?”
“Could even be a fourth! Or a fifth,” she exclaimed, fishing her notepad out of her pocket again. “There’s no telling how many could be involved in this—“She scribbled down a quick note to herself. A reminder to look into the History of Magic Professor.
“Wait, how is that possible?” Potter wondered, sounding a bit frantic. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I need to look into this. Does he seem aware he doesn’t belong?” She looked at Potter.
The Auror paused, his complexion seemed to have paled. “I don’t—I don’t know. He seems like a normal bloke doing his job….”
“You haven’t noticed anything strange about him? His behavior? His lessons? Or his physical attributes?”
“No. I’ve been preoccupied…”
“Well, that’s no help,” She huffed and stood from her chair. “I have to go.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to speak to Fortescue,” she told him, brushing her hands against her robes. “Since someone hasn’t been paying attention in class. Try to stay out of trouble. We don’t need you or Theodore drawing too much attention to yourselves. Last thing we want is for anyone to start sniffing around asking about time magic, Harry? We need to keep this contained.”
Potter made a move to get out of his cot, but Augusta stopped him. “You’re sick. You stay here,” she gave him a hard look. “I can do this by myself. I don’t need you tagging along.”
“But I can hel—“Potter started to say before the Unspeakable cut him off, her hand on her hip.
“Help me by staying here and giving me one less headache today, please. Just let me do my job and you focus on what you need to do, alright?”
Potter sighed, but didn’t relax. “You’ll let me know what you find out?” He asked.
“Only if you do the same,” she told him. “Keep your eyes open. If you notice any more anomalies let myself or Novikov know.” She didn’t say goodbye as she turned and swept out of the room. Nor did she acknowledge the bewildered look of Madame Bones as she passed her in a hurry.
A third world. And there was no telling if that was the last one…Augusta’s day just became a bit more complicated.
It was days like this that made her almost wish she wasn’t an Unspeakable. Almost, that is, because this was still a better alternative than marrying that bumbling idiot Angus Goyle.
Chapter 18: The Problem with Notts
Summary:
“So you’re just giving up?” Theodore asked. “You’re just going to live the rest of your life on the lam until the Aurors catch up to you—until Potter catches up to you?”
Thaddeus scoffed. “I’m not concerned with that foolish boy,” he said.
“You should be,” Theodore said. “That foolish boy had been locking up the dark lord’s supporters left and right. You know Rookwood is in Azkaban now, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Theodore wondered. “Your longtime friend, your mentor, my godfather is in Azkaban because he helped you and the Lestranges and that’s all you have to say?”
“He helped the Dark Lord too,” Thaddeus reminded his son.
“Because he was trying to keep us safe!”
Notes:
I'm still alive!
This last year has been kind rough tbh. I was having a lot panic attack after my mother's passing which made it difficult to keep a consistent writing schedule. I also made a major career shift, so I've been focused more on that and acquiring the specific certifications that my new job now requires. I've missed this story though, I've missed you guys and I hope that some of you have still stuck around. I don't know if this chapter has turned out exactly the way I wanted, but I think I've more or less have gotten everything accomplished that I had originally outlined in my mind to do so...it's probably good enough to move the story forward.
In the next chapter, I plan to be Professor Fortescue POV, so that will be interesting. But I think I also need to drop a short one-shot I've been working on about the world that professor Forescue is from first. I almost have that one completed, but I think I needed to write it first because it sets up a lot of worldbuilding. I also do have another one-shot in the works involving boggarts and Harry, Theo, and Tom. But definitely keep an eye for those. Sorry, I can't promise when I'll post them, but hopefully soon things will start to settle with my current job and I won't be having to study so much in my off time.
Thanks for all the kind message, I will try to get to responding to some of them that have piled up in my inbox.
Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Eighteen
The Problem with Notts
The problem with knots is that they are difficult to discern from one another. There’s a whole branch of muggle mathematics that is solely dedicated to that pursuit. The difficulty therein lies with the unraveling of the knot itself; and how oftentimes a complicated tangle of rope was in fact nothing more than a twisted up mess that once unbound and laid out was either a simple knot or not even a knot at all.
