Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aveline was running.

Night itself seemed to be clawing at her senses, tearing at her skin like jagged glass, sending her heart into frantic, irregular beats, that made her choke on her own pulse. The way it was pounding she could feel all the way in the back of her head, ringing in her ears like a war drum, that has never quite known the gentleness and grace of peace.
The air was clinging to her lungs, akin to dust, soot, hindering her ability to breathe. Her feet, encased in those worn black sneakers she was so fond of, were biting into the cobblestone so hasty, so desperate, that she didn't even notice her ankle betraying her, twisting cruelly in an unnatural angle, a sharp jolt of pain blazing up her leg all the way to her thigh.

She had no time to stop in panic, even as she heard the Death Eater's curses trying fervently to reach her, to graze her back.
She swallowed the bitter taste of fear curling on her tongue again and again - not now, not ever.
No, Aveline Abrams couldn't let herself be afraid.

What would Harry do?

The girl reflected, the urge to be strong, to fight overcoming her senses, brain spiralling...

...she shook the image of the young, dark haired boy away, like a stubborn moth fluttering too close to a flame.
To be brave - it wasn't hers to claim, that was his burden - the Boy Who Lived, the Gryffindor with the heart of a lion's. Not hers.Not now, not, when the fragile, delicate, sweet hope of escape trembled just beyond the night’s edge, thin as gossamer.

But before Aveline could register what had happened, she was falling. Her foot got caught. This is it, she thought, this is how i die.
Her fate now looked rather fractured, as a broken mirror. She was falling, head-first onto a hard, cold cobblestone, her thoughts' echo burning but few words into her mind. Panic etched onto her face was rather understandable, given the circumstances the young woman found herself in.

The descent seemed to stretch, grotesquely slow. She knew the man who was chasing her would sooner or later catch up to her that way.

The Death Eater's boot would crush her ribs.

The green light of the Killing Curse would seep through the folds of her brain, blinding her eyes, leading to her utter demise.

She braced for the rough, brutal kiss of the ground, but nothing happened. Her face didn't splash onto the concrete, instead, there was this overwhelming quietness overtaking her every thought and sense.
A silence that drank from itself, silence so profound, that it pressed against her skin, suffocating the shriek that rose in her throat. The impact she was so ready for never came. She floated — or was falling still? Abrams no longer knew, time itself seemed to fray around her. And curiously, she found she didn't wonder - thought itself was slipping through her grasp. It was as if the ability to think was seized from her. World around her seemed to spin, everything bending in that weird, disturbed way that would make anyone with labyrinth issues vomit. Aveline would have gasped - had any breath remained inside her weak lungs.

Then - came the darkness. Without end, without edge. It was hungry, and intended to feed, so without a word it swallowed her whole.

And Aveline knew nothing more.

---------------------------

DISCLAIMER

I DO NOT own the characters, settings, or events from the Harry Potter universe. THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. Any resemblance to REAL PERSONS, living or dead, or to actual events, is PURELY COINCIDENTAL. All rights to the original works belong to their rightful creator, J.K Rowling. 

The story, text, and all content created by me within this fanfiction are my intellectual property. Unauthorized copying, distribution, or use of this work without my explicit permission is strictly prohibited. Any attempts to copy, share, or claim this work without proper authorization will be pursued to the fullest extent of applicable copyright laws.

© 2025 Lialv_vs. All rights reserved.

Chapter Text

The awakening wasn't harsh - heavens, no. Only peace and silence incarnate, save for a few birds chirping right above. A gentler world - or so she thought.

Aveline's head, although still pounding with a dull ache, was filled with a strangely comforting calmness. She felt as if she was waking up from a Merlin-knows-how long of a nap, and still quite couldn't get herself to flutter the stubborn heavy eyelids open. 

The morning dew beneath was clinging to the girl's fingertips, soaking through her skin, and making her feel alive. Cool breeze, the kind that only Autumn knew how to exhale, sweet in its own way, gently gusting all over her porcelain face. 
Her limbs were a bit sore, she found, when she tried to move a leg, but the soft touch of grass, caressing her calves, her cheek, her elbows seemed to relieve the slight discomfort. It served her as a reminder, as reassurance. It spoke to her: You're still alive.

Aveline stirred, with a wide yawn, and a rather reluctant stretch, that could be felt in each and every inch of her body, her eyes opening, as though she came back to life in that exact moment.

Then came the breath, sharp in her lungs, as she inhaled the crisp air of the early fall, back arching slightly.

Sky, the first thing she saw, tilting her head upwards. Endless blue, the dreamy colour. Too blue - if she were honest. Small cloud formations forming here and there, and sun shining mercilessly onto her now half-woke face. It wasn't the grim grey she so got to live in terms with, neither was it filled with black smoke and lit by green curses - it was just clean. Simple, one might think, but it stared her down with no apology, mocked her with its serenity. She only furrowed her eyebrows, until they formed a line in between.  That was the kind of blue she hadn't seen in years, not since cruel war had taken everything from her. She propped herself up onto her sore elbows, squinting, green eyes scanning the environment, the feeling of longing etched into her very bones. Below her laid a meadow, of course. Wild, although not chaotic. Beautiful, dazzling little flowers clinging to her trousers and boots, as if inviting her to lay just a few minutes more. 

But the girl found that she could not spare a few minutes more, seeing a castle loom just near the paddock she was oh-so-gently placed onto. It looked majestic, the towers soaring towards the sky, and a flash of remembrance gleamed somewhere in the back of her mind. She shook her head, as she tried her best to stand on her own two shaky, heavy legs. 
With uneasiness she limped, pain in the ankle was a souvenir from her great escape, which she remembered faintly, hand shooting towards the nearest tree, supporting her weight on one hand, bark rough under her palm. Her right arm searched for any cuts, for injuries, especially around her head.

It looked strangely like...No, but that couldn't be true. If it were to be, Aveline must've either been dead, walking through the afterlife now, or experiencing some sort of advanced delusion - and she was anything but that. Merlin, she wasn't even injured.

This castle was too clean, too pristine. Last time she'd seen it, the stones were scorched, the towers looked like they never could stand so tall, crumbled down like it was nothing. The war they faced had made it weep, but now here it stood, in its previous glory - untouched, gleaming in the sunlight.

The same autumn breeze tugged at her hair, sending strings from her braid flying in four different directions, and sending chills down her spine. It was downright not right, her face curled into a grimace of confusion. The wind carried the scent of lake water, pines and familiarity.

She turned her face towards the building once more, her skin now covered with goosebumps. She bit her lip, uttering few words only.

"Where am I..."

The birds, clearly unphased, chirped merrily above.

------------------------
Minutes, dozens of minutes went by, and Aveline's feet found their way down a narrow path winding downhill through the wildflowers, squinting with a face, that would make the sun itself think it had done something to offend her. In her mind, perhaps it was that way. Something about the neatness of it all made her stomach churn, her gut bubbling inside of her body, like she was about to puke out all of her intestines. The kind of unease that starts in your ribs, and claws its way all up your throat - much like ivy. Her shoes, so out of place, out of the serene world she perceived she was in, squashed the damp grass beneath her weight. 

Pressing her fingers to her temples, eyes closing, she took a deep breath in through the nostrils. Her mind was reeling, trying to come up with a logical explanation for all this spotless mess. Magical shock, perhaps, she thought. She'd read about it before, but never thought it might be quite so frightening and disturbing. She felt like she was a woman of chimera, imagining things for the hope of it all.
Then, it didn't make sense to her. How could just a shock be so profound, how could it be so realistic, the dew on her hands, the wind caressing her, the grass, and now her shoes getting soaked in the dampness? She shook her head. Not a magical shock, that was a certainty.

From her deep thoughts soon enough pried her away a shadow of a man, quite distant, nearing a lake. She raised one of her eyebrows, mostly in confusion. Tiny from here, but it was unmistakably human. A silhouette heading towards the castle. 
Her first instinct was to duck, not to show that she was here, but then she exhaled the breath, that she was holding in unintentionally, as a concept went through her head, that maybe this man was the key to figuring out what had happened.

Aveline came closer, watching the weird figure with caution. Curiosity gnawed at her, because who in the living hell walked like that? Hands behind his back, just his posture giving away the assumption, that he owned the bloody ground, long robes ruffled by wind, covering his body...

Dumbledore?

Only one name crashed into her head, maybe because this was undoubtedly one person Abrams wouldn't mind seeing. What would Dumbledore be doing here? In her own delusion...She wanted to laugh in her own face, but after all, it was a guess as good as any, she stepped forward, and held onto the tiniest bit of hope that if it was who she thought, he'd have a solution, or at least an answer she oh so needed.

Aveline's hands gripped the edge of her jumper, dusty and torn in few places, war touched, if you may. She was going to stick out, she figured, much like a Muggle in Diagon Alley would. Just now had she noticed the absence of her wand, huffing, and closing her eyes for a second out of frustration. It was as if the whole world decided that today would be the best day to stand against her. 

Bloody perfect, what else?

The man did not turn, not yet. He continued his slow pace, deliberate, almost as if he was drifting. The autumn air dared not disturb his peace, it showed in the way his robes were moving in harmony with it. Aveline felt her feet speed up, way before her mind could catch up, despairing and briskly. Her breath was tight in her throat, lungs much like on fire. The way she looked was a tragic fable - her braid half-undone, her ears and nose kissed by wind, eyes glossy and her jumper a testimony.

She was full on running, reaching out, instinctively, both with her hand, and to scream, yell, do whatever to get the attention of the mysterious person - then, a pause. Right before him.

Because the man had stopped, back still turned to her.

And then he spoke...

"Curious..." his tone was quite light, melodic in a way, familiar. "...how time weaves, isn't it?" Aveline froze. That tone, the exact same she heard about one hundred times during her times at Hogwarts. 

It really was him.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. And somehow, he knew she was there before she even knew where "there" was.

Because of course he did.

------------------------

She stood still.
So very still, and for the reason, that she was fearful if she'd be to say something, or move even an inch, it would all crumble. As if motion would break the spell.

The man standing in front of her, so familiar now turned, painfully slow, but when he did, she was met with no other than her headmaster. Younger now, sure, his beard shorter, and his hair still had swirls of auburn clearly visible, which threw her off, but the smile, and the glint in his eyes both were unmistakable. The almost crescent half-moon glasses at their rightful place too. That was Albus Dumbledore himself, and she couldn't have been happier.

"Professor?" a smile that beamed onto her face was comparable to that of an eleven year old, that had just seen Hogwarts for the first time in their life. The word spoken by her hung low in her throat, like it would strain her voice chords if she spoke it a bit louder. "Professor Dumbledore?" it was as if all she wanted to do was launch herself at him, and hang her slim arms around his neck in thankfulness for the fact it's really him, and not some figment of her wild imagination.

He smiled, a bit unsettling of a smile, not really comforting, but not to scare either. Just his trademark.

"Oh dear girl." his kind eyes looked Aveline from the bottom all the way up to the top of her head. "Quite a tumble through time you've had, I presume?" she furrowed her brows yet again this day, biting her cheek, a gesture she developed from the hours spent on stressful planning.

"Pardon me for my lack of understanding, sir, time?" she repeated, as though the word appeared foreign to her terminology. 

Albus Dumbledore nodded, looking around for but a few seconds, much in thought, before turning his gaze back to the dainty girl standing in front of him. With a quiet grace of someone who surely knew what was going on here, and why things were the way they were, he gestured her to follow him, and resumed his slow pace yet again.

"Walk with me, Miss Dearden?" she stiffened, hearing the strange name spewing from the cryptic man's cracked lips. He caught her expression in a second, clearing his throat. "Ah, yes, excuse me. You are, after all, quite unfamiliar with this name. Let us talk in my office, how about that? I'll explain, but suppose you'll need a seating, and something to eat mayhap."

The dark haired girl disoriented, but with a vague understanding that this man was her only promise, and her last resort, decided to cease the thoughts that were telling her that something isn't quite right, and followed, with no word daring to escape her drying throat.

