Chapter Text
Dark Lord Who. Ch. 1: A Dark Lord Bacchanalia
Hermione awoke at being rudely and uncaringly dragged through the floor, only to be dumped, her head hitting the hard stone in a loud thump that should have made her, at least, moan in pain. In her current hazy state, though, she barely produced a soft huff. A loud and shrill voice shouted, "Not the mudblood, you idiot!"
She tried to focus her eyes enough to see what was going on, but she didn't need to in order to know that the voice belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange. She was sure she would never be able to forget the sound of her, cackling like the demented woman she was, nor the pain of her cruciatus.
Someone else was there, laying on the floor, a few meters away from her. Her vision was blurry, but she was sure that vibrant, dark red could be nothing but Ginny's hair. The other bulk –another person, she assumed– she could not distinguish clearly. "Are you sure this is going to work?" said a man, one of the Lestrange brothers, in a rough, tired voice.
"Do you have a better idea?" Bellatrix snapped viciously, and the man just went back to dragging the others into what seemed like a circle on the floor. "Leave that thing out," she ordered, and it took Hermione a few seconds to realize she must be talking about her. "Only Potter and the Weasley girl," she ordered.
It was a sign of how out of it she was that the sound of Harry's name, the knowledge that it was his body –his dead body– laying there, didn't prompt her to produce any outward sounds. Inside, though, she was crying; she had been since Harry's body had fallen to the floor along with Voldemort's.
"Aren't sacrifices usually… well, alive?" the other Lestrange brother, the bigger one, asked dubiously.
"They have already sacrificed themselves!" the woman explained with little patience. "Potter gave his life away, and the girl died for him right afterwards. This sacrifice has meaning, it has magic. Magic powerful enough to return the dead to life," she said, her voice excited with that childish tone it acquired when she was pleased.
Hermione could not even bring herself to care about their words. Everything was lost. Everyone was dead. Who cared if they were trying to bring Voldemort –because who else would Bellatrix want?– back to life? She was dying too, anyway, barely holding onto the edges of her consciousness. She would soon be able to rest.
Bellatrix started chanting in a foreign language –she thought it sounded similar to Arabic, but she couldn't be sure– and the room slowly began to shine in a white light, brighter with every word that came out of her mouth. She seemed to be in a trance, head back, eyes shining and all those words and words coming out of her mouth as the air –the world– around them vibrated with energy.
Hermione felt her skin burn, her bloodied nose managed to pick out the smell of blood –fresh blood, not dry. She had learnt they smelt very differently– and of fire, and then everything went white.
Tom Riddle awoke to the smell of dry blood and the sound of heavy panting. He opened his eyes and slowly sat up, taking in the detail that he'd been laying on the cold stone floor. He took a look around and the sight made him raise his brows in surprise, which had not happened since… Since when? He could not quite picture when exactly he was. What had he been doing? What was the last thing he remembered? Because, he remembered; but his memories didn't seem to follow a particular order.
How interesting.
He was, he was tempted to say, in Hogwarts. Or at least in what looked like its ruins. The huge windows, he could identify as having belonged to the Great Hall. There wasn't much left of it now. To his left was the stone frame to the great door that had presided the room once, and to his right was… Well, stone, rubble and wood settled into a pile that reached the ceiling.
Around him was a circle drawn in splotches of blood. Right outside of it stood two men –old, ragged and dirty– dressed in black robes, and between them kneeled a woman that was gawking at him, crazy eyes peeking from between only slightly less crazy hair. At his side, within the circle, laid a young, dark-haired naked woman, skin fully covered in tattoos. Against the wall, a few meters away from them, was another girl in worn and dirty muggle clothes, who appeared to be –at least– half dead.
He looked down and observed that he, much like his in-circle companion, was unclothed.
"My… My Lord," the older, awake woman said tremulously, gazing at him as if she had just witnessed a miracle.
"Is it him?" the bigger man said, in awe.
"Yes!" the woman screeched so loudly she almost startled him. "My Lord, we are your most loyal servants! All the rest left after the battle was over," she said in a furious voice, full of loathing, "but we stayed, my Lord! We brought you back!"