The Gordian Knot was an infamous knot found in Ancient Greek texts. There was a prophecy passed down from the seers of Athens about it and how the one to undo it would be the ruler of Asia. It was believed that Alexander the Great sliced through this knot with a sword tied to an ox cart. Whether the knot the seers spoke of was a physical or theoretical knot was unclear, however, and many scholars—especially with in the Department of Mysteries—theorized that the prophecy of the Gordian Knot had in fact eluded to a far graver and terrible truth involving the fundamental nature of reality.
Theodore’s parents, both Unspeakables working closely with Augustus Rookwood, had painstakingly dedicated their lives to the study of knots, both physical and theoretical. Theodore’s mother, Anya, had often joked when she was alive that it was only natural that she married his father because of her academic interest in knots. Theodore hadn’t understood the joke until he was older; and by that point, he thought it was a bad pun. But he still vividly remembered how his father would laugh at it every time. Theodore didn’t have a lot of memories of his father laughing, but the few he did have had always involved his mother. After her death, Thaddeus Nott had stopped laughing, he grew colder and distant, and threw himself wholeheartedly into his work at the Ministry and Theodore had been left in the care of the house elves more often than not.
Theodore hated knots. As a child, he used to hate them because it felt as if they were responsible for taking his father away. It was only later he realized that his father had used them as an excuse not to see his son—A son that looked too much like his deceased wife—and couldn’t stomach the reminder of what he lost. As an adult, Theodore hated knots because they were such a bloody headache.
How anyone would willingly dedicate their lives in this academic pursuit was beyond him. His parents must’ve been bleeding mad. Or perhaps, they had been motivated by something, not a desire for knowledge, but a necessity for it. He was beginning to suspect that his father, if not his mother too, had known about the paradoxical binding melding multiple worlds into one all the way back then when he was barely more than a toddler.
It would certainly explain some things…
But if this paradox that created this closed loop existed all the way back then, perhaps even before the prophecy of the Athenian seers, where then was the origin? How was he supposed to find it? Narrowing down the search would prove to be an insurmountable task…
Theodore didn’t have the slightest clue of where to begin.
He had wanted to utilize this time without Potter being a constant bleeding thorn in his side. He thought he’d have some relative peace and quiet without the raven-haired auror dragging him into schoolyard squabbles. Theodore was wrong. Dead wrong.
It seemed in the short time they had been there, Potter had not only managed to throw a bunch of overconfident youths into their plans, but utterly obliterate any hope the Unspeakable might have had of keeping a low profile. In particular, keeping a low profile from Voldemort himself—or this younger alternate reality version of the Dark Lord. It seemed that without Potter at his side, Riddle’s attention—and thereby the attention of the rest of the Slytherin seventh-years—had been diverted to him.
He was going to kill Potter. He was. He’s made up his mind about it. As soon as they got back to their reality it was going to be on-fucking-site.
It had been subtle at first. A change of routine. A new seatmate during the Friday Transfiguration lesson when Potter had up and disappeared. One that Theodore had not the presence of mind to pay any attention to until the girl planted herself at his side in the first class of the day.
“Good morning!” She greeted him first. Cheerful, far too cheerful and friendly he had thought for that time of day. She must’ve been a Hufflepuff he assumed, except she wore the green and silver of the house of snakes Theodore observed. That put him on edge, though he didn’t show it.
No Slytherin was that friendly straight away unless they wanted something. Theodore had a fairly good idea what that something was. Turning toward her with an expression bordering on polite indifference, he returned the greeting as social graces dictated whilst leafing though the seventh-year transfigurations text to make it clear he was not interested in carrying on any sort of conversation. This girl, this slytherin, ignored the sign extending her hand toward him in a careless though no less friendly manner again better befitting a well-meaning Hufflepuff.
“You’re new, right? My name’s Lyra Burke,” she said. “You’re Theodore Rowle?”
The Unspeakable reluctantly shook the girl’s hand. “I am,” he said.