------------------------
The walk to whatever-it-was felt odd, awkward. 
A witch that did not know what was she doing here, and a wizard that's not yet her headmaster, but one which she remembers being him clearly looking back at her education years walking together, hand in hand.

Aveline walked with her hands crossed over her chest, trying to provide at least a sample of comfort and warmth to her cold body, cloaked with the torn clothing. Her steps seemed to stretch into eternity, as she looked around the courtyard now, wildly. She recognised those places, of course she did. One must've been stupid not to, especially when they've spent their whole childhood strutting through them all. 

She tried her hardest not to look at the grandeur of Hogwarts - very much still there, for too long, she forced her gaze to falter, not letting it linger for long, since if she would let her eyes roam free around all of this, she was sure she'd cry sooner than they'd get to the professor's office, and that was an embarrassment that could not be granted.

Albus walked his usual pace, which felt like time came to some sort of an agreement with him that it would wait politely. Hands theatrically clasped behind his back, whispering some tune which Aveline would find comforting - had it not been for the circumstances.

After what it felt like hours of just walking, through the halls, seeing actual students, and hanging her head low, they stood against large, mahogany door with a golden knocker. She couldn't count how many times she had already felt confusion today, but this moment was one of them.

"This isn't your office." Aveline shook her head, looking up at the older wizard.

"No, you're absolutely right, it is not..." he smiled, wrinkles showing. "But what can one do when he's not the headmaster yet?" he shrugged, using wandless magic to unlock the door. Password not even needed. The girl clicked her tongue, when they came in. 
The office was spacious, and resembled Dumbledore's from her times. She smiled at Fawkes, sitting in a cage, of course, on his desk. Phoenix then twitched nervously, and let out a quiet shriek, as if in recognition. She smiled softly, feelings getting to her as a wave of nostalgia and homesickness hit her inescapably. This space was more dimmed, a tad bit more domestic, she dared think. The hearth gave away the warmth, that she so needed.

"Sit, please." the man pointed to a chair across from his. "I know you're tired, and probably frightened too, yes. Perfectly reasonable to be terrified and in utter confusion after what you've gone through." he nodded to himself, stroking his beard, and Aveline sat down obediently, her head following her eyes to look around the room, unfocused. The young woman looked more like a child now, in the grand scheme of things, and with the background of the dimly lit office. Her features oddly calm, but her insides churning with fear. She was as lost as a lamb in a wolves' den, and the only thing she allowed herself was plucking her own skin around fingernails, until they bled.

Dumbledore quietly sat down on the other side, taking his sweet time to pour some hot tea into teacups, which he firstly set onto the table using his wand. When he finished, he grabbed a vial of dried herbs, and another one with yellow liquid inside, he mixed it with Aveline's tea, and cleared his throat.

"Yes, professor? Deeply sorry, I must've zoned out." she looked down, clearly embarrassed, cheeks turning a hue of pink. When she looked up, the teacup was standing right next to her hand, which laid on the table, seemingly relaxed now. Her eyes looked at the cup, then at him.

"Don't worry, nothing unacceptable there, Miss Dearden, just some lemon juice, lavender and rosemary. Helps with nerves, and we do want you to keep your cool now, don't we? " she frowned, being sure, that if he'd keep up with that manner of talking in riddles, or calling her that bizarre last name the line in between her brows would stay permanent. Dearden, a weird surname. She'd never known anyone with a last name like that, so why would he call her Dearden, instead of Abrams? Is it possible that he miscalculated something, and she wasn't what he expected? Last time she checked, she still had her last name. 

Palming the cup, she started slowly drinking the golden liquid. It was delicious, although too warm, so she put it away on the dark surface, and watched the steam rising above, tracing its path with her curious eyes.

"I know this is all rather untethered..." he spoke, and Aveline's gaze fell onto him now, instead of the room, for the first time since they sat there together.

"Oh, untethered is one way to put it, professor." she eyed up Fawkes again, sighing. "I still am debating if I'm concussed, or maybe just straight up delusional." her gaze was distant, as she spoke.

"I believe concussion would hinder your sarcasm capabilities, and as for delusions, no, i suppose it's not your case." she almost smirked at the first sentence he uttered. Instead she clenched her jaw, the knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

"Then, might you tell me, professor, I ought to know. Where am I?" - in her eyes the shade of begging, she needed the answers and she needed them now, she couldn't leave unsatisfied, if she was even meant to leave.

"My dear." he sipped his own tea, slowly, like she had already noticed, Dumbledore liked not to rush. "You know where you are already, don't you? Wouldn't you prefer to ask me a different question?" he caught eye contact with her, over the rim of his teacup, his glasses glistening softly in the candlelight. "You are a bright witch, I'm sure you've got loads of them."

He slid a bowl full of candy towards her. She knew, of course she knew. That girl was at Hogwarts, however that was possible. Aveline swallowed down the lump that grew in her throat, sipped from her tea, and cleared her throat, before saying:

"I think you might've mistaken me for someone else. I'm by no means a Dearden, sir, nor do i know anyone with a surname like that." she licked her dried, cracked lips. "So, if anything, I'm not the one that's supposed to be sitting here with you now, professor, sipping calming tea, and nibbling lemon candy."

Albus sighed, expecting this exact answer. He kept his composure at bay, entangling his fingers, and putting his hands onto the wooden table. "Ah, names...yes, what complicated little things they are, we are so bounded to, are we not?"

Aveline tilted her head, a flicker of disturbance flashing over her features - obviously she was tied to her name. "Indeed, but what about it? I only need to know why do you insist on calling me a different name, sir, when mine is clearly Aveline Abrams?" Dumbledore didn't answer, lips tightened into a thin line, as he looked at her, coughed up, and let out a tense sigh. A slender finger tapping the table now, the sound echoing through the room.

"And some names are handed to us by the circumstance, like in your case, Miss Abrams. In the times of a great tragedy, one can do one of the most merciful things there are, grant someone a clean slate. The name Dearden, my precious, is yours." he said, calmly. "Being your original self isn't necessarily safe nowadays...What have you noticed as one of the first things, as you descended here, tell me."

Aveline inhaled sharply, fine-tuning the memory. Castle, Hogwarts, oh but of course. "Hogwarts!" her eyes widened. "I saw the towers. Hogwarts, sir, with all due respect, we are sitting here right now, that's just impossible. Last time i saw it it was war-crushed! Lamenting and whining with destruction!" her tone raised, face visibly twisted in disgust, rage, and other unnamed feelings. "Last i remember was me being chased by a Death Eater, and now I'm back here? Dearden? What in the name of Merlin is happening?!" she was standing now, hands slapping on the hard dark surface. "I demand answers!" she leaned in, the fierceness akin to the one she showed multiple times during a fight shining through, because Aveline wasn't an innocent, timid girl picked up from her original timeline and thrown here, not the reckless Hufflepuff she was when she started Hogwarts. Not anymore. She was a fighter, and a grown woman first, so she slammed her fist, and glared angrily at the unbothered wizard, who's been on his thirteenth sip of the rosemary tea.

"You arrived here from quite a fractured timeline, Miss, and never meant to be here, there's that, but time after all has motive in all it does, isn't that right? And rarely asks for permission...The river of time rarely chooses gently. And here you are, washed upon an unfamiliar shore." he raised a brow. "I expected you here, that's why i waited. I took care of everything too, worry not." his jaw clenched slightly, which she noticed, but didn't mention. "I must warn you though, don't dare panic when you look in the mirror, Aveline, for to preserve you, time had done it's tricks, made you return to the age, which would be suitable for your cover story." he gestured for her to sit down again, and the woman just shook her head. "You are now Aveline Dearden, though that you may already know. A fifth year transfer student, all the way back from Ilvermorny. Bright, curious, talented, and sorted today, just before dinner in headmaster Dippet's office." he paused, just to continue a few seconds after. "All records prepared, all spells cast to protect your true origin."

Aveline's breath sped up.
Panic settled in her bone marrow, cold as the grave.
Her skin broke out in gooseflesh. Her fists were still clenched and rage she felt? The feeling knew no end. The girl felt like fainting any second, so she settled on sitting back down, eyes locked onto her feet, as she processed everything.

Dumbledore watched her, silent now, munching on one of the sweets he grabbed from that huge bowl.

Then he spoke:

"Please do tell me, what year did you last know?" her breath caught, at the oddity of this question, and at the reminder. She hadn't asked him yet - about the year, that is, it was quite clear he was much younger. Swallowing the bitter taste that lingered awfully, and gazing at him, her nerves calming greatly as she took a sip of her drink, she opened her mouth.

"It was 1998, sir. Quite obvious. War time. Me and...and Harry, we-" she hesitated, gulping. "We were supposed to meet up, then I heard Hermione's voice screaming to run, so I ran. Forward-focused, like she told me to." looking at him once again, she found herself pondering on the absurdity.

Albus's eyes twinkled slightly, he set his cup back with a soft clank, making it rattle on its saucer, and propped his head on top of his two hands, fingers entwined. "Aveline." he muttered gently. "Have you asked yourself when are you, not where are you?"

"Sir?" the room grew cold. Not really, but in her perception, as reality started wearing down on her, the question making her quake. The auburn haired man then stood up, letting out a breath sad in its nature, and made his way to a large window, pulling away the curtains, making room for the sunlight to barge in. He contemplated woefully before speaking, not turning his stare towards her this time. 

"The year is nineteen forty one." the man announced. He lifted the veil, and now there was no going back. She felt her heart nearly bludgeoning itself out of her hurting chest, eyes widening and pulse quickening to a  speed she did not think possible. Her lips then formed into some sort of a broken grin, thinking that maybe he's spitting fables.

"You're mocking me, there is no way in the world..."

"I'm afraid I am not." he cut her off, shaking his head, his left hand wandering to tug on his beard again. "I find jokes trivial and unsophisticated in our current situation, Miss Dearden." sitting down on the wide windowsill, he clicked his tongue. "The year is indeed 1941. Fifty five years before your time, might I add."

Aveline froze, looking at the teacup before her, the liquid inside now tepid. She wanted to shake her head, say something, anything, any snarky remark, but she found herself unable to. Three words reeled in her thoughts on a fiery constant.

Nineteen. Forty. One.

What a cruel time it was, to give her youth again.

What happened next was purely her desperation getting the best of her, of course it did. She was a human, after all, and humanity does not just disappear.

"Send me back, please." ripped from her gullet, a plea, tincture of beseeching for her old life back, even if it meant war, loss and grief. "Professor, please, to hell with it, I beg of you even! This is not right this....oh, this is all so wrong..." her hands travelled to her dark hair, pulling it in alarm and hysteria. "I have people. My family, Gods, Harry is waiting for me, Hermione, George, Luna...and Fred. Oh Merlin, Fred..." tears welling up in her grass coloured eyes, she bit her lower lip as if to hinder it from trembling.
Aveline, unable to handle all the information given her, tried her best not to appear looking undone, and failing. Her hands were gripping her knees way too hard, her knuckles bleeding white more now than anytime else. She might have stopped her lip from trembling, but the shiver in her chin was visible and clear as day. Her eyes were wide as daisies, muddled and dazed. She was undone, in so many cruel ways, and there was absolutely no concealing it.

"Send me back..." she renewed her request, this time in a harsh whisper.

Dumbledore stood up, promenading to her now. His robes moving fluently, his gaze expressed understanding.

"Miss Dearden..."

"No." her jaw set, her features flickered with protest.

He cleared his throat. "Very well then, Miss Abrams..." his voice similar to a sigh, as he uttered those words.

"I'm not staying." the girl proclaimed with utmost certainty. "I don't know, nor do I care how, but reverse whatever had happened here. This is not a plea anymore sir, it is a demand." she closed her eyes. "The joke is over, the audience wants to go home now."

The image of a boy with a crooked grin and hair as red as a carrot flashed in her mind. She gritted her teeth.

Albus said nothing, face tightening, as he walked over to his desk, opening one of the drawers with a spell. He sat back down in his grand chair, and retrieved a small, although meaningful object, twisting it in his fingers. Round, bronze, and the hum, that Aveline recognised at once.

