Bloody Lines: detention (Harry and Tom) (breath 6)

Summary: Harry finds more than he expected at detention with Dolores Umbridge. Also, Tom discovers Harry has an enchanted mirror...

( First Chapter ) |Previous: Classes and Mirrors

The Superintendent in Pink was at her worst. She had cornered Harry in the hall after dinner during the first week of classes, and she had smiled her frog-like smile. “Going somewhere, Mr. Potter?” she simpered.

Harry eyed her suspiciously. “I’m going to the Gryffindor Tower.” He said resolutely.

“It’s in the opposite direction. You shouldn’t lie, my dear.”

Harry stared.

Harry must have breathed too harshly because Umbridge asked, “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Harry said, confused. He really hadn’t said anything, he thought. Perhaps he was staring aloud…

“Do you know who I am?” Her lips curled. She asked, starting to use very broad gestures and speaking in an exaggeratedly slow voice. “Do you understand me? I’ve heard from your classmates that you’ve been...illogical all week. You speak nonsense.” She nodded her head, and gave a fake smile. “Gone insane, they said?”

Harry turned red. “I can understand you perfectly, Superintendent Umbridge. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not insane.” He started to turn away.

“Manners, Mr. Potter.” She said softly. Her hand stretched out to touch him on the shoulder, and he tensed away.

“Are you telling me that you have been misbehaving on purpose?” she asked slyly, pressing her advantage. She took two tottering steps forward, and Harry imagined a squelching noise such as one a frog might make.

“I haven’t been misbehaving.” Harry replied. “I’ve been going to classes and doing my work.”

“Do not lie to me.” She offered a thin smile. “I’ve been told you are quite the cheeky little fellow. Twice now in five minutes you’ve spoken rudely and lied outright. Detention. You seem to be...quite free, so you shall serve it now.“

Words filled Harry’s head, teasing and ready to escape. But he knew he must not say them, not to this woman. So instead, he thought the poem, three times, to make up for being unable to give them life in the world by speaking them. Beware the Jubjub bird*, and shun The frumious* Bandersnatch*!” He thought.

In so doing, the walk to Umbridge’s office seemed quite short. So this is the lair of the Bandersnatch… Although she did not have a long neck, she did have goggly eyes, and while her jaw was normal, she certainly seemed ferocious and fast with her task—making Harry miserable at Hogwarts. (And possibly distracting the teachers, though that might require a more snapping jaw…)

When they came to the door, Harry noticed immediately the close proximity to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. His gaze lingered on it, remembering the imposter Moody (call him Crouch Jr. he reminded himself), and he stopped before it. Then the door opened.

A surprised (and very delightfully so) Lockhart beamed at the two of them, his brilliant turquoise robes slooshing a bit slowly with his no-longer-flamboyant movements. ”Superintendent Umbridge!” He burbled happily. “Harry! Superintendent! What a pleasant surprise.” (or had he said “frabjous* day?”)

“Excuse me Professor,” Umbridge said, oozing false politeness. ”Harry here has detention with me. Come with me, Harry. Sit there,” she gestured at a desk, which already had parchment and a quill lying atop it. “You will write lines.”

“How many?” Harry asked, acutely aware of Lockhart still standing in the doorway.

“Oh, as many as it takes for the message to sink in.”　She nodded for Harry to begin. “Use my quill, Mr. Potter. Professor,” she said, her eyes still downcast to watch Harry sit before the quill. She was reluctant to let Harry out of her sight to the extent that she would ignore a professor standing in her door.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter. I’m afraid I have him for detention this evening as well… He hadn’t mentioned having detention with you when we scheduled it. I’m afraid I really am so busy, that I can’t afford to change the time…It is a rather demanding schedule, my position.” Ah, and there were those shiny teeth.

Were those teeth of the Vorpal blade, or the Jaberwocky? Harry wondered. In his mind’s eye, the terrible (And unimaginable) Snark warred with the Jabberwocky, each losing to the Vorpal blade. But which of them was which, and which was the worst? The Old Man, the Returned Foe, or the Secret Weapon?

“Begin writing, Mr. Potter. I think ‘I must not tell lies,’ will do nicely.”

Harry took the quill. It was a long, thin thing that looked as though it had been pulled from a particularly sour bird. The tip was very sharp, by the look of it, and the cold metal grip was thin and unwieldy. He examined it for a moment before saying, “There’s no ink.”

Lockhart too eyed the quill. His exuberant expression folded in on itself. “Excuse me, Professor, but how long is his detention with you?” He asked.