“I’m surprised, Evan’s isn’t here. You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”
“S’pose not,” the Unspeakable shrugged in a way that he considered normal for an adolescent boy. She smiled again. He felt like it was a little too much smiling.
“How are you liking Hogwarts?” She asked him.
Again the Unspeakable shrugged. “It’s alright.”
“Truly?” The girl arched her thin auburn brow at him incredulously. She glanced around the room, seeing that Professor, Esmeralda Alliette, had yet to make her appearance before she leaned closer. “I heard you had some trouble already with some of my housemates…”
“And?” Theodore prompted her, his gaze intent.
“I know some people, particularly some of them in Slytherin, take issue with a person’s name or lack thereof…” She trailed off giving him a meaningful look, “I just wanted you to know that a few bad apples doesn’t poison the whole cart.”
“Noted.” Theodore nodded.
The girl rested her chin in her palm. “You’re pretty quiet, huh?”
“When I want to be,” he said.
“That’s how Alyx is too! Oh, Alyx is short of Alyxander Mulciber. He’s my betrothed,” she pointed toward the hunched over form of a dark-haired boy looking as if he was catching a few minutes of sleep behind his propped open textbook before class began. Next to him was the Slytherin Headboy, Tom Riddle, or as Theodore knew him the Dark Lord before he became the Dark Lord. As if feeling the attention on him, the Slytherin turned and looked over at their table. Theodore stared waiting for a legilimens attack that didn’t come whilst the girl beside him waved in a flirty sort of way. The headboy curled his mouth into a smirk and waved back in an indulgent sort of way, like an older sibling humoring a younger one, and turned back to his own text.
“And next to him is Tom Riddle,” she whispered to him. “He’s headboy this year and a good friend of mine. He likes his quiet too just like you and Alyx. I think the three of you would get on. I could introduce you later if you wanted.”
Theodore couldn’t think of anything he wanted less at the moment. Fortuitously he was saved from having to answer Burke by the arrival of the transfiguration professor looking a bit scatterbrained and half put together in her rumpled robes as she hushed them to open their textbooks. During class Burke was blessedly silent, focusing on her own school work. But as soon as class ended she was back with that Hufflepuff friendliness as she chatted about the class.
“So do you have any ideas for what you want to do for the transfiguration assignment?” The unspeakable was busy packing up his books and showed no interest in answering. Burke didn’t seem to need him too. “I think I want to focus on potions based transfigurations like the polyjuice or animagus potions. I’m kinda pants at the theoretical calculation involved with wand transfiguration, but I’m decent at potions,” she told him without prompting.
Theodore slung his bookbag over his shoulder, not turning to acknowledge the girl, as he headed toward the door. It was a more than obvious sign he was done with the interaction. Again Burke persistently ignored obvious signs and followed him at his elbow. “You’re pretty good at potions too, aren’t you? Professor Slughorn has been giving you a lot of points in class for them so you must be. Are you studying to be a potioneer?”
The Unspeakable didn’t visibly sigh, though he certainly wanted to.
“He told us that Evans was studying for a potion’s mastery. Something about it being a requirement for the ministry…” The girl trailed off, Theodore could feel her gaze boring into him. Most people would’ve left him alone by now. Stopping in the corridor, the wizard turned and looked down at the red-haired witch.
“Is there something you want?” He asked her somewhat rudely.
“Oh,” the girl jolted, looking for a moment unsure in the face of his rather obvious annoyance. “No. I was just walking to class. We both have Charms next, right? I thought we’d walk together…”
“I’d prefer it if we didn’t.” Theodore told her.
The slytherin looked confused. “Why? Am I bothering you?” It was obvious that she was. Theodore gave her an unimpressed look. “Oh…sorry. Alyx has always said that I talk too much sometimes. It can be a little grating on strangers. I’ll stop, if you prefer?”
Now the Unspeakable did sigh. He really didn’t have time for this.
“Is everything alright, Lyra?” A deeper voice cut in and they both turned, spotting the Slytherin Headboy and the girl’s betrothed approaching.
