Chapter 17
November 5th, 1943
Tom
“I don’t know about you, but she’s been avoiding me,” Abraxas sighs as he sits down to my left.
Filling my plate with scrambled eggs, I can’t stop my scowl, “Her friends always interfere, I’d hex them if it wouldn’t make the situation worse.”
The Halloween Ball was…enlightening. What started as a simple plan to spend the evening with the only witch to ever hold my interest for so long, quickly devolved into an intense need to understand why she fights me hard.
She can’t be that against power hungry men, I watched her hugging Dumbledore. She might just be his ward, but that meddlesome old fool has his own plans for her. He made that much clear with the taunting look he sent my way at the Ball. If she’s willing to be close to him, then why not me?
I had to nearly drag the witch onto the dance floor. Yet, even with her scowls and sharp words, Hope Mikaelson’s pupils dilate whenever she looks at me. Not even her glares can hide it, nor her shallow breathing. Even the slight changes in the cadence of her voice belies just how much I effect her.
Despite her so called ‘dislike’ of me, the moment my lips met hers, she melted in the heat we created. If I had been less of a gentleman, if I took that kiss further, I know I would have found even more evidence that she wants me.
Perhaps that’s why she practically runs the other way whenever she sees a Slytherin in our year. If she realized what I did that night, that our chemistry is too explosive to simply fizzle out, then I can understand why Hope would be avoiding me and my followers.
Even in Potions, if Slughorn isn’t talking, then her music plugs are in her ears. She works as far away from me as possible while still using the table, and I know that the little shocks I get whenever I try to move closer, come from her. Which hasn’t stopped me from watching her whenever we’re in the same room.
Even now, sitting at the Ravenclaw table as she pretends not to have a care in the world, I can catch how her eyes try to reach me. But her damn self control always kicks in before her gaze can travel beyond my hands, always turning back to her friends with a light blush coloring her cheeks. She’s already admitted to being the daughter of a villain, she may need to come to terms with stepping back into that world?
“The Weasley girl won’t even let me get close anymore,” Malfoy grumbles into his morning tea. “Between her and Potts, I don’t know how we’re going to get Mikaelson to play her music at our after parties.”
I could roll my eyes at him, but I know how competitive my housemates get when it comes to Quidditch, “She’ll be there, I’ll make sure of it.”
Worrying his bottom lip, Abraxas stares at the witch in question from our table, “How? The first match is tomorrow, we need her ready before our game on the 20th. I refuse to recycle the set list she created for Ravenclaw, Captain Crockett would tan my hide and the goal is to have the best party. That means having music that wasn’t at the Ravenclaw after party.”
“Why are we inviting that bitch into the dungeons, anyway,” Dolohov sneers at Malfoy. “I say we show her some true Pureblood fun, it’s been a while since we put a mudblood in her place.”
Grinding my teeth together, I hold my tongue in favor of seeing where this conversation leads. Dolohov has been stewing for months now, I’m not terribly surprised that he’s itching for payback.
However, Hope Mikaelson is far too necessary to waste on magical teaching or violence for the sake of violence. I wasn’t kidding when I declared I want her, I’m just waiting for her to accept that she’s already mine.
“She’s going to tell her friends where she’ll be,” Malfoy explains extra slowly, as if Dolohov hasn’t quite grasped English yet. “Honestly, it’s as if you want to be caught. Rule number one of inflicting pain; make sure you always come out innocent. Attacking a girl in the dungeons when it’s common knowledge where she’ll be, is just stupid.”
Dolohov bares his teeth at Abraxas, until he notices my threatening glare. Turning his attention onto his nearly empty plate, the boy promptly shuts the fuck up. I itch to hex the dunderhead, whether for proposing an idiotic plan or for threatening my witch, I don’t care.
For now, I have a witch to drag out of denial. She can have a few days of peace to wrap her head around her own feelings, I can allow her that much. However, I am not a patient man. I’d greatly prefer to not use her few weaknesses against her, but only time will tell how stubborn Mikaelson will be.
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November 6th, 1943
Hope
“Come in!”
Stepping into Dumbledore’s office feels like stepping into a Gryffindor themed tea room. Scarlet tapestries, table clothes, and curtains cover nearly every stone or wooden surface, and nearly all of his knick knacks or bobbles are gilded. Besides his large desk, filled with papers and other stationary, there’s an ornate table set with an impressive golden tea station.
Dumbledore also has a few portraits hanging, but the only one I recognize is his younger sister. She doesn’t have a plaque, and he hasn’t introduced us, but I remember enough to connect the dots. His sister always looks at Dumbledore with a kind of fond ache, but whenever I catch her watching me, a frown is always present. Fear is the emotion that keeps coming to mind, but whether she’s worried for me or because of me isn’t as clear.