“An hour.” Umbridge huffed. “If you will please let us get to it?” She made a little waving motion.

“Of course!” Lockhart chortled. Harry’s vision seemed to double, making the man seem making the man seem halfway gone. “I’ll just come to fetch him then. Your naughty thing, Harry! Really, aren’t you taking this bad press image too far?” He smiled winningly.

Harry’s stomach flopped. “Professor.” He nodded, wondering how to ask for help without asking.

Professor Lockhart, however, took no more notice of Harry.

Harry set the quill to the top of the parchment. He leaned forward, trying to avoid the noises of the beasts behind him. He knew Lockhart had not left because of that noise, Snicker-snack!,. Just as he looked up, Harry felt a sharp pain in his hand. He let out a surprised noise but thought that neither could hear him for their whiffling*.

Finally, the door closed, leaving him alone with the Bandersnatch. “What’s this? Only one line? You’ll need to pick things up, Mr. Potter.”

He peered at the quill. It dripped with red, and when he put the quill to paper again, the stinging returned. Its teeth were very sharp indeed, the Bandersnatch, though hidden behind a soft countenance.

He tried writing gingerly, without pressing so hard to the paper. It made no difference. He tried switching hands, but the result was so horrible that Umbridge made him strike it out and write again with his ‘proper hand.’ She muttered something indistinct, and Harry looked around the office while he wrote absently. Playful kittens mewled at him, and there was a plush pink cushion with unnecessary ribbons.

Harry wrote, and wrote, no longer watching as his skin healed after each line.

Umbridge smiled at him with her long thin smile, and her eyes seemed alive with malice. “We have accomplished quite a bit, haven’t we? Nicely done. Although your handwriting could use some work.” She sniffed. “I didn’t think you would come so quietly, but I suppose,” she leaned in, and Harry felt her presence like a black shadow over the room. “You know we need to help you. It hurts, doesn’t it? Pain teaches a sharp lesson, and it will stick with you.”

Harry rubbed at the sore spot on his hand, left pink from repeated injury. His thoughts focused mostly on the pain of it, and how close the monster was. His eyes flicked between her and the paper. “Professor?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Superintendent.” She corrected, sounding very smug indeed.

There was a knock on the door. “All finished, Superintendent? I’ll be taking Harry to my office for detention.”

Harry’s head swam. He thought he heard Umbridge continue, but the voice was distant.

“Are you feeling woozy, Mr. Potter? I’m sorry, I should have noticed that blood loss would bring back unpleasant memories...did the Dark Lord take your blood too?” The Bandersnatch leaned in close. “Did he drink it?” Saliva glistened on the beast’s lip.

Harry jerked away. “Stop.”　His word was a command, and his magic curled around him with the one word.

For a moment, she flickered before his eyes. She seemed like a ghastly worm of a monster, and then she was just the woman in pink making small-talk with Lockhart. Harry couldn’t make sense of the words she was saying, but he knew the expression. He should take it as a warning.

“Have you lost your top?” Lockhart asked unexpectedly. “Are you in need of more tea? That should replace the blood, don’t you think, Superintendent?”

Harry turned to look at him, but instead of the mythical monster that would have matched the Bandersnatch, he saw only the blond professor. His skin was pale, true, and his blue eyes very dull indeed, but he was human. If only just.

“Professor?” Harry wrinkled his brow.

“Come with me, Harry. You have another detention to serve,” the words seemed slow and full of shadows. Shadows behind his eyes, under his feet... “Thank you, Dolores. I’ll see that he’s properly punished.”

Harry stood up, barely remembering to bring what few things he’d had when the Superintendent cornered him. He left the office, feeling eyes on his back the entire way.

“Harry, Harry.” Lockhart sighed dramatically as he closed the door to the Defense Against Dark Arts office. Lockhart didn’t immediately continue, giving Harry a chance to look around.

It was much changed from when Crouch-Moody had occupied it. There were more portraits than the space ought to comfortably allow, as well as a number of decorative awards with spidery writing. Many faces of Lockhart grinned and winked at the occupants, offering sage Ministry-Sanctioned Advice. The office seemed unusually cold, though, which struck Harry as odd. Someone like Lockhart, he would have thought, would have wanted luxuries, he felt. He looked up, wondering what the portraits and plaques could be hiding.

“Well?” Lockhart said finally. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Oddly, Lockhart’s words were jumbled. He also seemed to be saying (at the same time, even), “Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!”