The girl answered first. “Everything's fine, Tom! I was just getting to know our new transfer student,” she explained. She made a brief introduction between the three boys which Theodore reluctantly participated in, before he was able to excuse himself with the claim of having forgotten something in Ravenclaw Tower he needed for his next class. An obvious lie to the cluster of Slytherins, however unable to call it out, none of them stopped him as he turned and left.
The next two classes were spent dodging Burke before lunch. She seemed to have an uncanny ability to ascertain when he was about to arrive at the next class, appearing suddenly, and taking up the seat next to him before anyone else was able to. If he didn’t know better, Theodore might suspect some kind of tracer spell was placed on his person. She had started asking him about Potter in Charms class; wondering about his absence. “Tom’s worried,” she had said. “He’s been having a difficult time adjusting, I think.”
She asked him if he knew where Potter was. Theodore didn’t, but he said he wasn’t worried. “Harry can handle himself just fine.”
“Oh?” She had looked curious, but the unspeakable refused to say anything more on the topic.
At lunch, Theodore had been approached again by Cygnus Black of all people asking where Evan’s was hiding. “How am I supposed to know?” He had wondered exasperated at this point. How was he bloody supposed to focus with all these interruptions? “I haven’t seen him.”
“But aren’t you two friends?” The black-haired boy had wondered.
“Try checking the infirmary,” Theodore suggested, ignoring that question. “Idiot always ends up there somehow.” The unspeakable hadn’t known where Potter was, nor did he particularly care. But it had served his purpose of getting the lot of them out of his face for the moment so he could focus on the arithmancy text in front of him.
Of course, Potter in his stupidity had actually ended up in the infirmary. The idiot. But once the wayward Slytherin was located, the interest in Theodore didn’t waiver like he had hoped.
Cygnus Black seemed especially observant of him in detention with Professor Beery when Theodore performed an advanced transfiguration spell to repair a broken beam support. The Herbology professor had been impressed by it and assigned the ravenclaw to the task of making sure the old greenhouse was structurally sound, whilst the others busied themselves with the removal of overgrown weeds and creeping ivy that had tried to return the man-made structure back to the forest. Walburga Black had complained the whole time about Potter’s skipping out on his punishment. To which Theodore had countered by casting a nonverbal silencing charm on his ears to muffle the shrill pitch of her voice to save himself the headache.
Perhaps Potter’s complaints about the Slytehrins weren’t entirely unwarranted.
Thankfully the detention lasted only for an hour, before the group of them made their way back to their respective common rooms to get ready for dinner.
Theodore, after cleaning himself up, skipped the evening meal in favor of the library and that was where he now sat, buried in Arithmancy text again. He had been at this for a few days and still he didn’t feel as if he was figuring this out. Something had to have gone wrong with the prototype. But, without the briefcase, trying to figure out what exactly had gone wrong was nearly impossible. He didn’t know what Potter had done to it. Nevertheless, Theodore was certain that the fault lies solely with Potter and not anything he had done.
And he had clearly done a lot. Potter’s penchant for trouble had started long before all this mess. It hadn’t come as a huge revelation to him. Theodore knew that. But he still hadn’t quite grasped the extent of Potter’s shenanigans until he told him about the bloody Basilisk he killed when he was just twelve— Twelve?!
The Unspeakable still had trouble trying to wrap his mind around it. Not because the idea of a twelve-year-old boy slaying a Basilisk was utterly ridiculous—which it was— but the fact that no adult had tried to stop him. The utter incompetence was what he was struggling to wrap his mind around.
‘ No wonder Potter had such a problem with authority figures… ’ the wizard considered dryly. Theodore had his own issues with authority, although they seemed rather pale and halfhearted when compared to Potter’s. He hadn’t been a reckless, rebel leader like Potter. But he had defied the authority figures in his life, mainly his father, in his own stubborn headed and dogged way.
He was defying him even now. The whole project with the Department of Mysteries had been in defiance of his father. Circe knows working for the Unspeakables at all had been a defiance of his father. But especially meddling with time…Well, Theodore considered himself largely blameless for that decision. Not when it was Thaddeus Nott that had set his son on this path long before Potter ever got himself involved.