“Hello, sir. I hope you’re doing well today,” I say, managing a tired smile as I step into the room.
Dumbledore stands, his eyes twinkling with excitement as he pulls out a chair for me. “Indeed I am, Hope. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I reply, sinking into the seat he offers.
He returns to his own chair, and we both begin preparing our tea in companionable silence. Personally, I still prefer the strong taste and heady effects of coffee. Dumbledore was nice enough to stock his cabin with some grounds and a french press that’s actually from France.
But, I had to leave it where it was, Hogwarts doesn’t exactly keep coffee in it’s inventory. So, I make due with what I have, adding more milk and sugar than I probably should.
“You seem more subdued than usual,” Dumbledore observes after I take a sip, his expression edging toward concern. “Is there anything troubling you?”
I almost laugh, but my lips twist into a faint, humorless smile instead, “Not exactly. I haven’t slept well this week, but I’ll be okay. Just…a lot on my mind, I guess.”
Dumbledore hums in understanding, lifting his hand to toy with his beard thoughtfully, “Might your worries stem from the Halloween Ball? I noticed you dancing, however your date was curiously absent.”
Of course he would have noticed, how silly of me to think I could get through one interaction without thinking about him. I’ve been kicking myself since that night—for letting my guard down, for forgetting my plans to save Henry and Andrew, for that kiss.
That kiss was everything it shouldn’t have been: intense, consuming, undeniable. Every part of me betrayed my better judgment—the way my body reacted to him, his firm grip on me, the seamless way we melded together. It was wrong, and yet it felt so natural.
I’ve even checked for enchantments, convinced he must have spelled me into this ridiculous attraction. No such luck. It’s all me. Avoiding him and his crew is the only option. But, literally running in the opposite direction every time I see, hear, or smell a familiar snake does take up the majority of my energy these days.
“Yes,” I admit with a sigh. I’m still not sure if trusting Dumbledore is a good idea, but he’s the only person in this castle that I don’t have to lie to. Selfishly, and possibly stupidly, I decide to seek his council, “Despite my best efforts, I’ve peaked the interest of too many Slytherins. I showed you enough of my memories that I’m hoping I don’t need to explain how awful that is for my plans. Do you have any ideas on how to put them off me?”
Something flickers in Dumbledore’s eyes—quick, unreadable—and then his face settles into calm pensiveness, “That would explain the dance with Tom Riddle,” he muses.
“However, if I was aware on how to divert that boy from his interests, I imagine the future would be vastly different. Assuming, of course, that the series you showed me accurately depicts it.”
Tilting my head to the side, “What do you mean?”
Folding his hands together, Dumbledore looks around the room as he answers, “I mean that while the future you’re so familiar with is a possibility, I am less certain it is the only possibility. Your presence here—an unaccounted-for variable—may change everything.”
“But I don’t want to be the hero,” I grumble and rub my eyes with the heels of my palms. “I came here for a better life, a safer one. There’s no way for me to achieve that while being surrounded by Riddle and his friends, or whatever they are.
“You’re right, maybe the future won’t play out the way the books say it will. I’m not an oracle. But I won’t be the one to change it, I can’t keep sacrificing myself. At some point, there won’t be enough of me left to go on.”
No matter how much I beg them not to, the tears finally escape, rolling down my face. Letting my lower lip wobble, I choke on a sob as I struggle to breathe. I’ve been doing so good, but it’s too much right now.
All the pain and trauma welded to my back weighing me down, only helping the demons as I try to outrun them. I’m strong, I know that I am. But, if strength was eternal and constant, then good would always triumph. Then lasting pain would be a forgotten thing of the past.
“Worry not, Hope,” Dumbledore soothes, his voice tender. “You don’t need to save the world, just be yourself. Sometimes, the mere presence of a kind soul can tip the balance.
“I understand that his future is daunting, as are the evils he and his fellow Slytherins are foretold to bring into this world. But here, now, he’s just a boy. As are his friends. You don’t have to fight anyone—you can simply talk to them.”
Blinking at him skeptically, I wipe the water from my face, “I’m not sure I know what you mean. Are you telling me that by talking to Riddle and Co., I can stop them from becoming full fledged monsters with some silly, small talk? My goal is to get away from them.”
“Understandable,” he says with a nod. “But avoiding them entirely may not be possible. You’ve already caught their attention, as you said. And when the Pureblood elite become intrigued, they tend to act.”