"Is that?..." her eyes filled with hope now, as she turned them towards the mysterious thing with lightspeed.

"A Time Turner it is, yes." he smiled, but that gesture wavering as soon as he looked at the item he cradled in between his index finger and thumb. "Just broken."

All the desire and expectation Aveline had until now got smashed in the mud with what he uttered. Anger bubbling inside her once again, this time mixed with anguish.

She moved like lightning, grabbing the desk edge and leaning forward, wildness behind her eyes. He couldn't even register what has happened, as she screamed in his face.

"Broken?" she spat, with no remorse whatsoever. "You're showing me what is probably my only chance of going back, and then squashing it, by saying it's broken? Then fix it. Merlin's beard, you are Albus Dumbledore, whispers of how powerful of a wizard you are can be heard everywhere! If anyone can do that it's you!" a crease formed between her brows, signature gesture done instinctively, her nose crinkling now, and her fist slamming into the table once again this evening.

"Investigation will be led, and I will try my best to repair the device, you have my word, and a man of a word I am." her nostrils flared, as she sat down with a slam of the chair this time, drinking the last of her tea.

"Promise me, Albus." that was the first time she had addressed him by his name. Not 'sir', not 'professor', and she didn't give it much thought, even as he looked at her, dumfounded. "Promise me that I will get out of here, and that I'll see my loved ones again, because if i don't..." her voice broke, that itch in her throat rose back up, making her unable to express anything, but a cough. She stood up, pacing, as to keep herself grounded. Images of the people she cherished swirling through her mind much like a cruel hurricane of emotions.

"I promise, Miss Abrams, I do." he nodded, reaching for yet another lemon drop.

Aveline turned toward Dumbledore again, suddenly very calm.
Precariously calm.

"So what am I to do?" she shrugged, her lips thin as a papercut now. "Attend classes? Brew potions I've brewed before, and pretend, that I don't know how bitter the war felt on my tongue?"

He blinked, waited a moment and replied, carefully:

"Well, firstly...I suppose it is already time to have you sorted." He stood up, and opened the massive door to his office once again, gesturing her to walk in front of him, a true gentleman manner. "Come now, Aveline."

Her body moved on it's own, no thought behind it. 

Maybe a tad bit of expectation? 
Excitement? 

No person experienced a Sorting Ceremony twice in the span of a few years after all, truly special. 

Even in the tragic curriculum she found a whiff of fresh air, and that made her feel like perhaps not everything was lost on her after all.

Chapter Text

The hallway the two of them were walking through seemed to have no end, outstretching cruelly. Aveline's pace was woven with determination, or at least that's what she wanted it to express. In truth? She was survival incarnate woven into thin threads of self-confidence.

The man parading beside her hadn't spoke to her in the last twelve minutes, nor did he even look at her. Not, like she was complaining, no. It left her quite satisfied. Better to be left alone with her own thoughts, even though that was not the most excellent of her ideas, than to face any of the rants of that enigmatic figure. 

Her eyes were roaming around the halls, the cold, stone walls, the portraits, students passing by, rushing to get to their classes on time. All of it made her equally sick to her stomach, and slightly at peace with her head. She felt, as if so much time had passed since she attended, yet on the other hand, she had merely graduated.

Hogwarts again.


How utterly ridiculous.

The air between the two of them was heavy - as if something unspoken was lingering, and consisted of the same awkwardness, that could be felt when Dumbledore first lead her into his office.

She cleared her throat, for courage - mostly, and spoke:

"So, just to be clear, sir..." he shot her a side glance, as he urged her to continue with a superficial nod. The twinkle in his eyes was partly gone too now, dimmed since the tea party relevation, and she wondered, if it was because of the lash out, which was in all respects fair of her, by the way, or was he just tired of her presence. "When i step foot in there, the headmaster's office, i'm supposed to be a fifth year? A student from Ilvermorny, yes? I presume he knows my 'backstory'?" Albus nodded.

"Yes. Headmaster Dippet has been informed. You are a promising transfer, a Thunderbird - that is, if that's agreeable. I trust it does meet your expectations?" his gaze landed on Aveline, and she shrugged.

"Would've been a Pukwudgie, actually, but no, it's fine." she raised one of her eyebrows, looking back at him. "Thunderbirds...those are the brave ones, yes? The ones that take quite a liking to adventure?"

"Indeed." she nodded, as he confirmed her words.

"Great, good to know, really, but what about my accent, sir? I'm an American transfer student that can't even impersonate the way they speak to save my life? Doesn't make much sense to me, and i presume it won't make sense to the entire school i am to fool." she crossed her arms now, sighing, and looking at a portrait of a deep-black haired, plump Lady, presumably in her 50's wearing an angelic tulle dress, as they proceeded to turn.

"Such trivial matters you worry about, Miss Dearden. Your mother is British, thus you possess quite the charming lilt, your father although, he is American. You've spent your childhood until the age of six in Britain, London, to be exact, then relocated, and returned due to family complications, of course. Your mother reflected, and she came to the assumption, that putting you in Hogwarts would be the best option there is. She insisted. The story is watertight, if you were to ask me."

"Oh, yes, surely, it is a pretty story, tied with a big ribbon even, and a bigger lie." she shook her head, scoffing quietly. "But the war trauma, and the sight of my dead best friend is not just something i can get out of my chest whenever i'd were to meet someone new. It's there like a splinter." she was simply afraid she would not be able to cover up the blemishes her past, or future in this case, left on the very soul and body alike, with a sweet, innocent cover-up like this.

"You may grieve, that is something i cannot pry from you. As you may already know, Miss Aveline, Hogwarts is a place for rejuvenation, like it has always been." he clasped his hands behind his back, whistling something under his breath.

"Well, it is also the place where everything i loved burned to ashes, and every step i take here takes me back, so excuse me for not exactly jumping at the nostalgia." if a stare could kill, Albus Dumbledore would lay on the cold marble floor of Hogwarts now, unmoving as a statue. He let her walk slowly frontwards now, as they turned yet another corner.

--------------------------------------------------

She stared ahead, as they passed the last portrait in the long corridor it took to get to the Headmaster's office, a picture of large double doors painting itself in front of her. These ones were much larger than the ones to Dumbledore's current headquarters. Aveline sneaked a quiet flicker of a glance at the professor, and then turned it away to the shining marble floor.

Gone was the torn piece of clothing covering her body, as now it was a simple checkered shirt that cloaked her torso, the grey jumper residing proudly in the crook of her right elbow - after all, she could not very well arrive before the Head of Hogwarts looking like a wretch.

She found herself flinching despite her best urges not to, as the loud noise of screeching reached her ears. It penetrated her eardrums, and when she looked back up, the door stood open before them, gaping.

"After you." Dumbledore bowed gently, his voice a whisper, as he let her in before himself.

Aveline found the inside of the room in which the headmaster himself had been stationed warm, and it smelled of wood, parchment and a slight drop of, weirdly, nail polish. It lacked Albus' quirkyness, but was charming in its own way.

Armando Dippet was seated in front of a long desk, raising as soon as he heard the gentle footsteps. His eyes twinkled joyously, and in his hand was a quill, which he quickly put aside. 
The face of this man was as if he never knew a thing beside kindness, and maybe that's what made Aveline's mind flood with peace when she eyed him first, the tension accumulated in her arms easing for but a heartbeat.

"Miss Dearden! Oh i am so glad to see you!" he said it with a beaming smile, and like he meant it.

Dearden.

That name alone was enough to leave a bitter thought in her mind.

Aveline fought her eye twitching, as she forced on a smile, giving a shallow bow.

"It is my honour, truly, i've received your files, and i must say - what a dazzling and keen witch you are! Professor Dumbledore told me lots, certainly wasn't afraid to speak highly of your talents. Please, sit".

So she sat, her knees almost giving out beneath her - the charm of time travelling almost sixty years in the past leaving a clear mark in the form of weariness. 

"I trust your journey was most comfortable?" Dippet asked, she had to restrain herself from snorting at the ridiculousness of it all.

Fred’s face bled through her thoughts unwillingly again, his lifeless body, face so cold to the touch, and so unlike the boy who's noise she'd so grown used to. The tips of her cold fingers remembered how it felt to caress his hair, mostly in disbelief, only a few hours prior. Pleasant or comfortable were both not the words she'd use to describe the experience.

She swallowed the bile rising up her throat, the thought of vomiting all over her new Headmaster not sounding the most appealing.

"Very, sir."

Liar.

“Great, excellent. Now then...” Dippet hummed as he bent over to a drawer, and pulled out a thick file, Aveline figured it was her own. “Let’s see… Charms, amazing. You do seem to excel there. Fascinating records, yes indeed.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, finally speaking up. 

"Dear Armando, you'll find that Miss Dearden is quite mature for her age, given the way she handles herself...an old soul, one might say."

Oh what now?

Aveline gritted her teeth. If only she could, she'd throw a book, a quill, or whatever she'd have at hand at him. Delphic bastard. Instead, she gazed at Dippet, and smiled gently once again.

 "I suppose that's true, sir."

Dippet turned towards a stack of parchment, adjusting some loose papers, before looking back at Aveline. "I hear you've quite an interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts too, if i'm correct?"

The irony stung, almost burned a hole through her body. 

"Yes, sir. I suppose i've had a few...run-ins." Aveline sat up straigher now, praying that he hadn't seen her gulping nervously.

"Brilliant! You'll find Professor Merythought an amazing teacher, you are guaranteed to learn plenty!" she nodded at his words. He didn’t ask for elaboration, and she thanked The Universe for that.

There was but a wee moment of silence, before Dippet spoke yet again.

"I suppose there's only one thing left for us two today, and it is to get you sorted, Miss Dearden. I believe it is only proper." he stood up, and a few minutes went by, before he returned with a hat.

The Sorting Hat looked just like it did during her years at Hogwarts. A sense of warmth and familiarity overcame Aveline, because unlike any other, that at least was an unchanged constant.
"I promise that it will take but a moment." the smile he bore almost never left his face, as he came up to the frightened girl, and placed the relic on top of the cascade of dark waves. It rested on her head neatly, and when it spoke, she inhaled sharply.

"Oh....oh, look what the war dragged in! You again! Well, I'll be stitched..." the smug voice filled her mind, and her face grimaced in displeasure. 

Again? What do you—

"You do realise, Miss Abrams, that i sorted you already, yes? And in a perfectly fine house too, may i add." the hat seemed unimpressed.

Not like I have any say in what's going on.

"Well, let's see then...what chaos have you brought with you this time..." it went silent for jiff, before announcing. "Going by Dearden now, are we? Abrams suited you better.”

Can we please just get it over with? I want to go back home as fast as possible.

"A bloody circus that is..." it scoffed. "You still have the loyalness you're so fond of inside you, yes, a Hufflepuff by the book, were you not? So delicate..." it pondered. - Griffindor-worthy too, the House of a Lion would take pride in claiming you, all you've been through fortified you, dear child. You've developed quite the habit of jumping head first into trouble."

Aveline clenched her jaw.

"I know you yearn to go back, terribly even, but it's not your time to do so yet." it sounded like a smirk was etched onto it's face. "Ravenclaw is not for you, never has been. Wisdom you have, yes, but it's not what drives you."

Then Hufflepuff again, please?

"Oh, no, no, no. Don't be so quick here. Have you noticed what you've learned from the war? How to be cunning, how to manipulate and lie when needed? Slytherin fits now, you know? You've adapted quite well, you would thrive there."

A cold flash made her body freeze, her hands started shaking, as she heard the sentence.

Not. Slytherin. Anything but that.

"Not Slytherin? Is that fear i hear in your thoughts?" she gulped, loudly. "What if I told you, that you aren't afraid that my choice is wrong, only that it's right?"

A pause, then.

"I don't make decisions based on sentiments, Miss Abrams, and I'm afraid sorting you back to Hufflepuff would be most inconvenient."

Her fists were curled now, crescent-shaped marks adorning the inside of her palms. Her forehead was sweating in anticipation, as she bit her cheek.

And then the hat announced it's verdict.