If he hadn’t left. If the old, stubborn bastard hadn’t abandoned him in search of—Theodore still didn’t know what his father had been searching for—What he said he was searching for in the scraps of notes left at that cabin was an impossibility. It should’ve been an impossibility...
But now…Now, he had doubts. The nature of time is that it is relative. Events do not occur consecutively even if that is how they appear to. But to change the past…Theodore’s father had been mad. Brilliant too perhaps, but also very, very mad.
He still remembered the last conversation they had. That last conversation hadn’t been in person or in a Floo fire. It had been a shared dream. Dream sharing was a complicated bit of magic; at times vivid in its detail and other times half forgotten.
They had been at a muggle cafe he thinks. Though the location was unclear and undefined as they sat outside siping on steaming cups of tea. His father had been the only object in focus, though his voice had sounded muffled as if he were speaking through a wall.
“Dreamwalking is dangerous magic to be meddling in,” eyes as dark and blue as his own had settled over his person. “I’ve told you that.”
“How else am I supposed to get a hold of you?” Theodore had demanded. “It’s not like you’ve left me a Floo address.”
“And that was intentional.” Thaddeus looked at his son dismissively. Not that that was anything new. Theodore had long since gotten used to that look. “Can’t keep in contact with family when I am a wanted war criminal. So what is it? Spit it out.”
“Merlin…you are such a prick,” he spat.
“You wanted this meeting. Did you just call me here to insult me?”
“No. I—” Theodore hadn’t known what to say. He had gone through such lengths to track his father after he fled England. Had followed him through the European continent, until he had found himself halfway around the world. And why? He still didn't know. But they were family, although they hated each other. “I’m tired of this,” he finally settled on.
Thaddeus Nott had furrowed his dark brows. “This?” He had prompted.
“Of chasing you. Following you halfway across the continent. Waiting for you to come home—”he cut himself off. “I’m done with it.”
“Good.” Thaddeus nodded, looking rather unphased by his son’s frustration. “I never told you to look for me, boy. I explicitly discouraged it.”
“So I was just supposed to let you run off and live the rest of your life in hiding?”
“You were supposed to be my heir. To marry and carry on the family legacy. Not be some vagabond traipsing after his father. You aren’t a child anymore, Theo, you have responsibilities—”
“And you didn’t? You just left everything in shambles and—What? I was supposed to stay behind and clean up the mess you made? How is that fair?”
“So it was better to run away from it all? To leave England. To abandon our ancestral home to picked over like a dead carcass by those muggle-loving bloodtraitors—”
“I’m just following your example,” Theodore spat. “Why show I care about that place when you so obviously don’t?”
“Because it’s our legacy,” Thaddeus stressed.
“It’s not,” he disagreed. “Our legacy is that of terrorist, genocidal maniacs that turned our wands against fellow wizards and Mother Magic herself. Do you know what word they call us back home? Witchprickers. The same thing we used to call those fucking squibs that sided that bastard Hobbs. Wizarding society spits when they hear our name. That’s the legacy you left me.”
His father was silent for a moment. Thinking, swallowing those words, and ingesting them. For a moment, Theodore saw the anger behind those eyes. The hurt pride and indignation was a difficult thing to suppress, but his father did. “Again I’ll ask, is there a point to this whole conversation or did you summon me here to simply berate me?”
“I want to help you come home,” Theodore said. “I want you to let me help you.”
“Why?” His father asked. “According to you, I’ve done nothing but ruin your life. I’m sure you think I’m a terrible father. Why would you want me home?”
“But you are my father,” Theodore stressed. “You’re blood. My only blood.”
Thaddeus sighed, but didn’t argue that point. “You have your mother’s heart,” he said as a healer would deliver a terminal prognosis. “It’ll be the death of you as it was hers if you're not careful. Sentimentality does not keep one alive long in this world, use that head of yours and be rational. There is no helping your poor terrorist father out of this situation. I will not allow it and you must accept that.”