My conversation with Malfoy flits through my mind at that, but it only makes me more confused. I don’t fit into that world, being the Halfblood I am. Abraxas educated me on just how intrinsic blood purity is to high society, how lineage is the highest social currency available.
Being from a family that would rather marry Halfbloods than their cousins, Malfoy explained how that is used more as a last resort rather than something one should set out to do.
Something the family isn’t proud of, something that is seen more as inappropriate or unsuitable rather than completely forbidden, like a Muggleborn would be. But, I sincerely doubt that I’m worth going against their parents and all the ideals they were born with.
“They’re not going after my hand,” I tell him with narrowed eyes. “More than likely, they want to drain me of my magic, and then kill me. I’m of no other use, so why bother talking to them? Why show the kindness you seem to think will suddenly change them?”
“You underestimate your influence,” Dumbledore says gently. “Tom Riddle is fascinated by power, yes, but he is also drawn to those he perceives as kindred spirits. By allowing him to see the strength and compassion within you, you may plant a seed that grows into something far greater than his current ambitions.”
I stand abruptly, placing my hands on the table, my chair scraping against the floor. “No. I didn’t come here to play games or fix your problems. I came here to survive, Albus.”
“And survive you shall,” he replies, his voice and gaze unwavering. “But sometimes, survival requires a different kind of courage. You don’t have to do anything special. Simply…live your life.”
I glare at him, my hands clenching into fists, “I’m not your pawn, Dumbledore.”
“Of course not,” he says, his tone soothing once more. “You are far more than that, Hope. As I already told you, I’d like for you to be my niece.”
I blink, remembering what he said at the Ball before everything went to shit. When he asked, I was hesitant. Now, I’m full blown suspicious.
“In name only,” Dumbledore clarifies, likely sensing my distrust, his tone steady. “A title meant to grant you certain… conveniences. You’ve already drawn attention. More than you perhaps realize. If we frame your presence here as a connection to my family, it will answer some of the questions already circulating about you—and, more importantly, deter others from asking too many more.”
“Right, because I’m sure the answer is so simple,” I say while straightening my back, doing my best not to sneer at the man who may or may not be trying to do me a favor. “I become your honorary niece and the Slytherins back off? Just like that?”
“Of course not,” he replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But it will shift the nature of their curiosity. Instead of viewing you as an enigma to unravel, they will see you as someone with ties to a respected name—a part of this world, in a manner of speaking. It may not eliminate their interest entirely, but it will temper it.”
Crossing my arms, I ask, “And why would you want that? What’s in it for you?”
The more we talk, the more I get the feeling that Dumbledore wants me tied to him to have better access to manipulate me. Normally, we just chat about magic, classes, my friends, harmless topics over tea and biscuits.
We spent most of the summer together, was all that just a means to an end? Has Dumbledore been planning on using me since he saw my memories? Or am I being paranoid that everyone and everything is out to get or use me? Am I thinking about pushing him away because of logic or emotion?
Dumbledore leans back in his chair, his expression softening. “Hope, you are not just any young woman. You are powerful, resourceful, and—if I may say so—remarkably kindhearted for someone who has endured as much as you have. These qualities make you an asset to this world, whether or not you wish to be. If aligning you with my name provides a measure of protection while also ensuring the Pureblood elite think twice before taking action against you, I am more than happy to offer it.”
I glance away, his offer of protection stirring a mix of emotions I’m not ready to untangle, “And what happens if I say no? If I decide I’d rather face them on my own?”
“Then I will respect your decision,” he says simply. “I will still be here to advise you, should you wish it. I meant what I said at the Ball, I have become rather attached to you. Which is why I do not want to lie about the likelihood of Tom Riddle or his friends suddenly losing interest in you. My offer is not a demand, it is merely an option—one that may make your path a little less treacherous.”
The logic behind his statement puts a sour taste in my mouth. Two things can be true at once; Dumbledore can want to manipulate me and want to protect me. If anything, those two thoughts make a lot more sense together than either of them separately.
“And if they don’t think twice? If they see this as a challenge instead?”
“They may,” he acknowledges with a nod. “But the Dumbledore name carries weight, even among those who might otherwise dismiss me as a sentimental idealist. While I cannot promise you immunity from their schemes, I can promise you a shield—something to blunt the sharpest edges of their ambitions.”
“What exactly would this ‘niece’ arrangement involve?” I ask cautiously, sitting back down. “What would I have to do?”
“Very little,” Dumbledore assures as he studies my expression. “Your day-to-day life would remain largely unchanged. I would not ask you to adopt a false history or fabricate a detailed backstory—merely to accept the notion that, for all practical purposes, you are under my protection.”
I glance up at him, suspicion warring with exhaustion. “And you think this will stop them from coming after me?”
“No,” he admits, his voice quiet but firm. “But it may give them pause. And sometimes, a moment’s hesitation is all that’s needed to shift the balance.”
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November 6th, 1943
Hope
My housemates cheer and shout all around me. The Quidditch captain is basically crowd surfing, every boy and strong girl holding him up and passing him around over head. Jumping up and down with Mary, the celebration is so intense I’m sure it bleeds through the knobless door separating us from the rest of the castle.
My first Quidditch match was intense but fun. If I could watch people flying through the air and beating each other with bats, I might have gotten into sports more in my old world. Anthony was amazing, playing far more ruthlessly than I ever expected with his fellow chaser, Martin Boot. The two decimated Gryffindor’s keeper, he never had a chance against Anthony and Martin’s strategies.
“Hope!” I barely hear over all the commotion.
Turning to find the speaker, my grin only grows as I shout back, “Anthony!”
Pulling me into a big hug, I can’t help but laugh as he rocks me back and forth. Then he shifts to ask, “Can you get the music started? I think it’s time to kick this party up a notch!”
Breaking away from him, I push my way through the crowd until I make it to the stairs to the girls dorms. The last weeks, I’ve been playing with how loud the headphones are able to play. After too long of fiddling with the charm I originally placed on them, I realized that a simple Sonorus could be added when necessary.
Racing back down the steps, I fight my way to the fireplace in the center of the room. The mantel is far too high for me to reach, but after enlisting a couple of the Quidditch players, they lift me until I can arrange my headphones just so. A snap of my fingers later, and I ask to be put down again.
My playlist starts blasting through the room, so loud it feels like I’m in a nightclub from my old world. Finding Mary again, I pull her out of the packed crowd so we have some room to dance. She watches as I swish my hips from side to side, my feet tenderizing the floor, and my hands grab hers to get her moving.
Most people here only know how to waltz or maybe some of the muggle dances popular in this time period. While this isn’t the first time I’ve pulled out my music or ‘otherworldly dance moves,’ this is the first time we have this big of an audience. However, Ravenclaws are nothing if not adaptable.
First more girls join us, creating a dilapidated circle of laughter and booty shaking. Then the boys try to join in, their hips not taking as well to the dance moves. Screams and cackles fill the space, the boys pushing and hounding each other playfully.
Eventually, they sort themselves out, their moves almost resembling dancing. The music continues, my playlist consisting of a lot of early Rihanna, Alicia Keys, Avril Lavigne, and all the best rap songs from the 2000’s. The language gets racey, and every so often I notice people pause or their motions stutter. But no one complains or even seems to care beyond the initial shock.
Someone pulls out firewhiskey, passing it around. Trying a glass, it tastes like a classier version of fireball from my world. At Mary’s urging, I take a shot with her, then another. Then Anthony and some of his teammates come to thank me for the music, which just ends up in tipsy teenagers screaming at each other and still barely being able to hear.
Martin Boot asks me to dance, a handsome seventh year that’s friends with Anthony. At least that’s what I think he means when he nudges my shoulder and tilts his head toward the moving crowd.
Nodding my assent, he takes my hand, and we end up boogieing with our housemates. When I turn to look at my friends, I’m beyond shocked when I spot Taylor with Anthony. Especially given I never taught my friends about grinding, yet there they are.
When I turn back to Martin, his motions have slowed as he looks curiously at Anthony behind Taylor. His gaze meets mine again, and he tilts his head with a flirty smile. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the need to think about something else, someone else, but I smile back at him.
Hands end up on my hips, pulling me closer, and I love the way he studies my face. Like he’s looking for any hesitance, any sign that I might not want him touching me. My smile only grows, and then he disappears from view. His hands never leave me, simply shifting, and not stopping until he’s flush against my back.
Raising on my tip toes, I try to not let my vertical deficiency ruin the experience. Martin doesn’t seem to care, not as his breath trails along my neck, and not when I feel something hard against my ass. Whether it’s because of werewolf senses or not, I feel his face in my hair, and then I hear him inhale deeply.
Then I feel a twinge in my chest. Pushing it aside, I ignore how foreign he feels against me. When his hands trail along my waist, I fight the initial urge to vacate from his hold. I want this, I want to dance with an attractive boy, one without black eyes and maddening intensity.
But as I lean my head against Martin’s chest, even as I censor my thoughts, I know deep down I’d rather he was someone else.