“She made me write lines, sir.” Harry mumbled. He rubbed the spot where Wormtail had cut him, trying to massage out the ache which started there and ended in his fingertips.

Lockhart gave a sympathetic chuckle. “Oh, I can see that the Superintendent isn’t popular among you students, but Harry, Harry, Harry. Just because I was there to offer punishment of my own this time doesn’t mean you can brazenly cast magic at a professor. Superintendent. You’re lucky she thought it was accidental magic.”

What was he talking about? Harry went over the events that happened in the detention, trying to separate them.

Lockhart began to talk in a light and arrogant manner, going on about the trials of fame, but Harry was too busy looking at his shadow. Would it be like Peter Pan, and be sewn to his foot?

“There’s the stack there, Harry. Go ahead and get started.”

Harry eyed the large stack of envelopes and finally said, “So I’m to address your fan mail.”

“Famous is as famous does!” Lockhart quipped, and told Harry to set to work without another word.

The time passed slowly. Earlier that summer, Harry had watched the twins casting charms on quills, and he’d taken their technique and the incantation to memory. It came in handy now, with Lockhart more than willing to chatter happily and ignore Harry’s use of the time. So Harry let his quill do most of the work, occasionally nudging it when the thing started to write on the wrong surface. After some time, Lockhart had dinner brought in for them, though Harry only nibbled on a sandwich.

Finally, Lockhart said, “That will be all for tonight. Don’t expect a treat like this every time you get a detention! Off to bed with you now, and mind you go straight to your dormitory.”

“Good night, professor.” Harry’s vision was mostly back to normal after the monotony of overseeing letter addresses. Although he had watched both Lockhart and his shadow, nothing amiss was easily seen.

Harry made his way back to Gryffindor tower.

o0o0o0o

The following day, Harry went to the corridors sooner than usual. The morning light was soft on the castle walls, and Harry thought he’d find a place to be himself. A place away from all the students and teachers, where his thoughts could be his own.

“You’re out early,” one of the paintings said to him.

“Yes.” Harry replied, and moved on without further comment.

He thought of going to the Owlery, but decided against it. Sending an early letter was hardly unusual, and if he wanted to avoid people, somewhere else would be better.

“Going somewhere?” a familiar voice sneered.

“It isn’t time for classes.” Harry replied, his stubborn streak cropping up. “I can go anywhere I like.”

“Can you?” Snape glided into view. He looked down his big nose directly at Harry.

Harry wavered, honestly not knowing if he was rule-breaking or not.

Snape pressed his advantage. “You’ve had detention with both the Superintendent and Lockhart.” He stepped into Harry’s path to block an easy escape. “Why?”

“Well.” Harry remarked. “Umbridge gave me detention first, but then to get me out, I think, Lockhart said that he’d given me a detention first. There was a scheduling issue, and I missed dinner.” All true, even. He felt particularly pleased at that—Snape would be annoyed, but Harry was doing no wrong.

“Why did Umbridge give you detention?”

“She said I was a liar.” Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“You haven’t been telling her about the Dark Lord, have you?” Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “How many times must we tell you? Those who will listen already have heard. You won’t be converting Fudge’s lapdog with your tales.”

“They aren’t tales.” Harry insisted. “But you wouldn’t know, since you weren’t there. Not much of a spy, are you?”

Snape flushed with anger. “You have no idea.”

“Apparently.” Harry agreed wryly, though Snape didn’t seem to understand the humor. “Are we done?”

Snape snorted and nodded sharply. He started to turn away.

Harry remembered his question with sudden clarity, and it burst out of his lips. “You knew, didn’t you?” He asked. “That Voldemort’s come to Hogwarts.”

“I don’t follow.” Snape crossed his arms as he turned back toward the boy.

“Was it really Dumbledore who set the forgetfulness, or was it really Voldemort?”

“Have some sense!” Snape hissed, alarm and anger blurring in the lines of his mouth. He looked agitated for a moment before smoothing his features. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Which is it?” Harry demanded. “Have sense or forget? You can’t have it both ways.”

At that, Snape frowned more pronouncedly, and his harsh look froze. Some gears seemed to be whirring in his head, and it was only polite that Harry give him a chance to sort through the mess without getting overheated. “How long have you…suspected the Dark Lord of infiltrating these halls?”

It wasn’t the question Harry was expecting. “Since the first night.”

“And who have you told?”

“Ron. Hermione. Ginny. And the young Dark Lord himself, but he mostly avoids me.”

Snape’s expression changed again, relaxing just a bit. He mustered a jeering laugh at the last moment, and said, “Ah. Back to that daydream, are you?”