“So you’re just giving up?” Theodore asked. “You’re just going to live the rest of your life on the lam until the Aurors catch up to you—until Potter catches up to you?”
Thaddeus scoffed. “I’m not concerned with that foolish boy,” he said.
“You should be,” Theodore said. “That foolish boy had been locking up the dark lord’s supporters left and right. You know Rookwood is in Azkaban now, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Theodore wondered. “Your longtime friend, your mentor, my godfather is in Azkaban because he helped you and the Lestranges and that’s all you have to say?”
“He helped the Dark Lord too,” Thaddeus reminded his son.
“Because he was trying to keep us safe!” Theodore shouted, finally losing his composure. The scenery around them shook, unfocusing and flickering at the momentary loss of concentration.
“Careful,” his father warned. “You’re making the dreamscape unstable. Control your emotions.”
Theodore breathed deeply, trying to restrain his temper and his magic. It was like trying to put a lead on a stampeding hippogriff; and yet somehow he managed it.
“The only one responsible for Augustus’s actions is himself. Not me. He made his own choices and I made mine,” Thaddeus looked for a moment weary as if the time in Azkaban and years on the run were finally taking its toll on him spiritually.
They had taken a toll on his father physically.
He was no longer the strong imposing figure from Theodore’s childhood. Somewhere along the way his dark hair had grayed, his skin sagged and wrinkled, whilst his muscles atrophied turning that once tall and sturdy-built man into someone an unwitting person might describe as frail. Thaddeus Nott was not a frail man, at least Theodore had never thought so until this moment. Even when he returned from Azkaban he hadn’t for a moment lost that proud stubborn tilt to his chin. But now there was a look on his face that Theodore couldn’t quite describe. It was almost forlorn, regretful, and soft.
“It’s time you made your own choices, Theo,” he said. “You cannot keep chasing after me for much longer. You won’t be able to.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m leaving,” Thaddeus said, but his son didn’t understand.
“You already left.”
“No,” his father shook his head. “I’m leaving this place for good. I won’t return and you won’t be able to follow me.”
Theodore had tried to wrap his head around the words his father was saying to gauge their true meaning.
"I've done all I can do here.”
"Stop being so vague. Are you sick?"
"No."
"Then where are you going? Where are you leaving to?"
"It's time to move on. It's time you move on too, Theo. We must all walk our own paths in life. One day you will understand and you will hate me for it—"
"I hate you now," Theodore snapped.
Thaddeus almost smiled, not looking at all like the father Theodore knew. This wasn't his father. It couldn't have been. It was a stranger sitting across from him.
"Maybe so. But everything I have done has been necessary."
He hadn't understood then. He had assumed his father meant he was dying, that the leaving he was talking about was a more permanent leaving. It was a more permanent leaving, but it wasn’t death that his father was speaking of he had realized later when he had finally managed to track down the last remnants of his father in an isolated cabin hidden in the Swiss Alps. Where he found his notes and research left strewn about the place with no rhyme or reason.
It had taken weeks to pour over it and a month and a half to even understand it. To understand the equation and the ritual spell that his father had left him. The very same equation and spell that had disproven Larry Niven’s Law, the one that Theodore had spent months attempting to test and had published in an academic journal. It was the very same equation and spell that had gotten him his job at the Department of Mysteries.
It was the equation and ritual that had allowed his father to travel through time without a time turner. It was that ritual, a ritual that broke the fundamental laws of magic and shouldn’t have been possible without some precedent, that was the cause of it all. His father had created this mess and Theodore knew that he wouldn’t be able to fix it unless he found him.
Theodore swore slamming shut the tome of arithmancy text in front of him. The problem was that family was more complicated than knots and his was nothing more than a tangled up mess just like this fucking timeline. His mother, if she were there, would've probably made some horrible pun and laugh. She would've told him to expect it.
“That’s a rather serious expression—”
Theodore tensed and looked up. “Riddle,” he eyed the headboy, looking at the tome tucked under his arm. He couldn’t catch the title, however it was thick and heavy and likely a tediously long read. “Is there something you wanted?” He asked him.