He frowned. Those people seemed to know him. The way they were calling him Lord fitted well with the name he had given himself. The woman scooted closer in a quick movement and showed him her arm; the Dark Mark he had designed not long ago –though who knew exactly when– imprinted on her skin. Ah, so they were his followers.
"You brought me back to life?" he asked, taking in the news that he –or future him, he supposed– must have died at some point.
The woman almost broke her neck in her haste to nod vigorously. He frowned in distaste. Such unstable followers he had gathered with the years. Where was Thanos Nott? Where was Abraxas Malfoy? Had they fled, as those three claimed?
The woman lying right by his side stirred slowly and sat up, moaning audibly, eyes surprisingly focused as she, too, looked around herself.
Tom glanced at his followers and the question in his hard eyes must have been clear, for they fidgeted uncomfortably under the weight of it. It seemed evident they ignored who the young woman was, too.
"Did you bring me back to life?" she asked curiously, head tilting to one side slightly too much to classify it as a natural gesture.
So, she had been listening.
"See," one of the men, the one that had kept quiet so far, whispered furiously. "I knew you didn't know what you were doing!" the woman glared at him, but he kept on. "There were two bodies, and now we revived someone else!"
The woman shook her head and snapped, "No! I asked for the Dark Lord to be brought back to life! Not for anyone else!"
The younger woman stood, uncaring about her state of extreme nakedness, and hummed happily. "I'm guessing this was an old Dilmun rite, I recognize this particular Akkadian dialect," she said while tracing the blood circle with her toes.
He could see now faint traces of cuneiform –Sumerian, he guessed from her words– carefully inscribed within the blood circle. "Dilmun," he said, "they specialized in necromancy."
"Your Akkadian is not very accurate," the younger woman told the older one. "You exchanged a 'noble sacrifice' for the life of 'The Dark Magician'," she explained, humour clear in her voice.
"There were two sacrifices," he followed her reasoning, "and so, two Dark Magicians were brought back."
The woman knew what she was talking about. He'd been a good student, and Runes a very interesting subject, but his knowledge of old Arabian dialects was fairly limited.
"Sacrificial magic is so very hard to control," the young woman went on, slowly walking around the circle, careful to not step on the line as she read. "I'm surprised you managed to revive your intended target, to be honest. How many Dark Magicians are there in the known History of the Civilizations? And you put two sacrifices in a circle and one of them turns to work out?"
She was speaking as if in wonder, but the criticism weighed in her words. His followers weren't only unstable, but also quite uneducated.
"Potter was special!" the woman screeched once more, and one of his eyes twitched involuntarily. How loud. "We knew he was connected to our Lord!"
The young woman tilted her head once more and observed the others in silence. When it became apparent that she didn't intend to answer, he took over. "Potter?"
"Yes, My Lord," the woman almost injured herself in her haste to get back down on one knee. "The Chosen One," she said mockingly, "the one the Prophecy said was destined to vanquish you."
He wondered, not for the first time, if the woman just couldn't speak in a softer tone. Had the battle left her deaf, aside from daft?
"Seems like Potter managed," the naked witch commented merrily.
That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. The older woman unsheathed her wand faster than he had ever seen anyone do, which very reluctantly impressed him, and threw a dark curse so quickly he barely had time to register which it was.
The younger one, though, just raised her hand and deviated the blast as if dismissing it, a light expression of discontentment in her face. She didn't seem to care for being attacked, a feeling with which he fully commiserated. She snapped her fingers in which surely were just unnecessary theatrics, and the older woman was set on fire.
The scream that followed was just as shrill as her voice had been, but much more satisfying. He found himself smiling as the dirty woman thrashed and howled profanities, unable to get the magical fire to stop eating her alive.
The two men glanced at him and, seeing humour in his face, stopped any attempts to save her. Loyal followers, they were, and at least quieter than the lunatic bint.
"Not fiendfyre," he observed lightly.
"Unnecessarily hard to control, and does the same as any other magical flame: burn," she explained, watching with a bored expression, and a furrow in her brow. She snapped her fingers once more and the screaming ceased, contained behind a silencing charm.