“Riddle hasn’t been here for that long.” Harry insisted. “Everyone just thinks he has. It’s the spell, that much I know. But I don’t think Dumbledore did it. So, what do—”

“You have never confided in me before.” Snape interrupted. “Why the sudden urge to have this…heart-to-heart?”

“You weren’t at the graveyard.” Harry replied.

Snape sighed and did something strange with his wand. An apple appeared in one hand, and something smoking in a beaker held in the other. Snape asked, “Which is real?”

Harry’s eyebrows flew into his hair. “Why?”

“Which is real, Mr. Potter?” Snape insisted.

Harry waved a hand through the smoke of the one and jabbed the other. “You summoned an apple from the kitchens, and that looks like Pepper-Up potion.”

“Would you drink it?” Snape extended the hand. There was no handy drink me attached.

“No.” Harry backed up quickly. “It might not be. You might be a double spy.”

“Would you eat it?” Snape’s lips twitched.

“Don’t eat strange foods.” Harry said very quickly, thinking of second year and the potioned cupcakes that put Crabbe and Goyle to sleep for the duration of their Polyjuice venture.

“Is it real?” Snape asked again, cryptically. “Could you eat it?”

“…yes.” Harry replied. “But I won’t.”

“Quite.” Snape commented irritably. “But neither are real.” He dropped them both, but instead of shattering or bouncing, they vanished without a sound.

“But I—”

“You merely assumed the apple had presence.” Snape said. “You clearly do not possess enough logic to deduce whether or not the Dark Lord is here. Leave Riddle out of your games, and concentrate on your classwork.”

With that unhelpful suggestion, Harry took a few further steps back. “That test is rubbish. You don’t know any better than I do. I’ll find him.” He paused reflectively. “But after breakfast. And after sufficient alone-time. But definitely after that.”

Snape merely watched him go.

o0o0o0o

(Tom)

All around me students go in and out of the stacks like so many ants.

I hold my breath as footsteps come near where I browse, half afraid and half hoping that the spell will fail, that they will see me for what I am. But how could they know, or understand, when even I have my doubts? Voldemort’s orders my orders, my own plans had not taken such accepting, blatant cooperation into account.

But as always, the footsteps veered away, and none approached. Frustrated or bored, their conversation seemed inanely happy, petty even. These young children, in the great castle to study magic, and not a one of them appreciated it.

I could continue pouring over ancient ritual books, potions and stories filled with cryptic hints. It seemed in a few scant days I had become a regular fixture in the library; completely ignorable and not worth even looking at. I despised that fact, even as I utilized it.

“Did you have Umbridge in your class today? I can’t believe she interrupted Flitwick during his lecture! It was funny at first, but then she started saying stuff about ‘not ministry approved this,’ and ‘you ought to know better about that’, and treating us like we’re all primary students. It was horrible.” One girl said, and I spied a glimpse of her through a gap in the books.

Her companion wasn’t so interested, though, and so gave only a vague comment that I didn’t care to listen to. Something about the foul nature of the toad, no doubt.

“She’s only staying ‘till midweek, right? Good riddance.” The girl said.

The other student, a boy with too-short robes gave an odd little cough.

I found my eyes stalled on the words before me, barely focusing on the titles. Magic in the Highlands: a visitor’s guide didn’t look worth the paper it was printed on. My hands brushed the spines of nearby books, searching for one of some real worth, but then stalled as the boy began to speak:

“I was thinking though... all those things in the paper, they don’t add up, right? He can’t be the Boy Who Lies if there are really people.... you know....” he lowered his voice, “disappearing?”

The girl dropped a book and made a small squeaking noise. “There’s no proof...and none of those stories are printed in the paper!”

“Yeah, erm, yeah. You’re right. My older brother was probably just trying to take the mickey outta me.” He gave a strained laugh. “No way people are really disappearing...”

Their voices faded as they went down the aisle, and I couldn’t catch more of the conversation. As enlightening as it was, it didn’t seem very likely that they’d know anything about the outside. Communication was strained-- even for me.

I moved away from the local magic section, and headed back to the shelves dealing with ritual magic. Again. There must be something I can use…something to shed some light on the mysterious ritual that took place at the end of last year. The goal was simply to give us a new body, wasn’t it? But why, then, did I have no memory of it, and why was Harry Potter so very… fragile.

Frustrated, I tapped my fingers against the wood of the shelf.

Harry Potter...the boy the entire school is thinking about, but no one will quite believe. His state of mind is an entirely unprecedented complication, and so he offers an element of random accident (happenstance?) that not even I could predict.

I paused as gold foil caught the light-- a book embossed and likely engraved with precious inks from long ago. The title was whimsical, though, and like the area I’d just abandoned, seemed too specific to be of any use. Fairy Tales and other Nonsense stories I lingered, nevertheless.

“What are you doing?”

I froze. It was Potter.

The simple question, so carefully worded was like trying to interpret a trail of breadcrumbs when he spoke so very little. “Is that a book on fairy tales?” Harry breathed, his voice hitching oddly.

I watched him from the corner of my eye. “It is.”

“What are you reading fairy tales for?” He asked curiously, and I took the opening to take a step back. By doing so, I noticed the state of his school robes, and his glasses. However, the way he shifted from foot to foot was more telling.

“Have you just come in from the grounds?” I felt my lip curl. “You’re dirty.”

Harry didn’t turn his head to look at me, still fixated on the book of fairy tales. “I just had Herbology...” he mumbled, an obvious lie as it was the weekend. “Did you know you can see the unseen and things better from the corner of your eye? I think I read that in a story about fox women in Japan... But you look just the same no matter how I look at you... you must be very clever to manage that.”

I looked at the boy without comment, and decided that the best course of action was walking to the library table, where my more common school books lay. He couldn’t very well continue the conversation right in front of the librarian.

Harry didn’t notice though, either by happy coincidence or by design, he managed to block my path. “Dumbledore didn’t cast the spell.” He said decisively.

So maybe he would continue the conversation in front of the librarian. It could be that the safety precautions of the curse (the memory charm, if I was to be precise) wouldn’t accommodate for idiot fey children. I decided to ignore his comment. “You should clean off before entering the library. You look like riffraff off the street.”

“Dumbledore wouldn't! He wouldn't, not with you being the young Voldemort.” Harry paced back to the bookshelf, and dislodged the book of fairy tales. “Does it have Tom Tit Tot?” He leafed through the pages, doubtlessly leaving dirty fingerprints all over it.

I stared at him, wondering if this was just another way for him to show his disdain, or if this was an example of how very addled he was. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Your name is secret too.” Harry muttered. “I was wondering how the girl in the story figured it out-- and she had power over Tom Tit Tot when she knew it.” He flashed a smile, and I felt a jolt of unease.

Old anger and frustration with my birth name rolled around in my stomach. I kept my face expressionless, uninterested, and I made no word to contradict him.

“Her husband came across That which was small and black, and singing to itself 'Name me, name me not, Who'll guess it's Tom-Tit-Tot.' It was chance and stupidity of That who revealed his own name...” Harry met my gaze. “Voldemort will be his own undoing.” He said simply, as though it needed no more explanation than that-- chance and stupidity.

“So your luck will see you through?” I controlled the smile that crept up on me, and something itched to grab his hand, to bend the fingers in until the bones creaked and blood ran. “I don't see what that has to do with me.”

Harry shrugged. “You haven't done anything.” He said simply. “So you must be part of the stupidity, I think, rather than the pride... Maybe you’re that bit that'll lead Voldemort to ruin. Do you need this back?” He gestured at the book.

“Thank you.” I accepted the book, making note to take the dirt from it later. Maybe some tiny bit of his essence could be gathered from the dust and oil accumulated from his hands, and I would discover something about the Boy Who Went Mad. At this point, anything would be better than what I had.

Harry shifted again now that his book was gone, and I wondered what the rest of the student population made of him. To the untrained eye, it probably looked as though his attention wandered, that he was bored with the world around him. They might even see his strange words as 'attention seeking,' or some such rot. I wondered if they noticed his tendency to fixate on things, the way his mind latched on and would not let go....

I pulled out a quill from my bag, and uncurled a bit of parchment I had been taking notes on. “I heard you stole a letter from Hermione.” I said it carefully, as though I heard the information from some second hand source. Like I hadn't been in the hallway, avoiding the students and staff as much as any fugitive. “You mentioned something interesting...”

Harry looked up, and his green eyes sparkled just as much as the gold leaf on the book’s spine had. A smile quirked his lips. “It wasn't much of a letter. What's it to you?” While my eyes were distracted by the baffling expression and vague words, one of his hands took hold of the book again.

I let him tug our hands out and up, so that the book lay between us. Then I tilted my head, and focused on a first year spell to make it float, then removed my hands before his grimy fingers could incriminate me as well. “You'll get it dirty.” I noted. “Hermione wasn't pleased,” I suggested, hoping he'd continue the conversation and not immediately digress to another fairy tale.

“Hermione likes rules and logic.” Harry said decisively. “Why are you giving me your book?”

“I was hoping to get the story straight,” I muttered, trying to sound chagrined. I hoped he'd see the 'poor loner' that everyone else seemed to see, that the memory charm would suddenly work wonders on him.

“Keep your mind moving, Riddle, or you’ll be trapped beneath the water and drown. Though I think you’d make a nice flower.” Harry said conversationally, so utterly out of context and ripe with meaning just lurking beneath his words.

Something clicked into place. His words had a double meaning, and they only just started to make sense: Water, flower, drowning, warning. The facts whirled around my thoughts, and I remembered an old Greek myth. Narcissus, who would have drowned after longing for his own reflection in water. Had he not been changed to a flower, Narcissus’s mirror would be a watery grave. From that, I worked out the other meaning, the one that applied here and now.

Harry Potter had a bloody mirror, likely enchanted. He was using it for something that might be dangerous, wasn’t he? I knew in that instant that it had to be mine.

But first, I had to check—was he really talking about mirrors? I began, “Some reflections are dangerous. Not only truth can hide in mirrors.”

Sure enough, his attention snapped back on me. “I guess.” Harry said guardedly, and his hands clenched. I imagined him pulling at restraints with those same long fingers, the nails broken and bleeding. Wouldn’t that be something?

“You think I don’t belong.” I muttered, stilling the smile that threatened my composure. “Why is that?”

“Because I saw you.” Harry replied much too quickly. “In the forest, remember? (*1)”

True, and he hadn’t seemed particularly bothered by the strong magic that should have cloaked me. Not then, and not now, Harry Potter was ever unaffected by the wards, sigils, and charms driven deep into my flesh and bones. “I’ve been here since your second year.” I reminded him lightly, breathing out the vestiges of another memory charm.

“If that were true,” Harry dropped his gaze and flipped a few pages in the heavy anthology, “you ought to tell me your version of it.”

“The Chambers of Secrets.” I said slowly. “The youngest Weasley was captured, but you slew the beast, and so everyone was happy.”

“Wrong.” He glared. “If you were really there, you’d have been everyone’s guess. But it was Malfoy and me, wasn’t it?”

I shrugged. “People didn’t know my name meant anything until the end.” It was simple guesswork, but I couldn’t let on just yet how little I knew. What little information I’d been trusted with.

His shoulders slumped. It was true, and he knew it. It would’ve cut a sharper edge if he realized how easily I played him, but for now he only leaned against the books. I imagined his heart racing, his breathes coming ragged, and how hot his blood would run.

“You ought to stop talking about me like that. Also about the Dark Lord. They’ll only assume the worst of you if you continue.” I tried to mask the mockery as kind advice, but it came out hard as nails.

“Why are you here?” he asked again.

“To learn magic. To be someone—not the Dark Lord, but someone better.” Let him believe that. The words tasted bitter, even as a half-formed notion to trick the Boy Who Lived into believing that I could be salvaged. But in some small sense, it was true. I do want to be better—not defeated, more than a wraith, and commanding more than a paltry sum of Death Eaters.

“You don’t know.” Potter replied slowly. “That’s why Dumbledore’s not throwing you out.” Interesting, how he refused to implement Dumbledore as the caster of the memory charm, even now. “He thinks you’re…” but he trailed off, swallowing the words.

I had to wonder at the boy. His leaps in logic were barely discernible, but he landed so close to what I didn’t want him to know. “You can’t condemn the blood of children.” I quipped, and nodded at the fat tome still in his hands. “Any book of fairy tales will tell you: children are clever, quick, and innocent.”

Harry nodded dubiously before freezing. “That’s not true. Child Roland is violent.” He argued. Gryffindors.

“Yes. Well. Goodbye Harry. I don’t have any more time to waste.” I pushed past him and muttered, “Tell me your fairy tale some other day.”

Harry watched me go, and I went to plan. He’d given me much to think about, the mirror to say the least. Then a thought struck me. It was worth a shot—and I doubted the mirror would go careening out of his dormitory window without someone realizing it. But here in the library, no one would be the wiser…

Accio. I thought, and sure enough, something silvery and heavy poked out of Potter’s abandoned school bag. The mirror. I held out my hands to catch it and smiled.

Harry would never know what hit him.

tbc...

(Next Chapter: Creatures and Fairy Tales)