“Mmm…” the headboy shrugged. It was a strangely human gesture, so far removed from the physically warp homunculus that he would become. “Not particularly. I was just passing by and saw you here,” he told him. “You look like you need a break.”
Theodore snorted. “I need a bloody holiday,” he grumbled.
“It’s not good to overwork yourself, Rowle,” he said, sounding pleasant and curious. “Is there anything I could help with?”
Theodore shook his head. “No. Thanks for the offer though,” he said, though his tone was flat and insincere.
Riddle frowned, adjusting the book under his arms. He cocked his head like a bird and stared at him. “You know, Evans has made it abundantly clear that he does not like me, but you…I didn’t realize you felt the same way as him. I can’t imagine what I’ve done to offend you.”
Theodore paused. “You haven’t done anything,” he said.
“And yet, you still dislike me,” Riddle observed. “My presence is making you uncomfortable.”
Theodore didn’t know how to respond to that. Fortunately he didn’t need to.
Riddle shrugged. “I don’t particularly care whether or not you like me, Rowle. You’re hardly the first. But I am curious about you.”
“You ever heard that phrase about curiosity and the cat—“
Riddle snorted. “Of course. A muggle idiom,” he said.
“Then maybe you should take it to heart,” Rowle suggested.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“It sounded like one.” Riddle looked at him, appraising him he was sure, waiting expectantly for him to continue.
“It’s a bit of advice,” Theodore told him. “Whatever curiosity you have about me or Evans, the truth isn’t worth it.”
“You imply that there is a truth to find,” Riddle pointed out, and pulled out a chair to sit down, unprompted and uninvited.
“There’s always a truth to find, but this one isn’t worth your time. Believe me you’re better off staying far away from Evans and I,” he said. “We’re nothing but a headache.”
“You discredit yourself too much,” Riddle said, setting his book beside him on the table. “There’s more to you than you let on.”
“Maybe. But I’m not discrediting Evans,” he told the headboy. “Seriously, I can’t believe I’m giving you advice.” He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair and met the unwavering gray eyes of the young Dark-Lord-To-be across the library table they sat. He felt himself grimace under that stare. “Look Riddle, Evans isn’t someone to mess around with. I know he looks nonthreatening, being so short, and thin, like a gust of wind could blow him over; but if you keep fucking with him it’s your funeral.”
Tom arched an incredulous brow. He looked at him, and Theodore knew that he was taking in his build, sizing him up and comparing him to the short, waif that Potter’s body had taken. He saw the question there between the ridges of his forehead as he furrowed his brow briefly. He knew the question before the schoolboy even voiced it.
“Why are you so afraid of him?”
“Because I’m not stupid,” Theodore scoffed. “We’ve known each other a long time. I know what he’s capable of.”
Riddle leaned forward in his seat, interested. “And praytell, Rowle, just what is Evans capable of?”
“He’s capable of getting everyone around him killed,” the Unspeakable told him matter-of-factly. There was no if, ands, or buts about it. It was simply the truth. “Kid’s a walking curse. Always has been. Always will be.”
“Then why do you associate with him?” Riddle wondered. “If he is such a curse…”
Theodore sighed. This conversation didn’t look like it would be ending anytime soon. There was no simple answer to that question. Any answer could only ignite the boy’s curiosity further. But the longer that silence stretched out between them he could see the more Riddle grew expecting.
Behind Riddle someone moved, Theodore’s eyes caught the movement of Professor Fortescue as he rounded a bookshelf and thought suddenly occurred to him.
Of course! Why didn’t he consider that sooner? Invariance…
“You know,” Theodore suddenly changed the subject, “there is actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Oh?” Riddle paused, looking momentarily taken aback. “What?”
“Can I borrow your notes for History of Magic?”
The headboy hadn’t been expecting that question. After everything they had discussed so far it seemed to catch him off guard with how anticlimactic and mundane it was. “I didn’t think you were struggling in class.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why do you need them?”
“It’s not for class,” he told him.
“Then I don’t see why you would need them,” Riddle said.
“How about a trade?” Theodore proposed because a Slytherin never did anything without gaining something in return.