"SLYTHERIN!" it yelled out its final word, and Aveline felt, as if her whole world spun around. Her hands started to tremble.
With the hat's declaration she stood up, her legs carried her with stiffness, with no control whatsoever, Dippet's congratulating voice was muffled, she locked eyes with Dumbledore, who nodded with a calm smile. 

She was not calm. She wanted to scream, to cry, to tear her own scalp off. How could she be calm when the house she'd been sorted to wasn't her home, she used to be a Hufflepuff, and what a fine badger she was.

But then again, nothing here was like back home.

---------------------------------------------

The hat was lifted from her head. She thanked the stars, for if she had it on for but one more second she'd surely faint. The marble floor was now kissing the soles of Aveline's shoes, as she took a few steps forward, her green eyes as if behind a cloud of smoke.

"Well." Dippet clapped his hands, eyeing up the girl. "That concludes our business for today. I'm sure you'll find Slytherin quite fitted!"

"Sir." she turned, talking to the man. "I think i'd like to retire now, if that's okay..." she turned her gaze back to her shoes, lost in her thoughts, or appeared so. Her thoughts were elsewhere completely, mostly back with her family in 1998. Aveline tried her best not to weep, and not to panic. "It's been a long day, i still have quite the fatigue after that long of a journey."

Liar.

But Dippet, with his kind face and baritone voice simply nodded.

"Oh, but of course, of course. Understandable. That's what crossing the Atlantic does to one, eh? Let's not keep you standing here." he turned toward the fireplace, where a bell-shaped object—enchanted, obviously—hung suspended in the air. With a flick of his wand, it chimed a soft, silvery note.

They did not wait for long, just a few minutes later a knock sang through the air. Dippet smiled.

"Come in, please."

And in he came. 

A boy no older than sixteen, dirty blonde hair, quite messily styled, but ravishing nonetheless, suited him well. Back-stiff, arrogance visible in the way he was organised, eyes in the shade of molten honey, and not a single wrinkle on his uniform. Slytherin crest proudly displayed on his chest, and the emerald tie perfectly tucked in. 

"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore. Headmaster Dippet." the boy bowed, before looking around the room, his gaze stopping onto her, and his eyes narrowing slightly. He had manners, that was clear, and he obviously wasn't just anyone. The way he carried himself with would make one think he's from a high-ranking family. A pureblood, possibly. Albus Dumbledore nodded, as to greet him.

“Silvian Rosier,” Dippet announced, not without a trace of ceremony. “How gracious of you to arrive so swiftly.” Rosier, oh but of course. She heard of the family, mostly their connections to the Dark Arts, and especially their loyality to You-Know-Who himself. Sacred Twenty-Eight, the untouchable. No wonder he bore himself with such fashion. 

"Miss Dearden." Dippet's voice echoed gently through the spacious room. "Silvian will escort you to your common room, i believe my decision adequate. He's on his fifth year now, like yourself. A greatly accomplished student." 

Rosier's gaze landed on her again. He dared not speak for a few seconds, giving her space to analyse him first, and for him to examine her. His gaze was somewhat measuring, as if he was categorising her, only then to see if she's worth even speaking to, let alone being approved by his kind.

"Miss Dearden." he uttered, his voice way smoother than she thought it to be. Like a polished knife wrapped up in satin, or velvet for that matter. It sent an unwanted shiver down her back, which she dissimulated as the result of low room temperature.

"Well, now that introductions are finished." the headmaster clapped, grinning widely. "You are both dismissed. Off you go!" he waved a chubby hand, on which a silver signet was clearly visible, tight on one of the fingers. She turned to leave, when she heard him speak once more.

“Oh, and Aveline…”

She paused at the threshold, glancing back at the old man.

“Welcome to Hogwarts.”

------------------------------------------

As the doors closed with a whiff of air behind them, Aveline felt like being left alone with someone of the ilk of Silvian Rosier was not a brilliant idea, as every step they took, arm in arm, felt as if she was walking on eggshells. 

He seemed stern, cultured, and the type of person you wouldn't want to anger, for you'd suffer the consequences faster than you could utter a protection spell.

Aveline's fingers twitched, anxiety making her insides shake, and her hands itching to fidget with anything just to keep it away. Every other step of her faltered, like she was walking on a rope above a vast hole. Legs bending just the tiniest bit.

Her eyes peeked at the boy walking peacefully next to herself, locking themselves onto his profile. Slightly crooked nose, a scar on his left cheek, not old but not quite fresh. His jaw was as sharp as a basilisk fang, and could probably cut paper if he put enough strenght and will into it.

He had yet to say a single world to her, which was a surprise. Most people, even those eccentric ones from Slytherin, would have some questions regarding quite the odd matter, right? Would be midly interested in her, or at the very least, try to socialize.

Fine. She did not posses any want to talk to him either. She wasn't feeling thrilled about indulging herself into a conversation with someone, that most likely used inconsiderate slurs, demolishing other's self worth - like 'mudblood' - on a daily basis, and getting away with it.

Still, the silence was eating away at her like she was a five course meal.

"So" Aveline spoke finally, smashing her prejudice into the ground coerced, and hiding her pride sucessfully. "Silvian, is it?"

"Indeed." he nodded, not sparing her a wee glance. 

Lovely. - she thought - The conversational equivalent of a rusted door that won't budge. Just what i needed as a welcome gift.

She decided against speaking to him for now, for it looked like Rosier wasn't necessarily partial to having any kinds of heart-to-heart with her. She wasn't displeasured by it, mostly just annoyed at the stiffness of silence.

They carried on, passing through countless decorated portraits, some of them casting a shade of glance at Aveline, with utmost curiousity. The hallway they were crossing now itself was dim, only a few lamps shedding light onto the two of them. The moistness could be felt, hitting the girl's skin, and crawling up her nostrils. Amicable. In a way it felt like home. Her sneakers, so out of the cruel times she was forced into, were making sounds as they stomped against the crystalline limestone. 

Descending into the dungeons, Silvian prepared his wand, slithered it out of his left robe sleeve, and cast Lumos Maxima, giving Aveline as well as himself a way to see. She muttered a quiet 'thanks', not knowing if the word reached his eardrums, but she decided not to speak any louder. He did not seem in a paticular mood to talk.

The Slytherin common room couldn't be far, right? She hoped, prayed even. If her memory was not dowrightly betraying her, she could swear they were close. In all honesty, she wanted to get out of the high-borne prison of quietness and pristinity, before she combusted.

"So..." she started again, deluding herself into thinking, that if he was not to start a conversation, she'd talk for the two of them. Silence was absolutely unbearable, for in the silence she heard the things she was pushing away, and as they say, better to be in defective company than alone at times. "Is it some sort of a Slytherin thing? Not socializing, or are you just allergic to pleasantries?" she tilted her head up now, clearing her throat gently.

His head did not budge, but on his face was now etched a ghost of a smirk, the corner of his lip slightly upwards. "Pleasantries, Miss Dearden," He paused, putting his hands behind his back, and sighing, his voice like a melody. "are usually reserved for a pleasant company, no?"

Ouch. Charming.

The corridors twisted as a serpent would now, the air biting in stings of coldness, as Aveline wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep in the heat.

They reached the shadow-slick stretch of wall that led into the common room, Aveline knew, she could tell by the change in air pressure. 

Silvian, with his wand at the wake, and still lit up approached the wall with some kind of eloquence. He whispered the password so quietly, Aveline might've missed it, if she didn't pay attention.

"Sanguis Et Venenum." 

It sounded like a hiss coming out of his thin lips. She did not have the faintest idea on what could that mean, but figured, that to uphold the House of Snake reputation it had to be dark and possibly threatening. 

The wall melted away, revealing a beautiful, palatial space. The ceiling was hung high and arched, decorated with silver elements, snake-shaped ornaments. The same royal colour woven through rich emerald, overpowering the room, as she walked inside. It felt cold, but somewhat comforting, with the big hearth near the green couch at the centre, and vast bookshelves, if you so like to read. Elegant was one word to describe it, sophisticated was the other.

“Your things have already been placed in the fifth-year girls' dormitory,” Silvian said smoothly, pointing toward a darkened archway with all the joy of a Dementor. "I believe you'll find it with ease. A trunk containing your things should already be waiting by your bed too."

Aveline tilted her head. "No welcome tour, i presume?" that, finally, got him to look at her.

"If you require anything," he plastered on a fake smile. "do not hesitate to ask someone else, Miss Dearden. Headmaster Dippet, for example. I, personally, couldn't care less."

With that the boy turned on his heel, and walked away, not peeking over his shoulder.

Aveline, half amused by his attitude and half tired and worn out stepped into the archway which Rosier showed her but few seconds ago. The way to her dormitory was really rather quick, and like it had been said, she found it effordlessly. Without a hitch she opened the door, and a whiff of peppermints and cherries slapped her across the face, made its way inside her nose, irritating the membrane. She shut her eyes tightly.

What in Merlin’s beard…

She almost expected a presence to jump out at her in greetings, but as she opened her eyelids she was met with no more than an empty dorm room. 

As Dumbledore had said, she was to be Sorted just before dinner, which meant the Great Hall was likely thrumming with voices and clinking goblets, alive with the chaos of adolescence, and splashes of pumpkin juice. That suited her fine. Let them gorge and gossip. She welcomed the rare gift of stillness in the whirl of everything that had happened.

She eyed up the room, four-poster beds stretching beneath the emerald glow of sconces, green bed linen, obviously, so different to the yellow hue she was used to. One bed left unmade, as if the person took off in a hurry, a book lazily resting on top of a pillow, spine cracked. She made a move towards it, reading the plate which was adorning a name.

Maeve Mulciber.

Ancient sounding name, ringing a bell inside Aveline's head. She walked around the room, letting her fingers wander, gathering information on her possible dormmates. 

There was Iris Pritchard, her bed neat, apart from a piece of clothing reluctantly thrown onto the frame, and one of her drawers pulled out. It was on her nightstand that she found source of the peppermint smell attacking all of her senses as soon as she stepped a foot in here. A bag of said candy laid resting next to a small clock. She pocketed a mint without thinking. For later.

Eleonora Westgarth was the most uncluttered of them all, or so the space around her bed showed. Her bedding tucked in with military precision, books sotred by colours, heights and genres. Aveline, feeling nearly overwhelmed turned to the last bed - hers, or so she presumed. 

The nameplate indeed read "Dearden."

A lie stitched in metal.

She let her hand touch it softly, maybe just for the certainty that this is all real to take root. 

Her fingers hovered long after she finished tracing the new label mended to her. She allowed them, could not bring herself to pull away.

When Aveline finally got the courage to relocate, she sat on the bed - her bed. The springs cracked with a sigh as she sunk down with a sulk. Her legs, those teetering and traitorous things finally gave out.

The room was still. The windows whispered with the weight of water. Outside, the lake pressed against glass. It was too still, being completely honest - it crushed your ribs, and left no breath inside your lungs. Aveline sat there, back slouched, knees bent inwards, and useless hands laying on her lap. She did not cry, no. Instead she fixed her gaze onto the shillouettes of fish, or monsters, perhaps, drifting in the black of the Great Lake. Her throat burned. Grief, with bitterness of goodbyes unwilling. It tasted of salt, fire, iron, and every word she'd never dared say to the boy back home.

Her body folded, knees all the way up to her chest, hands tightly gripping the viridescent bedding. For the first time since her upbringing here, she let herself fall free. She laid in the dark with nothing but her pulse to keep company.

Chapter Text

The morning slithered in like the most greasy and oily falsity.
Aveline's mind couldn't even register she had fallen asleep, way up until the rumble outside the dormitory room awoke her, head pounding with the throbbing ache she's grown accustomed to.

Strands of thin, silver light made all their way to rest on the stone wall behind her, glimmering with caution. It casted ripples on the rock floor. Today was cold in particular, or maybe it was just the dungeon. She felt it, as she slowly pushed the emerald covers off of her body, revealing herself to the chilly air that hung low. It was the kind of cold that gnawed at each of her bones, making itself known deep inside her gut. She sat up, peeling herself from what part of her bedsheets was left resting on her, stretching her hands up, as if to touch the high ceiling, and looked at the old-fashioned clock on top of her own drawer. 