Well, he couldn't agree. Horcruxes would not be destroyed by any flame that was not fiendfyre. Speaking of horcruxes, had his soul come back –or forth, as he was clearly from the past– whole? He would have to find out.
The two men kept on watching the woman worriedly, as she had fallen to the floor without a sound and struggled much more feebly to free herself from the fire. One of them turned and would most likely have asked for permission to assist –which he wouldn't have given anyway, as the younger witch was clearly the ally to keep there– when he suddenly fell to the ground, mouth agape and eyes empty.
The other man, the big one, turned around quickly but not enough, as he, too, fell prey to a green ray of light.
Tom glanced at him as he fell and quickly darted his eyes toward the not-so-dead girl that had been laying against the wall. She was breathing hard, eyes clearly unfocused, wand pointing straight at him rather steadily. He raised one thin eyebrow in acknowledgement, and quickly tried to perform a wandless expelliarmus, that worked beautifully.
The girl did not even seem to register, or at least care, that she had been disarmed. She just lowered her arm and rested her head against the wall in abandonment. She seemed to have given up after that final act of –most likely– revenge.
The young, naked woman walked toward her and crouched down, most likely giving her a view that no young lady should feel comfortable with giving. "Impressive, for someone at death's very own door," she mumbled while studying her analytically. "Are you his follower too?"
The moribund girl actually snorted at that, which made the naked one chuckle. "Helped kill him then, I guess," she laughed happily.
He approached one of the dead men and took his outer cloak, patched it and scourgified it –something that he had vast experience in, coming from an orphanage, where clothes were rarely new– and, after some precise transfiguration, covered himself in his new robes. Just because the tattooed girl seemed fond of exhibitionism, he didn't need to share the fetish.
"Oh, such a pity," she commented, as if she had heard his thoughts. "You have a cute butt," she added almost as an afterthought, and wasn't looking at him when he turned to glare at her impudence. "Who are you?" she asked the girl then, curiosity once more in her voice.
The girl was quiet for such a long time he assumed she must have finally passed. "Just ignore her," he said. He had no use for dead people. The other woman though, as soon as she got dressed, might be useful.
"Tom… Riddle," she whispered then, eyes barely open, gazing in his general direction. He stilled and looked back, waiting for her to say anything else.
"The girl knows who you are," she said, "And she is bound to know more about what is going on that either me or you," she pointed out.
"Well, you did kill the other woman who knew what was going on," he felt the need to remark drily.
"And I did all of our eardrums a favour," she defended, unconcerned. "This one's quieter."
"This one's almost dead."
"Even more easily fixable than fully dead, don't you think?" she joked with a smirk, and he found himself joining her with a half-smile. She raised her hand lazily and the burnt woman's wand flew straight to it. "Wands have changed," she mentioned observing the wood with a critical eye, "Much more refined."
He raised his brows once more. How long had that woman been dead?
She waved the wand precisely and a yellowish glow surrounded the fuzzy-haired girl. Gashes in her face disappeared slowly, skin reattaching lazily and without a hurry. A few loud cracks were heard, which he assumed were her bones finding their rightful places. She left out a harsh gasp, and her lungs inflated fully, which probably meant her previous trouble breathing had been due to internal injuries.
That she had been able to perform two avadas in quick succession in that state was indeed quite a feat.
As colour returned to her face, her eyes opened with more certainty, and she stared in his direction in a fixated way that was unnerving. There was nothing in those eyes of her, just a blank look, devoid of any judgement. He wondered if she was broken.
"Your name?" she asked again, more insistently.
Once more they were met with silence for a long time. He was not a patient man, and was about to snap once more that they should just go, when she finally answered. "Hermione Granger."
"The Winter's Tale? Or the princess of Sparta?" he asked, curious.
"My mother always loved Shakespeare," the defiance in her tone made him smirk once more. Maybe she was unbroken still.
"Muggleborn," he noted, and she did not deny it. Well, that clearly explained why she'd killed his followers.
"I have no idea what you people are talking about," the other woman mentioned with a pout. "Are my translation spells not working properly?"
"When was the last year you remember?" he asked.
"1235."
He raised both his brows, and the girl on the ground gasped. "1945," he answered in turn. She whistled loudly. "I doubt you can understand our cultural background," he pointed out.
They both turned to the other girl expectantly and she frowned, clearly not wanting to give an answer. "Do not be difficult now," the tattooed woman demanded. "Don't make us torture you for information we'll end up finding out easily," she reasoned.
The other girl frowned but did not complain. She looked tired, and not at all like what she needed was a round of crucios.
"1998," she offered grudgingly.
Fifty years, more or less, then. No wonder he had not recognized his followers. He wondered what exactly had happened, when his older self died. He wondered even more how he had died. Had his horcruxes been found and destroyed? Had he managed to make all seven of them?
"What just happened here?" the woman kept on.
"War," she answered. "Against them," she snarled with the first hint of real feeling she had displayed until the moment.
"For?"
"Blood purity," she said in distaste.
The naked woman blinked, confused. "What is that?"
"Distinction between purebloods, whose ascendants are all wizards, and muggleborns or mudbloods, who were birthed by muggles," he explained.
"We had no such words," the woman said. "Why would anyone fight a war about something so foolish?"
"It has always been important in Britain," he answered. "Though this one was fought for the same reason all wars are," he pointed out. "For power."
At that the woman nodded in understanding. "You apparently lead this war?" she asked.
"Apparently," he conceded. "Though, if I died, and the man prophesized to kill me was used to revive me, I'm left wondering who won."
"No one," the girl said from the ground. "They're all dead."
"Power void then," he acknowledged. "These followers of mine that apparently left, they might have fled to take it," he guessed. "Or maybe some surviving friend of yours?" he asked the girl.
She shook her head vehemently.
"When you say they are all dead," the other woman started pensively, "about how many people would we be talking about? People that died in noble self-sacrifice, I mean."
The girl furrowed her brows at the question, and he found himself intrigued. She seemed to be going somewhere.
"Many. I don't know, there were so many students…" she said in confusion. She seemed to be still shaking off the after effects of severe shock.
"Young lives are always most effective when dealing with sacrificial magic," she commented. "When you say many, you mean many around one hundred or many around one thousand?" she insisted.
The girl swallowed and thought harder, "I – I guess about one hundred, maybe? More than fifty? I don't know."
"Did you confound her?" he asked, surprised at her newfound willingness to provide information.
"Not really. Severe head trauma can lead to the same kind of behaviour," she explained. "I assume it's making her more talkative."
He nodded. "What are you getting at?"
"Ah, well," she commented, standing to talk to him closer to eye-level. "It's just that the circle they used wasn't a containment circle. Whether we were inside or outside of it, shouldn't have mattered at all," she mentioned.
He felt both his eyebrows raise in surprise. "You mean… All these sacrifices…?" he started.
She nodded. "For every noble sacrifice, a Dark Magician reborn, I'd expect. The air feels dense with leftovers of ritualistic magic; I don't think the extent of the spell was limited to this particular room."
The young girl, still sprawled on the floor, gasped and tried to sit up more firmly against the wall. "You mean there could be about a hundred Dark wizards going around Hogwarts?" she said in a strangled and horrified voice.
"And witches," she pointed out with pride.
The girl, Hermione, raised to her feet with visible effort. "Why are you so young?" she asked him, now more coherent. The healing magic seemed to be taking effect quickly.
He had to admit he didn't know. "I assume I'm seventeen," he started, as it was the last he remembered being within his disordered memories. He looked at the other girl, waiting for some insight.
"I'm sixteen," the naked woman mentioned. "Was that the age of the sacrifice?" she asked Hermione, and the girl paled very visibly, but nodded. "Then that must be it; the younger and livelier the sacrifice, the longer you have left to live. It fits the spell," she said, pointing toward the circle.
"We should move," he said. "If your intuition is correct, there might be other people around."
The woman nodded and headed toward the open exit. He looked at Hermione with a critical eye. She might be a good source of information until they learned enough to venture exploring further out into the outside world. The girl must have guessed his intentions correctly, because she seemed to brace herself against the wall, as if she could actually escape him that way.
He smiled at that and pointed at her with her own wand. "Do I really have to force you?" he asked softly, and the girl swallowed, but was smart enough to shake her head and trudge after the naked one, out of the room. Good thing she could walk on her own, she might still be worth keeping alive.
"You will have to update me in Dark Wizard history," naked woman mentioned. "Many might have come after me."
"Who are you, anyway?" Hermione asked rudely, clearly recovering from her previous state of dazedness.
"Oh, forgive my rudeness. I didn't even introduce myself. I am Yagaratea, daughter of Ježi."
Hermione stilled at the exact same moment as himself. That timeline, that name… "Baba Yaga?!" the girl exclaimed, as he goggled like a fool.
Yagaratea turned around and frowned at them both. "What would you call me old woman Yaga for? Do I look old to you?" she protested.
They glanced at each other in an unexpected moment of comradeship. It was not every day that you met the most feared witch recorded in wizarding history, after all. Baba Yaga, Russian Hag famous for eating children alive for breakfast, used since times immemorial to scare little kids into behaving, said to have lived up to the age of four-hundred and three.
That ally might unexpectedly turn out to be a double-edged sword.
Hermione trudged with difficulty, knowing Tom Riddle had her at wand point and Baba Yaga –actual bloody Baba Yaga!– was right in front of her, and had already threatened torture. She didn't feel like being tortured, to be honest. She had seen everyone she cared about die for the cause, and so, what cause was left now? Better to just follow those two around for the moment, and at least avoid physical pain, if possible.
They stopped suddenly, and she almost collided with the other woman. She side-stepped to see what was holding them, and saw the dead body of Lucius Malfoy sprawled on the floor. Well, maybe death did make everyone equal; who would have ever guessed the man could be so graceless?
"This is the first one," the woman mentioned. Hermione frowned, wondering at her meaning.
"We have walked for at least five minutes," Riddle seemed to agree on whatever it was they seemed to have noticed. "There should have been more."
Both turned to look at her, and she blinked foggily. What?
"Dead bodies," Riddle explained impatiently, "should there not have been more?"
Oh. Oh, yes. Definitely more. She nodded. "Lucius Malfoy was not one for noble self-sacrifice," she commented, finally grasping what was going on.
Tom Riddle nodded in understanding. "It seems likely that we aren't the only people to have come back from the dead," he said in distaste.
Hermione swallowed at the thought of more of them. The world had quite literally just turned into Hell.
They kept marching, away from the now blocked entrance to the Castle, in search of an exit. The other two had briefly debated blowing up the rubble barricade, but had deemed it too risky. The Castle's structural building might be too unstable, and suddenly collapse on them.
As they advanced they found more and more lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor. Death Eaters and students alike painted the old stone halls in blood, their deaths not noble enough to be deemed worthy of bringing forth new life. Tom Riddle took their wands one by one and felt them, unsatisfied for the moment. Hermione was quite vexed that her wand was working best for him, in comparison. Yaga seemed pleased with Bellatrix's wand, which was a terrifying thought in itself.
As they headed toward one of the inner patios, which still lead outdoors judging by the light filtering through, a sudden movement to their left startled her. She reached for a wand she didn't have anymore, and panicked at its loss. However, her companions were both fast and talented.
Theodore Nott stood against an old tapestry, wand in hand but hands above his head. He was surrendering. His face was paler than she'd ever seen it. He stared at Tom Riddle as if he knew precisely who he was.
"Who are you?" Riddle asked, eyeing him with curiosity and, perhaps, a hint of recognition.
"Theodore Nott," he barely managed to whisper, terror tinting his words. "My Lord," he added, in a rush.
Riddle observed him critically –perhaps pleased– before disarming him with ease. He tried his wand, frowned, and threw it back at him. Nott struggled to catch it, display at which Riddle raised an eyebrow, mockingly.
"Let's keep him," Yaga said, giving him a once-over. Nott seemed to notice her for the first time and his eyes went wide as saucers at the sight of a very naked young woman. He averted his eyes too quickly for his discomfort to remain hidden, and Yaga chuckled.
Riddle nodded. "We'll stay at Nott Manor," he informed him. "After I've fetched a wand from Ollivander's. Can you side-along her to Diagon Alley?" he asked Nott, pointing at her with a sharp jerk of his head. The boy rushed to say yes and make himself useful.
They went out and walked among rubble and broken stone all the way until the edge of Hogwarts' premises. Behind them, within the Castle, they could hear noise and see the lights of a battle rekindled.
"I'd say some of the others have met," Yaga smirked in pleasure.
"Let them wipe each other out," Riddle suggested. "Let's get out of here."
"Side-along me," Yaga asked Nott coquettishly. He glanced away in visible awkwardness. "You take the girl. Let's make sure we keep them," she told Riddle.
Hermione frowned at being talked about like some pet, but soon she felt Riddle's firm grip on her arm and the familiar twist of apparition.
Theodore Nott sat down on the floor next to Hermione Granger, who was the most welcome company in the present circumstances. Just that thought made him feel ill. Tom Riddle was trying wand after wand among the thousands stored within the dusty, old shop. It looked like they could be in there for a while. His eyes darted once more toward the other young girl, and he swallowed, feeling his cheeks burn. She was observing the discarded wands with a keen interest.
"What the fuck is going on?" he asked her. Granger looked half-dead, but her eyes sparkled still.
She looked back at him and just snorted and shook her head. He gathered it was complicated. He insisted. "That's him, isn't it?"
Granger nodded. "How do you know?"
He shrugged, but still answered. She had information he wanted to know, after all. "My father keeps old pictures of his school days." They stayed in silence for a few minutes, the sound of Tom Riddle cursing in the background. "He died. I saw him die," he whispered furiously. He'd been happy when his monstrous body had hit the floor. Theodore was not made for war.
"Bellatrix revived him," she said with fury. He groaned. The thing just couldn't stay dead.
"And who's that – that woman," he said, pointedly avoiding to look in her direction. Granger smirked, making fun of him. He flushed brighter.
"Baba Yaga," she announced, and he could see she was enjoying breaking the news. Who would have thought Granger had it in her to be cruel?
Before he could decide whether to be offended at the stupid joke or terrified at the possibility of her words being true, the woman returned.
"He's so picky," she complained. "They all work much better than the ones I'm used to." She crouched in front of them, and he couldn't help but gasp at the sight. Why on earth weren't they at Madam Malkin's getting the woman something to wear? "Girl, tell me about this war. I want to understand who's in power now."
Granger stuttered and tried to give a brief summary of Wizarding Britain's political situation. Still, telling who was in power at the moment wasn't easy. Probably no one yet. In a matter of hours, most likely various factions.
A series of click-clack-clacking noises drew their attention toward the door. A man broke through Riddle's warding with apparent ease and entered the shop in confident strides. His eyes fell on the three of them and he smirked, showing rotting, ugly teeth.
"Brats," he said, his voice a nasty rasp. "Aren't you a pretty sight," he leered. He locked the door behind him, new wards raising windlessly at his command, and he approached them. "Let's have some fun, shall we, little girls?" His wand was drawn, a wood as ugly and crooked as himself.
Baba Yaga –if Granger was to be trusted, which he doubted– didn't bother standing up, fixing the newcomer with a bored glare. Granger, though, tensed at his side. That seemed to please the wizard.
"Oh, be afraid, girlies. I like to play rough," he growled, licking his lips, sending a shiver down Theodore's spine.
"Oh, for Salazar's sake, would you deal with that?" came Riddle's voice from behind the shelves. "I can't focus around the thought of such vulgarity."
The man tensed and raised his wand toward the voice, but was only startled when Baba Yaga laughed –cackled– and stood in one smooth move. He sneered and relaxed at catching a glimpse of Riddle, checking that he was in fact just another teenager.
"I thought you were giving me the attention," she purred, displeased. It was clear the man considered the boys a bigger threat.
He might have wanted to answer, but before he had the chance a handful of discarded small drawers shot up toward him at incredible speed, catching him by surprise. The girl had not even moved.
He waved his wand and they turned to fine dust mid-air. Yaga snapped a finger and the dust caught on fire, blinding them all, but not reaching the wizard under his protective shield. "Little bitch," he snarled. "You dare to try and duel Raczidian?"
Granger gasped. He, too, knew the name. A dark wizard, famous for having allegedly failed at casting a Patronus. He could believe the man had not a single pure thought in his filthy mind. That was the third supposedly back-from-the-dead person of the day, and Theodore started to think that something must have gone very, very wrong.
The wooden floor below the wizard's feet splintered and broke into single slats, which quickly tried to climb though his legs and crush them. The man apparated a few feet back with a loud crack and turned the slats into snakes, which rushed toward the girl, only to be turned into a rabble of black butterflies. The insects flew from all sides at high speed and he managed to smother most within a cloud of green mist, but a few survived and slashed his skin thinly before perishing.
The flashy display of fireworks proved to be mostly a distraction, as the man had shot a nasty curse through the mist that felt dark even from that distance. She sidestepped with agility to avoid it, as a flock of pointy wands were shot from behind the wizard, impaling themselves with ferocity on his summoned wooden block.
Theodore was impressed at the woman's prowess. She must have been as young as himself, while the man was easily in his early forties.
Baba Yaga swiped her wand quickly and fired three dark spells he couldn't recognize, while accoing the wooden block behind the man. Distracted by the impact of his own summoned wood, he avoided the spells with difficulty, barely deflecting the last one. He threw an easily recognizable avada, followed by something much more obscure, that caused the girl's hair to set on a dark, vicious fire, despite her shield.
She snarled and raised her wand, a whispered counter-course on her lips. The fire on her head went off, leaving only the ends of her hair charred. She started a chant in a language that sounded very old, every word out of her mouth leaving a tingling sensation on Theodore's skin. She threw one vicious curse after another, which he parried, matching her speed. One of them impacted a shelf after deflection and left it a melting gooey, smelly mess.
Theodore could tell she had finished the chanted incantation through the finality of the last word. A quiet power settled over them all, a vibration in the air that promised danger. The man suddenly seemed nervous.
The shop shook with dark magic and, very slowly, the shadows casted by the worn lights all around lazily moved, raised and reached forward. They became longer, and thinner, and made their way toward the wizard. He tried two or three obscure spells on them, but the darkness was unyielding. Raczidian opted to try and curse the caster once more, thinking killing her would stop the magic.
Curse after curse was stopped flawlessly as the shadows grew closer and closer. He soon found himself cornered against the wall, franticly shooting away. In his desperation, he aimed at Granger and himself with a furious snarl. Theo barely had time to murmur a rushed protego, taken by surprise. It was enough to stop the blunt of the curse, though they were blasted away a few feet, becoming a fumbling mess of limbs and dirt.
As he coughed and fought against the itching pain in his eyes, he heard the painful howl of a man being devoured alive by hungry shadows. He managed to see, behind the curtain of raised fine dust, a lonely hand twitching as it was being dragged within the void. And at last, silence.
Tom Riddle appeared, handsome features twisted in a displeased scowl, "The first one. We can only expect there to be more." He appraised the witch critically. He'd used the conflict to analyse her, apparently.
There was a dark, long, new wood in his hand and a few more in his pockets. He threw one at Granger, which the witch caught in surprise. "Behave," he cautioned, "for I have little patience." She nodded, but he personally doubted she would.
He addressed him this time and he fidgeted under his heavy gaze. "Can you let us in past the wards?" Theodore nodded. He'd seen his father die with his own eyes. The Manor was his. "Then lead the way. We have much to talk about," he added, glancing back at Granger, who was busy going after the wand that had fallen from Raczidian's hand.
He thought he'd heard her whisper a soft "Remus" as she cradled the wood in her arms. "Are we running a wand shop now?" Baba Yaga asked, eyeing Granger in confusion. "If so, I'm dreadfully devoid of material." She non-verbally accioed a few extra wands and shoved them in his pocket, given how she owned none.
Riddle held the door open and bowed slightly, with a single "Ladies" that left him confused at his sudden politeness. Granger went out after Baba Yaga and Riddle addressed him, scowl once more in his face, "I hope there are some witch gowns in Nott Manor. We look ridiculous."