That caught the boy’s interest. “A trade? What do you propose?”
“You want Evan’s to fall in line, right? Stop causing issues in Slytherin with the pureblood families…”
“Are you saying you can control him?” Riddle asked.
“No.”
“Then what are you offering?”
“Leverage,” Theodore said. “I can tell you what Evan wants. The only thing he wants and I’m sure you’re clever enough to figure out how to use that information to make him more agreeable.”
Riddle paused to consider it. “Perhaps…Depends on what he wants, I suppose. So what is it? What does Evan want?”
“Notes first,” Theodore counters.
“Seems like an unfair trade,” the headboy said. “What is it? Money? Fame?” Riddle shook his head. “No that wouldn’t be, I’ve been around him long enough to know he doesn’t care for either of those material ideals. Evans is motivated by something more intangible, illogical.”
“Notes first,” Theodore repeated.
Riddle looked at him again, appraising him. “Alright, Rowle,” he said. “I’ll bring them here tomorrow, same time, and I’ll hold you to it.” He held out his hand to the Unspeakable, not an unbreakable vow, but an unspoken promise. Sometimes with magic those held more weight because the non-verbal intention was more clear. It was akin to offering up one's soul at a crossroads to Hecate herself. That’s what it felt like when he shook the boy’s hand. It cemented something between them, he felt a shift in his magic, a bond had been formed, a contract.
Riddle gathered up his book and left his table shortly after. Theodore watched him leave with a growing sense of trepidation. Was it a bad idea offering up information about Potter? Probably. Theodore knew that. But one of them had to make some kind of connections here. And if it wasn’t going to be Potter, well, he supposed he had to be the one to make a deal with the boyish dark lord to at least create some semblance of civility.
“The things we do for family,” Theodore muttered to himself.
Pages Navigation
iyalode on Chapter 1 Sat 24 Sep 2022 12:10PM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 1 Sat 01 Oct 2022 11:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
Wiktoria757 on Chapter 1 Sun 02 Oct 2022 10:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 1 Mon 03 Oct 2022 02:41AM UTC
Comment Actions
Lyrellys on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Oct 2022 03:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 1 Sat 08 Oct 2022 03:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
thetrainduck on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Oct 2022 10:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 1 Sat 08 Oct 2022 04:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
Taroro on Chapter 1 Thu 17 Nov 2022 05:11PM UTC
Comment Actions
justsmilemore on Chapter 1 Sat 04 Mar 2023 06:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
Tory_Riddle_Slytherin on Chapter 1 Mon 27 Mar 2023 02:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
raginblastocyst on Chapter 1 Mon 15 May 2023 02:10PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sayanel on Chapter 1 Tue 20 Jun 2023 06:41AM UTC
Comment Actions
Constella1103 on Chapter 1 Sun 09 Jul 2023 06:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
maplena on Chapter 1 Wed 27 Sep 2023 07:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 1 Wed 27 Sep 2023 03:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
iamthehungryshark on Chapter 1 Thu 05 Oct 2023 01:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
Kayla Wilson (Guest) on Chapter 2 Thu 29 Sep 2022 12:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 2 Sat 01 Oct 2022 11:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
Wiktoria757 on Chapter 2 Sun 02 Oct 2022 10:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 2 Mon 03 Oct 2022 02:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
raginblastocyst on Chapter 2 Mon 15 May 2023 02:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
iamthehungryshark on Chapter 2 Thu 05 Oct 2023 01:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Bluetoads on Chapter 3 Sat 01 Oct 2022 10:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 3 Sun 02 Oct 2022 12:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
Tory_Riddle_Slytherin on Chapter 3 Sun 02 Oct 2022 12:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 3 Sun 02 Oct 2022 12:38AM UTC
Comment Actions
Wiktoria757 on Chapter 3 Sun 02 Oct 2022 11:41AM UTC
Comment Actions
J_L_Hynde on Chapter 3 Mon 03 Oct 2022 02:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
spoonring on Chapter 3 Sat 29 Oct 2022 12:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation