26
She had weeks of relative peace stretching before her. Narcissa, observing the lingering fatigue from the equinox celebration and with no immediate social events on the horizon, had decreed that Alice deserved some rest and recuperation. Rest, however, took an unexpected form.
The library’s eastern wing, with its collection of esoteric texts on magical theory, became her sanctuary. Ancient tomes surrounded her, their pages filled with arcane knowledge that captivated her completely. She devoured theories of magical conductivity, her notes piling up, each scribbled equation a testament to her burgeoning obsession. The gentle insistence of rest and relaxation was entirely ignored.
Lost in her studies, she scarcely registered the passage of time, the candles' golden glow flicking on around her as day surrendered to night.
In the shadows of Voldemort's private study, Antonin Dolohov stood before his Lord, his scarred face impassive. "The girl hasn't left the library in days."
Voldemort's quill paused over a document. "Is that concern I detect, Antonin?"
"Observation," Dolohov replied carefully. "She's... young. Perhaps too young to be buried in theoretical magic she can't practice."
A dangerous silence filled the room. Then, unexpectedly, Voldemort set down his quill. "You've been watching her."
"As ordered, my Lord." Antonin kept his voice neutral, though they both knew his interest in Alice's welfare had grown beyond mere duty. "She shows promise, but..."
"But?"
"But she is still a child." The words carried weight, spoken from the shadows where both men preferred to operate. "Theory without practical application can break stronger minds than hers."
Voldemort's crimson eyes gleamed in the darkness as he considered his oldest companion's words. For the first time, he found himself thinking of Alice not as an amusing puzzle or an interesting experiment, but considering what she was – a young girl, diving into depths that had driven grown wizards mad.
"Perhaps," he said finally, a plan forming, "it's time she saw theory put into practice."
Later that evening, he found her in the library's eastern wing. The sight gave him pause – she sat at her desk with perfect posture, even in solitude, her movements precise and graceful as she turned ancient pages. Her dark hair was still elegantly styled despite the late hour, her appearance as immaculate as any pure-blood lady's. Yet there was something achingly young about the way she leaned forward, eager eyes devouring complex magical theories she could never truly practice.
For a moment, he simply observed her. She was still that same girl from the Malfoy conservatory – poised, controlled, every inch the lady she'd been raised to be. But where he'd once seen only a carefully crafted facade, he now recognized something more. Despite her composed exterior, there was a raw vulnerability to her that he found himself surprisingly reluctant to exploit. She was so young, really – barely more than a child, yet carrying herself with the weight of someone much older.
She looked up suddenly, sensing his presence. "My Lord," she said, rising smoothly from her chair with that innate grace that spoke of years of training.
"How many hours have you spent here today?" he asked, moving closer to examine her notes. Her handwriting remained perfectly measured, though the sheer volume of work spoke to her obsession.
"I've been reviewing the theories about resonance patterns in non-magical conductors," she replied carefully, ever mindful of proper etiquette even in her exhaustion.
"Enough," he said, softer than intended. "You will join me tomorrow at dawn. It's time you saw some of this theory in practice."
Something flickered in her eyes – excitement warring with careful restraint. "The northern territories?"
He inclined his head slightly. "Get some rest, little scholar. Theory will wait for those who are fresh enough to understand it."
As she gathered her things with those same precise movements, he found himself struck again by the dichotomy of her – so carefully controlled, yet so fundamentally vulnerable in this world that would never truly be hers. The realization should have disgusted him, once. Now, it merely gave him pause.
He dismissed the unfamiliar protective impulse. She was, after all, merely an interesting experiment. Nothing more.