It was seven in the morning, the girls she was yet to meet were probably already on their way to breakfast.

Breakfast, right. It would come, eventually, she was tragically aware of it. So would the expectations, and the green-robed, snake-crested people, sniffling her out like a pack of blood thirsty hounds.

Aveline was still draped in her yesterday's clothes, the fabric too stiff and way too familiar now. Obviously she needed a change, and fast. That's exactly why as soon as her feet touched the cold marble floor, jolt of discomfort running up her spine, her eyes located the trunk Silvian Rosier spoke of the evening before standing still and waiting beside her bed. With an exhale she marched forward, the faint scent of cold stone and dusty linens mingling with the stale remnants of last night's thoughts. She eyed up the robes inside, snatching them up with annoyance painting itself on her milky face. Her approach towards the silver-green combination was still quite irksome.

----------

She stood in front of the shared bathroom mirror now - one of many - and the muscle in her jaw tightened, jumped. The silk of the costume she was forced to put on didn't sit right with her. It felt too heavy, as if along with it she was bearing some sort of responsibility. She hated it, the green tone did not flatter her, and it made the already bad purple shadows etched just below her eyes look worse, sickly. Aveline was still herself, yes, although an alien version she could not quite recognise, had it not been for the glint her dark green eyes possessed, and cascade of dark brown waves reaching way below the girl's shoulders. Although younger, Aveline had a great pack of wisdom stored behind her gaze. Her grief was sticking to her like second skin, flickers of memories coming up to the surface every now and then.

"You'd hate this, Freddie." she spoke, closing her eyes. She didn't find it alright to stand eye-to-eye with herself. "You'd make fun of me, call me some stupid nickname only you could've muttered, or think I'm some Slytherin groupie." she shook her head, imagining the reactions of all her friends to the fact she now bore the emblem of snake engraved onto her chest.

Grounding herself she walked out, ending up in her common room. It blinked back at her with sternness and emerald indifference. Looking around she could see students wandering around, could hear whispers, some about her, some about other trifling issues.

Aveline ran a hand through her damp hair, untangling tiny knots with her fingers. She could feel the stares weighing her, judging, yet no one dared to come up. Maybe it was for the better. She was not in the mood to deal with any of the pricky posh kids this morning, not really.

A deep breath shuddered in through her flared nostrils. Then, she moved. Each step was a deliberate act, leading her from the press of the common room into the sprawling quiet of the dungeon hallway. She found, that it was even colder outside, not thinking it possible before. It was also more intimate. Subdued glow of torches, wetness clinging to the walls, and the quietness of it all was not unsatisfactory, nor unwelcome.

All of her steps echoed, as she strutted down the corridors. Her shoes, now proper, tapped against the stone, sounding accusatory. The climb up the stairs was a slow agony. Her legs trembled, protesting the strain on sore muscles, yet she pressed herself to go on.

Upon finally reaching her destination, Aveline froze, as if her shoes had been nailed to the floor. The Great Hall looked so familiar it pained, as vast and gleaming as she remembered - she hated it. An ache bloomed in her chest at the mere sight of it.

Four long tables, each for every one of the Houses. The enchanted ceiling, now glistening with the soft greyness of a lazy morning, the food already laid out on the dark mahogany, looking as delicious as ever. It all looked the same - like her Hogwarts. The difference was the cast.

She granted herself permission to saunter her eyes across the room, noticing things. She looked at the students - students, whose names would one day grace tombstones and embellish memorials, who now were just kids with stew in their bowls, colourful ties, and mouths sharp as finest blades. Contemptuous laughter erupted through the broad space. She saw a boy slapping the arm of another, a pair of friends talking, sharing stupid smiles and spilling the pumpkin juice all over the Gryffindor table. A first year, she presumed, tugging onto the hair of who she could've only assumed was her older sister. She smiled softly, a lingering sense of something lost being a ghost hiding in every single one of them. A reminder of every person she left behind. It all fell so mundane, so normal, and yet so terribly not right.

Aveline gradually slowed, as she entered the space between the tables, keeping close to the Slytherin side, as she searched for a seat.

She found an empty spot at the far end. Sliding onto the bench, she watched herself not to graze the arm of a boy she would be sitting next to. When she finally settled down with a small sigh, the girl reached for a scone with jam and clotted cream, putting it reluctantly onto her plate and waited until the charmed tea pot finished pouring rich Earl Grey into her cup, before palming it and taking a few delicious sips.

And then-

A plate clinked beside her.

Someone actually sat next to her.

A girl.

Blonde, petite, with freckles all around her little button nose, and eyes so dark they could be easily mistaken for two twin pieces of charcoal. Her hair was tied up in a tight braided updo, and a kind smile was visible stretching onto pink, plump lips, reaching her gaze. Peppermint smell spreading like a curse. Not, that Aveline minded, she quite liked the freshness.

"Morning" she chirped, with all the caution of a sneaking cat. Aveline spared her a glance. Her voice was not laced with venom, or entitlement. That was a relief, a trace of fresh air.

The girl extended her hand across the table, swiftly looting a peach, before digging her teeth into the soft, juicy pulp.

"You're the new one. Aveline." she announced without a shade of question. "I'm in your dormitory. Name's Iris - perhaps you have seen the middle bed. Forgive me for the mess, we didn't really expect fresh stock." letting out a giggle, she wiped away the fruit juice dripping down her chin. "Regardless, you were positively out cold by the time me and the girls got there. A touch dramatic, but we all should be entitled to a bit of pageantry and grand entrances, wouldn't you say?"

Aveline tilted her head, blinking once.

Iris continued.

"Not to worry, no one said much. Rosier is involved, though, so they’ve already begun sniffing at your name like it’s dipped in something rather poisonous."

Rosier, oh but of course. The elegant prick himself.

"Oh yes, about him. Suppose a quick summary's in order." she dared carrying on with her chatter, as though it seemed that Aveline took a particular interest in listening to her. "Silvian Rosier. Privileged. To the teeth. He's apart of one of the higher set families, The Sacred Twenty-Eight they're called, pureblood royalty. They really think you can get away with anything with a little bit of charm, Ministry handshake and a pouch of galleons. Malfoy is the worst, I'd say." 

She gave a little snicker, looking around, before leaning closer and lowering her voice to a tone resembling a mere whisper. 

Aveline's mind went blank, hearing the last name Iris mentioned. A flash of platinum blonde stroke down like lightning, messing with her thoughts. The only Malfoy she braved to think about was the boy with a look that said he'd been born with a silver spoon shoved far up his ass, the one that wore his arrogance as an expensive cologne, and spurted out words of poison. The infamous Draco Malfoy that is - of course.

"He and the rest of powerful wizarding families act rather pompous, as if the world spins around for them only. That is, until you see them beside Riddle." 

A pause, as Iris cleared her throat.

Riddle...

The name alone sent alarming, pulsing red flashes and waves inside Aveline's brain, yelling and thrashing at the fleshy walls, trying to get her to remember, but all she chose was to ignore it for now, focusing on the story that spewed from the passionate girl's mouth.

"Next to him every single one of them looks like a beaten up dog. They gather 'round him as if looking for scraps...Looks like a cult to me, but what do i know?"

Aveline finally took a bite of the scone she took earlier, relishing in the consolation it brought along with the perfectly balanced sweetness. It was perfect. She let the tea scald her throat, let it blister its way down, as she turned to the Pritchard girl.

"What of him?" she had to ask, the name did not give her peace of mind, it wouldn’t sit still. Something half-remembered, and wholly feared.

Riddle. 

Riddle. 

Riddle. 

She could not shake the feeling of wrongness, bone-deep and crawling in the marrow. It was like she heard it somewhere before, like a figment from a dream, and not a good one.

"You'll know when you see." Iris said, slowly, as she bit into yet another fruit delicacy.

----------

Aveline didn't hear them at first, but she felt the way Great Hall seemed to still, like the quiet before the storm. She saw the way with some people turned to look at the entrance.

In they came, appeared like statues of old Gods, with casual choreography which could not be learnt. It came naturally, with power they emitted. 

They prowled, and in the very centre - was him. The uncrowned king.

Not, that she knew that. She hadn't got the faintest clue, but oh...

Everything in her body seemed to catch on, and soon after, her companion pointed slightly with her head. That was all she needed to know.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was towering, although not the tallest. That honour belonged to the broad-shouldered, slender-waisted brunette, Vespasian Lestrange, grinning wildly with hands stuffing his pockets.

There was also Magnus Avery, indulged in quite a bountiful conversation it seemed, with no other than the quiet elegant, and sharp Alaric Nott.

The next boy came in, and Aveline's blood froze, as frantic chills overcame her entire self. 

Draco?

She though for a breathless second. Aveline’s stomach curled in on itself.
Same cheekbones. 
Same smirk. 

No, not Draco. Couldn't be. In the place of the anxiety and fake bravado of the boy she knew, this one wasn't faking anything. Confidence in his stride discernible. His hair was perfectly swept back, not a single strand out of place, yet he still decided to run his hand through it. For good measure. Silver eyes stalked though the people at the table, twisting his mouth in a grimace, a bit like he sensed something beneath him. That was the thing about Abraxas: in his belief, nearly everyone was beneath him. 

Everyone apart from Riddle it seemed. To him, Malfoy offered a polite nod, as the former pampered him with few words.

Thaddeus Mulciber brought up the rear. Nearly black hair, only combed through, not styled like the the rest, his posture quite lanky. The eyes of that boy were icy-blue, and piercing through every soul that dared to look at him.

At the near edge of their little orbit was no other than the boy that welcomed Aveline. Silvian Rosier, not talking. Never really talking. He was watching, and his gaze stopped dead right on her, as they walked past through her spot, to take seats. 

He nodded, slowly, which she reciprocated hesitantly.

They were planets.

And clearly, Tom Riddle was their sun.

Aveline didn't move as she saw them sitting down. Not far. Just six seats from her. Weak breath was barely escaping her drying lips. It was the way the air shifted around them that made her feel incorrect. The recognition that gnawed at her, which she constantly chose to disregard.

She faltered her gaze, directing it to the table, seeing as the tea trembled slightly in the teacup.

"Is everything alright? You're looking pale." Iris' forehead wrinkled in concern. "You are not ill, hm?"

"No." Aveline's voice sounded groggy as she croaked, foreign. Her throat was closing up. She cleared it, before correcting her tone. "No, not ill."

She was not sick.

She was haunted, as Riddle passed their seating, not paying attention, and then sat along with the others. Her eyes lingered on him, as he took his place.

He was beautiful, truly, spellbinding and ethereal. Not in the way boys are beautiful. The soft beauty some Hogwarts lads grew into - that was different. He wasn't a pink-tinted cheeked boy, with rosy lips stretching out into somewhat of a goofy smile. 

Tom Riddle's elegance was dark, enchanting. His face sculpted in the symphony of a painful symmetry, with cheekbones that could cut, and jawline like carved out in marble, defined. His lips looked soft - the kind that you'd expect to curl upwards into a warm grimace, but they never did, as he was watching most people with a scowl. Disdain, disapproval, sternness etched onto his face like a warning. Skin was pale, but not sickly. Just enough to still look attractive and fit him like a glove.

But his eyes - Merlin - those eyes. That was one thing that piqued Aveline's curiosity.

They were dark, melted hot chocolate dark, and bottomless. For if you looked into them for more than intended, you'd not walk out the same person. Iris' eyes too were brown, but his had no end, and he used them to look through people as if he was able to see and mark their souls.

Even seated, he kept his composure. Looked, as if he was above the world. Long, slender fingers steepled together, as he drummed a rhythm against his own knuckle with the index finger of his other hand. His black school robes - unlike Aveline's - actually clung to him. Fit him perfectly, the Slytherin crest glimmering softly.
Aveline's heartbeat sprinted. There was something wrong about this guy, and she could tell.

Oh, only if she knew.

She brought the teacup to her lips again, more for the distraction than the taste, and found it shaking, allowing her to only take one small sip before it clattered softly against her teeth. The witch next to her was babbling something, but Aveline could not focus enough, whooshing sound pounding in her ears.

"Do not look now," Iris leaned closer to the girl, grinning. "But he's looking our way." 

Aveline didn’t mean to stare. Truly, she didn’t.
But tell someone not to look, and what choice do they really have?

It was intuition, her eyes flickering upward before she could even tried to stop them. So she stole a glance, and in that instant - their eyes locked.

It was brief, but lingered in the air like smoke. The girl's heart skipped a beat, trapped in the depth. 

But just as quickly, his gaze faltered, showing no interest in her whatsoever. Cold look of indifference scrawled across his features, as he directed his attention to a friend - or so she presumed - and began a conversation, leaving Aveline in the fading echo of a stolen glance.

The conversations around her continued, but she heard little. Occupying her thoughts was the look that burned through her skin, leaving only ashes. The one that made her heart beat in a weird rhythm she could not understand yet. Her eyes looked down at her hands. Warmth from the cup was seeping through her fingers, abnormally offering no comfort.

"Are you sure you're quite alright?" the petite blonde's questioning voice came though, sounding as if muffled by water, but nonetheless shattering Aveline's walls. It was more urgent now, a bit more insistent.

"I promise you I'm fine." she shook her head, very slowly, as if trying to re-centre.

"You're sweating." Iris pressed on. Aveline blinked, realising that she was, indeed, damp. Her sweaty fingers were losing grip on the porcelain she firmly held. She felt the need to pull herself together, and quickly. Even the teacup seemed to understand her resolve as it met the saucer with a rattle and a clank. She sat up straighter now, forcing a sweet grin to engrave her face. 

But before she could utter a word, Iris' mouth spurted out. "I saw the way you looked at him." Her smile cracked just for a second, enough for Pritchard to notice the flinch.

"You must be mistaken." Aveline muttered, her voice barely carrying over the soft clutter of distant silverware and chatter, wiping the dampness of her palms onto her robes. She risked a glance at Iris, whose smirk spoke volumes now.

"Either way, I'd advise you to be careful." she spoke through the grin sprawled across her lips. "You never know with these lads." with that, she reached her hand for a piece of toasted bread, and some roasted sausages.

"Careful?" Aveline almost whispered, her voice carrying like a breath held too long. "Careful about what?" her eyes narrowed, the cogs in her brain audibly grinding as if they were covered by corrode.

"Who, you mean. Riddle, of course." she shrugged, too nonchalant for someone discussing a person mildly terrifying, stuffing her mouth with delicious food. "He possesses a... peculiar fascination with some people." she looked at confused Aveline, wiping the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief. "He picks them. Chooses those he deems worthy, and makes them bend to his will without ever lifting a finger. He's brilliant, yes, but odd, this guy, I'm telling you."

Aveline opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Her gaze was wandering about, skimming the edges of the Great Hall as if she expected something to give her an answer, eyes finally returning back to their seats. Was it possible? That Tom Riddle was so powerful? That he could command people like that? Nonsense. She let her eyes roam onto him again. He was but a fourteen year old boy, same as any other. Maybe apart from the fact, that he seemed a tad bit more threatening, but that was all. 

She wanted to laugh, but the sound came out dry - a chuckle born of brittle nerves and uneasy amusement. Aveline tried to focus on the present, as her fingers clutched the ends of her skirt. Her mind kept reeling towards and circling the boys sitting nearby, eyeing every one of them with precision.

"Do not get involved with them. I'm serious. They're dangerous." Iris shot her a quick, oblique glance, and she kept talking, oblivious to the fact Aveline was teetering on the lip of discomfort. "They are used to getting everything they want. Be it threatening, deceiving, putting pressure or even mirroring as a form of manipulation, and before you know it? They own you. Have you wrapped around their little finger, woven into silk nets you did not notice them knitting." she sighed, biting into the sausage. "I've seen it with my own two eyes, Ave, and trust me, it's far from pretty."

Aveline's head tilted just slightly at the nickname, nodding, and something crawled up her spine as she committed Iris' words to memory. Her thoughts began to unravel, and she made a mental note along with a vow to stay away from Tom Riddle and his aristocratic gang of pureblood elitists.

----------

Aveline couldn't believe that she'd made it through breakfast.

The distant clutter of cutlery accompanying the chatter both seemed to quiet down, as more and more people were leaving the Great Hall to attend the very first class of the term.

The subjects students revolved around now were lessons, rumours about which couple were spotted snogging by the Greenhouses, or girls fawning over their heartthrob of choice, as they begun to file out in droves - only black robes swishing around, and lacquered shoes shining through.

Aveline stood up too, smothering her skirt with a swift brush of hand, and wiping the rest of sauce from a dish she consumed with a napkin.

"Defence Against the Dark Arts," Iris perked up next to her. The girl was a force, truly a menace standing on her own two legs, but maybe that was just what Aveline needed. "Merrythought will have our hides pinned to her office wall like one of those Romanian bog-snake skeletons she’s so proud of if we keep on dallying."

She only pulled a few unruly strands of her hair back, behind her ears, a faint curve of a smile welcoming her lips, as she turned toward Iris. Enough to stifle the feeling humming inside of her, and bury, or at least mask, her uneasiness. "Then we should not keep her waiting."

And with that the two girls made their way towards the damp, maze-like corridors and halls of Hogwarts, their feet slamming against the cold cobblestone in pristine black shoes, arm in arm.

----------

The class was dimly lit when they entered, skeletal remains laid out the whole space, some pinned to the walls, some suspended in the air, hanging from the ceiling. A whiff of dust and reminiscence attacked Aveline, clinging to her senses, as she took a long look around. The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom hadn't changed as much as she would like it to. She was expecting something more ancient-like, something she could not form any type of attachment to, but was met with the stinging, unwelcome grasp of familiarity once again.

Her gaze lingered on the macabric display of nostalgia, and before she could utter a word, or even think a tad bit longer, a voice ripped her out of her mind palace.

"Here, look! This one is free!" Iris chirped, pointing with verve to a desk that, in fact, stood empty before them. A few benches away from the Slytherin aristocracy, and perfectly in the middle. 

Great. There went Aveline's hopes of staying unnoticed. Her stomach performed a quick, tight somersault, as she could feel her demeanour slipping, before clearing her throat, and nodding politely in agreement that that would be, indeed, a great place to take seating.

Aveline lowered herself gingerly into the seat Iris so generously claimed for them, the old wood creaking beneath her thighs.

The room seemed to breathe in stale air, it's atmosphere sizzling heavily with anticipation. It reeked of ancient spells and bones, and however unpleasant of a smell that must've been, she drank the comfort from it like a woman of thirst - Hogwarts was, after all, even if fifty years in the past, the only real home she knew.

All of the thoughts that may have started forming came to a halt when the door opened again and in came no other than Professor Galatea Merrythought. Old as time, and even older in presence, effused the kind of aura that you'd expect from a teacher of this age. That woman reeked of experience only witches with extraordinary stories to tell could have, so naturally Aveline found herself curious, and a hint impatient for what the teacher had to offer. Back in her time, the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts was basically like a game of Russian Roulette; none held on for more than a year. There were rumours going around, from some of the bolder students, that the vacancy is simply cursed with an inevitable charm. Not, that Aveline did not want to believe that, but it was simply silly to diffuse hearsay without any definitive proof.

Her grey hair was pinned tight into a bun, with only a few rebellious strands out of place here and there, dark eyes hidden behind the glass of her rectangle-shaped spectacles. Her robes swished around, comparably to a bat's wings, as she approached the desk.

"Wands away," she spoke, and the entire classroom felt silent. Her word was dripping with authority. "You won't be needing them today, for today..." her cold gaze slithered around the class, falling onto one or two students. "...is theory."

The groans of disappointment were audible throughout the entire room, Iris' included.

Aveline did not whine, one of the reasons being the fact that she didn't hate theory, it was...predictable. The second was her heart, still not quite recovering from that exchange in the Hall. Considering the chaos, theory was a safe bet.

Her eyes darted to the front. Riddle sat a few rows before her, with Malfoy, she presumed, back unnervingly straight. His palms were crossed over a notebook neatly. He was not looking at her, yet all she felt was every single fibber of her being screaming of her possibly soon becoming the focal point of his attention.

Merrythought's voice rang through the air, carrying a dry tone. "Theory, while often considered dull, or not as interesting by the more... impetuous among you," She looked lazily towards a Gryffindor boy, that had his legs already sprawled across his desk. "Is, after all, fundamental when it comes to Dark Arts. It's the very foundation of defence, may i add." He now let his limbs fall free from the space they were occupying before, straightening his back, pretending to engage. "To defeat a dark creature, one must understand it first. To understand something, you must know the motivation behind it. And, ladies and gentlemen, the motivation for most dark things is... fear." She scanned the room. "They feast on it, thrive while you scramble."

Aveline curled her hands into tight fists. Fear. She could write a textbook on that, she was sure.

"Let us take a Boggart, as a perfect example." Merrythought continued. "It is a simple creature, yet sometimes the simplicity is the thing we should fear the most. Does not have a clear physical form; it becomes what we dread most. Now..." Her gaze scattered across the room once more, before landing on Aveline. She got picked. "Our transfer, all the way from Ilvermorny I've heard, Miss Dearden, then. Tell me, in your view, is a Boggart's transformation a conscious choice, or a mindless reflection of true fear?"

Aveline's blood ran cold. Every hair on her back stood up straight, without fail. She has had this class already, back in nineteen-ninety-one, she shouldn't have a problem in explaining what is a Boggart, or its transformation. Her mind was a white-hot panic now though, every head in the vicinity turned toward her. She felt a delicate push of Iris' elbow right below her ribs.

When she finally spoke, her voice was rid of any schoolgirl's nervousness, or so she thought. Her eyes met with Merrythought's. "I feel as if Boggart is a parasite, Professor." The elderly woman nodded, allowing her to speak further. "It doesn't only reflect; it consumes a feeling. It has to have some understanding of fear to grasp and weaponize it so perfectly. It's not choosing to be a Dementor, or a spider; it's choosing to feed on the despair they awake in a witch or a wizard. Its consciousness is its hunger." Aveline looked at her nails now, the skin around them formerly bitten and plucked to flesh. "If you made me choose, Ma'am, my answer would be that it's a reflection mixed with a choice."

Galatea Merrythought opened her mouth to speak, her eyes glinting with praise, but just then she was interrupted by another smooth voice from all the way in the front.

"Interesting theory, don't you think, Professor?"

It was Tom Riddle. Of course it was. The boy hadn't even raised his hand; he just marched in the middle of everything like he had the forsaken right to. The teacher didn't seem to mind it that much though, very clearly leaving an open field for discussion.

"But if the Boggart's consciousness is its hunger, as Miss Dearden here dared so eloquently put it," his mellifluous tone of voice was coiling around his words, dangerously polite at it, "would that not imply a higher form of choice? It's reflection is its choice, meaning it is not mindless at all; matter of fact, it's a predator carefully choosing its next prey to casually ensure its survival. Actively selecting the most potent meal - the most potent fear. Wouldn't you agree, Miss Dearden, that this makes it more of a calculated being rather than a parasite?"

A smirk was gracing his lips now, as he tilted his head in anticipation. The classroom felt more like an arena now. Airless. The thing he'd done was taking her answer, twisting it, and throwing it back with his own initials emblemed onto it. A challenge.

Aveline's mind was full on racing now. She was about to back down, but that's when Iris nudged her once again this morning, with her forehead wrinkled, prompting her to say something, anything.

"Calculation implies a goal beyond simple survival," she replied, her voice a tad bit shaky. "A parasite's one and only goal is to feed. A calculated being, that might have other motives..." She held his gaze firmly now, not desiring of being the first one to look away. "But what other motive could a Boggart possibly have?"

The silence in the room stretched thin, taunt like a bowstring. That was before he resumed, with the same gentle tone as before.

"A clever question," he looked her up and down, "but I am afraid you think too small, Miss Dearden. You assume, that a Boggart's motive must be complex for it to be more than parasitic. I say differently, what if the greatest motive of all is to prove one simple, universal truth?"

He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air, lingering. He ensured that every person - especially Aveline - was being held captive by his phrasing.

"Perhaps its motive," he continued slowly, "is to demonstrate power. Not its own power, no, but the power of fear itself. Doesn't that make so much more sense? It proves to the weak, that they will forever be bound to, and defined by what lingers in the dark. It isn't just feeding off of terror for survival, Miss Dearden. It is revelling in the fact, that it can remind every witch or wizard of their personal, and so very own pathetic mortality. A far more calculated goal than sustenance, I'm sure you'll agree."

His final words were a caress of venom in a way. By this statement he had delivered a chilling thesis on how his world works, his own twisted philosophy.

The blood drained from Aveline's cheeks, as she thought about her own greatest fear. It wasn't a creature, or a curse; it was being powerless against all odds, it was grief. It was seeing the memory of that lifeless face, of a world she couldn't go back to despite her longing in her mind all over again. Reliving it. He couldn't possibly know that, yet his words stroke her down like a physical blow right to her gut, making her face almost green in colour.

Before she could form a reply, Professor Merrythought clapped her hands quite enthusiastically for her, clearing her throat.

"A rather grim analysis, Mr. Riddle, but nonetheless, very satisfying," she nodded towards the dark haired boy, now noting something in the little book he had under his hands all this time, "a very deep and insightful one from you too, Miss Dearden. It is clear you both understand the psychological warfare inherent in the Dark Arts, and can easily navigate through it."

She noted something on the blackboard, then turned away, a ghost of a smile etched onto her face, as she looked between Aveline and Tom. "Ten points to Slytherin, for a... very spirited debate. Now, as Mr. Riddle kindly illustrated, fear can indeed be weaponized. Let us turn to page thirteen now, and discuss the myriad ways it can be disarmed..."

The room rustled back to life, the sound of chatter prominent now. A wave of whispers came through one of Aveline's ears, and escaped by the other. Iris leaned over to the girl, eyes as wide as flying saucers. 

"Merlin's beard... Ave," she whispered. The girl's voice was awe, mixed with shining terror. "that was something. You actually made him think, not only backtalked."

"Did I?" Aveline finally muttered out. "Honestly I...I think i just need this class to be already over." 

Made him think? The thought was more than mildly terrifying. She hadn't wanted to make him think. Hell, she hadn't wanted him to notice her at all! Her goal was to be grey, to be background noise, not to be noticed by anyone, and to fade into the stone walls until Dumbledore found a way to send her back to her original timeline. Now it seemed almost impossible.

She glanced at Iris, offering her a weak smile. Her mind wasn't on the ten points they'd won because of the heated word exchange, or on making Tom Riddle think. It was on running, getting away as far as possible.

Aveline reluctantly picked up her quill, and turned to page thirteen with a slow whoosh. "So," she held her gaze up, now locked onto a diagram of a Grindylow with too much brightness, "what do you reckon the chances are, that Merrythought actually lets us cast a spell before the term ends?"

She tapped the page with the feathers, and she hoped a desperate change of subject would be enough to lead them back toward safer, shallow waters.

Chapter Text

There were two sets of rules here at Hogwarts.

The first one being the school rules, elegantly scripted onto old parchment, hung up on display in each common room. These were old orders, as elderly as the castle itself. They governed curfew, prohibited nasty spells, and determined proper attire.

The very second set remained unwritten. These were rules of hierarchy, of power. The ones dictating who you spoke to, who you gave a wide berth to, not sparing a glance, not mentioning a conversation, and whose table you were impeccably forbidden from approaching. Most important one although, was the one setting out who held the real authority.

These were the real rules. An errant footfall, and you could get hexed seven days into the future somewhere in a shadowed corridor, ostracized, or, perhaps even worse, get noticed by a wrong person.

At the very top of this serpentine masquerade of a hierarchy sat no other than Tom Riddle. His authority was an undeniable fact, his presence alone earning lots of conflicted reactions. He had a way of commanding the air around him to move in the way he desired, and that wasn't even the scariest part of him. He authored the unwritten rules with utmost confidence, with his sharp intellect and the chilling promise of what he was really capable of.

Aveline, a keen witch, knew now what she'd done in the classroom was a grievous error, dire in the way, that it was writing its own eulogy. And hers at the same time. That single, terrifying thought galvanized her. Panic tasting on her tongue like a luxury she could not afford.

Fear was a useless emotion, unless transfigured into a weapon.

For the next few weeks Aveline did not want to overstep. She kept herself inside the lines, did not deviate from the norm. She met the two other mystery girls from her dormitory, although knew them too little to form an opinion, so she stuck to Iris as her ray of sunlight in the dark dungeons of her new House. She excelled in her classes - of course she did. The essays she turned in were insightful, her spellwork? Masterpiece come alive, but she deliberately scored just below the top marks, making space for Riddle or even someone like Malfoy to shine.

Her days fell into the same, boring, calculated rhythm, mostly seeking refuge in the library. It was a draining performance. She did it all, while waiting carefully and with fervent and unnerving patience for some kind of insight or news on progress from Dumbledore. The waiting, however, felt like a splinter deeply beneath her skin, a fever that never seemed to break. The wizard remained silent. No note, no summons to his headquarters. Nothing. Overwhelming silence overtaking it all if anything. The broken Time-Turner could very well be a ghost resting forever in a peaceful bliss on his desk.

The first disruption to her carefully crafted fragile stillness came with the rather cheery announcement of the first Hogsmeade weekend of the term. "Oh, but you have to come!" Iris chirped, insisting. There was a glint of childlike wonder and girlish delight dancing in her dark gaze, sparkling with excitement. "We could visit Honeydukes! Maybe get a butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks. I'm going to show you all around, it's magical! A great break from the grimness of the dungeons, that's for sure!"

Aveline's first though was a bland, dull 'no'. Hogsmeade not only being a magical village for her, but a graveyard of memories. The first ever sweet taste of butterbeer that the twins forcefully made her order, because: "Trust us, Ave, it will change your life". Zonko's joke shop, and testing prototypes in the back alley, assuring nobody saw their antics. The memories so vivid they could be considered delusions. The warmth spread all over her body, and she cracked a fragile smile. "I do not know, Iris," she started, the excuse forming in the back of her throat. "I still have a lot of reading for Potions..."

"Nonsense." Iris cut her off, an unstoppable force of sheer will and peer pressure. "All work no play makes for a mighty dull Slytherin, besides," she leaned closer, lowering her tone to a murmur. "As a dear friend of yours, it is my solemn duty to rescue you from Maeve Mulciber's never-ending sermon about her sacred family. I'm saving your life, or, well - your eardrums - that's a given."

Aveline looked at the girl's slender face, and took in her expression of eagerness.
"Ave, please, you keep slouching in the library." The plea was what did it. It was soft, and quiet - a declaration of concern. It was, as Aveline noticed with a pained heart, something one of her closest would say.

She let out a gentle sigh, and a genuine laugh adorned by a heartfelt chuckle escaped her pale lips. "Alright, Pritchard," she shook her head in fondness. "I suppose I owe you a butterbeer."

Iris's responding grimace of joy spoke a thousand words.

--------------

Hogsmeade, as she found, had not changed much. That was the problem. The dull ache in her heart resurfaced as soon as they took their very first steps into the magical village, every shop but a ghost. Aveline remembered - and that's the last thing she wanted to do, the thing that dragged her down, not letting a breath escape her drying throat. She saw in her mind's eye the twins, challenging themselves to eat as many Fizzing Whisbees as they could possibly fathom, or Hermione navigating her though the boisterous crowds, not risking letting go of her arm.

And just as she thought she'd turn away and sprint back to the castle to cry in peace, Iris, blissfully unaware, appeared by her side. She was in her own world, blabbering about the superiority of Sugar Quills over every single candy ever produced, and that, if they have time, Aveline needs to try one. Her long monologue was a cheerful, peppermint-scented life line, pulling Aveline away from her own twisted mind and the edge of her dark thoughts, and before she could truly fully lose herself in the void of darkest ones, Iris grabbed her arm, hanging on it. Her grip surprisingly firm for someone her size.

“Come on, come on.” She hurried. The grin on Pritchard’s face was something utterly filled with nonsense in midst of what was happening inside Aveline’s head, but nonetheless it grounded her very well, offering refuge. She allowed herself to be pulled, not like she had any say in the matter. Would simply get a scolding if protested, and that’s not something she was fond of. So, with a scrunched nose, and eyebrows mimicking a tired expression, she rushed behind Iris Pritchard, who navigated the throng of students with grace.

It was Iris’ sharp, unexpected turn that did it. Aveline, unused to speeding through crowds, and still half-lost in her foggy mind could not stop her legs from tangling, not allowing her to adjust her footing in time. Her forward momentum carried her sideways, making her crash into a solid wall smelling of expensive male cologne and pristine clothing, along with a tangible note of parchment.

A yelp. Not from her, but from her blonde-haired friend filled the silence in the tension-filled air, and then Aveline heard a sharp breath intake from directly above her head. She stumbled back, eyes finally regaining focus, and tilted her head upwards, meeting the silver eyes of her victim, currently narrowed in contempt and scanning her head-to-toe. The front of his immaculate dark robes was now darkened further, by a faulty stain of butterbeer in the middle. He looked at Aveline with pure disdain.

“Do you not have eyes? Or do they simply not teach you basic coordination back where you’re from?” He spat words like venom, disgust reflecting onto his long, distinguished face.

Iris barged in, aware of the situation this one accident could very well create. “Oh, Merlin! Abraxas- we are really, terribly sorry. Look, I was not paying any attention, it is my fault, I was the one pulling her! We can get that sorted, I am sure a simple Scourgify-“

“Do not bother, Miss Pritchard.” He nodded in her direction, gently dismissing her. “I believe these matters are to be sorted between me and…” his eyes locked onto Aveline again “…Miss Dearden.”

Aveline’s mind, which was a swirl of chaos, snapped into sudden clarity. His problem was a stain, he had made a fuss over something so trivial and washable. A temporary, fixable blemish, and this perfectly sculpted doll of a boy was looking at her like she had personally desecrated his family tomb. The absurdity of it was almost laughable, and ridiculous.

She didn’t flinch, and didn’t grace him with the sweetness of a cowardly apology. Instead, she took a deep breath in, and spoke:

“Right. It’s a stain, Malfoy.” She took her wand out, and whispered a quiet cleaning spell, her tone indifferent. “I could’ve paid for the cleaning. Or you could’ve just conjured the spell yourself, I’m sure you’re more than capable.”

Abraxas furrowed his brows. He expected frantic ‘I’m sorry’, or even her running away in fear. He tilted his head, platinum hair falling onto one side of his forehead.

“Do not be silly, you couldn’t afford a single thread of this robe.” He snickered, and took half a step closer. “Seems like your manners, Miss, are as clumsy as your feet. Perhaps it’s time for someone to teach you some.”

Aveline was vaguely aware of other’s presence around them, careful eyes watching every single one of their moves. She couldn’t care less, as she too stepped closer, disrespecting his personal space. He was noise, and she was tired.

“And you should learn perspective, Malfoy.” She clenched her jaw. “It’s a stain. It. Will. Wash. Off.”

With that she turned away, grabbing Iris’ arm, as the poor girl tried to explain herself and Aveline to the posh bastard again.
“Let’s go.”

Abraxas, for the second time in as many minutes, was very visibly taken aback. No-one spoke to the Malfoys in this manner. Nobody threatened their authority. Especially not new blood, and a transfer at that. His pride visible in his step, as he reached out and grabbed her arm.

“You do not get to walk away from me like that.” He hissed, clenching his teeth. “You will learn your-“

“Abraxas.”

The voice that emerged from behind the crowd of onlookers wasn’t loud – it needn’t be. It was stern and commanded respect in a way no other sound did. Slicing through the air it froze Abraxas’ hand in place, the blonde boy turned his head in the direction of the source.

People parted, allowing Him an entrance. Tom Riddle, with his robes unruffled, and his tie straightened perfectly and tucked in managed to swiftly approach them in six long strides. The expression that painted his pale face, neutral, was much more menacing in its nature than Malfoy’s displeased grin.

Riddle’s charcoal eyes did not flicker towards Abraxas. His gaze was focused solely and unnervingly on Aveline Dearden.

“That is enough, Abraxas,” he gestured vaguely with his head to Malfoy’s palm laying still as stone on her arm, unmoved even if by an inch. “let her go.”

Abraxas’ fingers which had been clamped around Aveline’s arm like a manacle recoiled, as if burned, putting his hand in one of his pockets he hanged his head low. A picture of a scolded hound.

“Tom.” He acknowledged, taking a step back, the humiliation visible clearly on his features. His eyes darted from Aveline to Riddle, jaw clenching awkwardly.

Tom Riddle’s gaze was overpowering, it stripped away all the noise of the street, leaving only Aveline in its focus. He calculated the slightest tremble in her hands, which she so desperately tried to mask, her breath speeding up the slightest bit, but also the ferocity and fire with which she met his eyes, her own meadow-coloured ones glistening.

"You do seem to have a penchant for attracting trouble, Miss Dearden." He spoke, and his voice carried a soft tone, a low murmur flowing like honey.

It was, without a thought, not a question. It was a statement, one that was oddly laced with something tasting somewhat of approval. He took a single, deliberate step forward, enough to make the air feel charged, and his eyes flickered to Aveline’s companion. Iris looked terrified, her fair skin even more ashen now, as her bottom lip trembled.

“Iris Pritchard, is it not?” He raised a brow gently. “Abraxas will see you to the Three Broomsticks. Miss Dearden and I have some matters to discuss.”

Iris looked from Tom’s impassive face to Aveline’s confused expression, her mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. That was a command, so with a final, fear-filled glance at Aveline she gave a jerky nod and allowed herself to be led away by a still-fuming Abraxas Malfoy, who dared to shoot one last glaze, full of venom, to Aveline, before disappearing into the crowd, his hand on Pritchard’s back.

Sensing the main spectacle had run its course, people blended in the usual hum of Hogsmeade. The tension holding them captive melted away, leaving Aveline and Tom in the claws of silence bubbling and charged. The air around them felt sharp – every crunch of rock under one’s boot, every slight movement of leather were heard. Neither of them dared to speak a word, continuing the awkward momentum. She stood rooted to his side, her palm gently massaging the bruised arm, which Abraxas formerly dug his slender fingers in, wincing slightly. Her gaze was unwavering, still very much locked onto none other than the boy with the perfect posture and hands tightly clasped behind his back, as if he was awaiting something.

Finally, he spoke.

“It was foolish.” His tone unchanged, still as soft as it was but a few minutes ago, yet it carried some sort of wonder. His right hand was resting on his chin now, index finger tapping it lightly.

“He grabbed me.” She resorted, grimacing. Her jaw was clenched, and her knuckles white.

“No, no. Before that.” Tom looked at her now, sighing deeply, before continuing. “You provoked him, Miss Dearden. Abraxas is quite a blunt instrument, he is quick to anger, and aims it quite brutally.” He tilted his head gently, a strand of his dark hair falling in between his eyebrows, which were slightly scrunched now. “Tell me, please, are you always this reckless?”

Reckless?

Aveline allowed herself a scoff. What a funny thing to say. She shot her head up, and bit her cheek. She was not ‘reckless’. After everything, a pampered boy’s tantrum about a bit of beverage on his precious robes was not the biggest of her worries. She laughed, the sound of it akin to scratching glass, and it quickly died in her throat.

“Recklessness, Mr. Riddle, implies lack of thought.” She fixed a stray strand of her hair, tugging it behind her ear. “You can be sure I gave it a great deal of thought, and came to the conclusion that I was simply tired of his whining. Every thinking witch or wizard would be.”

A flicker of something glistened in Riddle’s dead eyes. A ghost of a grin appeared on his thin mouth for a second, before disappearing completely, leaving Aveline with the suspicion, that she might’ve imagined it.

“Interesting conclusion, although a flawed one,” he mused, shaking his head slightly. “You see, Abraxas’ whining, as you have called it, often precedes his hexing. A slight inconvenience can turn fatal if you bruise the wrong ego.” His gaze fell down to the arm she still rubbed in an subconscious gesture, before eyeing up her features, his eyes stopping on hers. “As you can clearly feel.”

Aveline’s gaze travelled to her arm, and then back to Riddle’s focused face, an unbothered expression on her own, as she let her palm fall free from the tender spot.

“You have still got plenty to get wise to. It would be a crying shame for a student with such…promise to find her days at Hogwarts cut short. We’re in agreement there, aren’t we?” Tom’s expression did not change, his hands stuffing the pockets of his robe now. “It would do you good to be wise, and not stand in Malfoy’s way. His memory is longer than his temper is short, and you’ve already made him your foe.”

With a final, unnerving look that felt more like a branding, he turned on his heel and left her without a word, melting back into the flow of students, as if he were never there at all. The chill of Hogsmeade now seeped through Aveline’s bones, and nested into her heart and mind all the same.

-------------------------------

Aveline stood there frozen for a long time after he was gone, a statue amidst of chattering students. The warm taste of Butterbeer she so anticipated turned stale on her tongue, and felt like a distant memory now. The only things she could feel was the angry throb of the five fingerprints Abraxas had left on her, the chill freezing her fingertips and toes, and a far more unsettling feeling Tom Riddle’s gaze left on her soul.

He was right, Aveline realised, it was foolish. But not in the way he thought. It was foolish of her to even think she could be invisible here. It was foolish to think she could wait out the time in the library, buried under tones and tones of old books. Riddle and his court of pureblood douchebags were playing a game, she noticed, goosebumps adorning her limbs now, and as much as she didn’t want to play, she understood that the game found her anyways.

Her first coherent though was of Iris, and her being left alone with a Malfoy.

She rushed through the throng, making her way to the Three Broomsticks. Her mind was sickly replaying Riddle’s words. Cut short. Wise. Foe. It was not advice by any means; it was a threat. One that was disguised as manners and mentorship.

The pub was warm, and smelled of the sweet, yeasty Butterbeer. It was all she looked forward to, and now it all seemed like a nightmare. She spotted Iris immediately, tucked away in a booth, looking small and pale. In her hands, an untouched mug.

“Iris!” Aveline sighed with relief, sitting next to the petite girl.

Iris jumped, startled. She looked at Aveline, her warm dark eyes widening with a weird mixture of fear and ease. “Ave, thank Merlin! What did he want? Are you hurt?” She clasped Aveline’s hands in hers, and begun frantically looking over every inch of her body, making sure her friend is okay. “What did he say?”

Aveline smiled, brittle and thin, but it was genuine. “I’m alright,” she insisted, her voice a little shaky. “He did not dare do anything.” With a firm shake of her head, she pulled her arm from Iris’s bruising grip. Her own hands, icy and bloodless, immediately sought the heated mug of Butterbeer. She palmed the ceramic, the warmth immediately sending a painful tingle through her fingertips, making her relax even if just a bit. After a minute of regaining her blood flow and taking a long, uninvited sip of the drink, with her jaw set, she faced Pritchard once more. “He just offered…an advice.”

“Advice?” Iris’s eyes, that were already as wide as possible, widened even more. “Aveline, Tom Riddle does not give ‘advice’. He gives warnings, he threatens, he marks his territory. What did he say to you? Exactly?”

Aveline took a long gulp of the sweet, warm beverage, that mainly steadied the chill settled already deep in her bones. “He said I was reckless.” She sighed. “For challenging a Malfoy. He told me to be wise, that I’d made an enemy I did not need. That bruising the wrong ego could be…fatal.” She attempted a dismissive shrug.

Iris slapped the table, making heads turn. “Fatal?!” She shook her head. “He used the word? Fatal? Aveline, that’s a threat.” The way she reacted made Aveline’s stomach churn. “You don’t understand. People who annoy Malfoy get hexed in the corridor, yes, but people who gain the attention of Tom Riddle? They face consequences that stick.”

Aveline tried to hold onto her indignation, to the logical part of her brain that screamed this was all a ridiculous overreaction. “No, no, he’s a student, Iris. He’s not the Minister for Magic. It was a stain. He couldn’t possibly think…”

“You’re not listening! It’s not about the stain! It never was about the stain…It’s always about the order. His order. You are an anomaly, challenging one of his.” Iris looked more like a maniac than a student, looking around thunderstruck, her eyes wandering around the shadows, as if expecting someone lurking.

“Last year,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near-inaudible whisper, “a Ravenclaw seventh-year, Edgar Attwood, wrote an article in the student paper criticising the prefects for favouring pure-bloods, being a half-blood himself. He didn’t name names, but everyone knew who he meant. Two weeks later, Attwood’s entire family owl-order business was audited by the Ministry for ‘potion ingredient irregularities.’ They were ruined. Edgar had to leave school to help support his family. Nothing was ever proven, but his life here was over. Tom doesn’t cast the spells himself, Ave. He just… pulls the strings.”

Aveline felt silent. This world was as dangerous as the one she left, and she had just kicked the hornets nest. Her plan to lay low and play a ghost was now in the gutter.

“So what am I supposed to do?” She finally asked, sounding defeated, fight draining out of her rapidly. “Apologise to Mr. Malfoy for existing in his path and having the actual audacity to breathe?”

“Too late for that, I fear.” Iris clenched her jaw. “Apology would look like a weakness, Riddle does not tolerate that. He just proved he has full control over Abraxas, you proved you’re not scared of him. For him, that was a move in his horrible, terrifying game of chess.”

Aveline stared down at her best friend’s mug, watching the foam bubble up and dissolve slowly. The game. It always came back to the game. She was so extremely focused on getting back to her own war, she had failed to notice the one being waged here.

The low, warm chatter of the Three Broomsticks hummed around them, a stark contrast to the cold dread coiling in Aveline’s stomach. She had been tracing the condensation ring the tankard of Butterbeer left on the dark, scarred wood of the table, avoiding Iris’s concerned gaze.

But then, something shifted. She looked up, meeting Iris’ gaze with cold calculation and new determination in hers. It was a sharp glint silvering in her eyes, her mind gracefully granting her with a fresh idea. The fear was still present, the tight, cold knot formed of her stomach was still there too, but the confusion was clearing.

“Fear is a useless emotion unless it can be transferred into a weapon.” She deliberately pushed her half-full tankard to the center of the table, a clear dismissal of her previous hesitation.

“What are you saying?" Iris scrunched her eyebrows in a gesture of confusion.

“Alright.” Aveline clapped her hands two times, before smiling. Her voice was steady and clear. “No more hiding in the library.”

Iris blinked. “What?”

“He told me it would be a shame for a student with ‘promise’ to have her days cut short,” Aveline recounted, her mind racing. “He’s watching me in class. He knows I’m holding back. Especially after the debate.” She shook her head. “Me slouching in the library and deliberately scoring just below made me an easy target. A mystery.” She licked her lips, tasting the sweetness on her tongue. “And it seems like Tom Riddle cannot stand an unsolved puzzle.”

An entirely new strategy begun to form. If she cannot be a ghost, she’d have to be something else.

“He wants to see promise?” Aveline laughed. “That’s what I’ll give him. I’m going to be the best student in all our shared classes. I’m going to be so brilliant, and so focused on my studies he’ll grow bored of watching me. I will not be a threat, and I definitely will not be a mystery.”

Iris looked at her, shadow of awe replacing the sting of fear in her eyes. “So…you’re saying you want to try and out-Riddle Riddle?”

“No, I’m going to make myself the most boring puzzle he’s ever tried to solve.” Aveline corrected, a huge smile now painting itself on her lips shamelessly. “Let’s see how long his attention lasts when all I talk about is the proper brewing temperature for a Draught of Peace.”

She stood up, pulling a few sickles, which she grabbed from one of the sacks in the chest Rosier reminded her of, from her pocket and scattered them on the wooden table. The warmth now felt suffocating. “Come on, I’ve lost my appetite for Butterbeer.”