Chapter 18
Nov 11, 1943
Tom
“Are you prepared?” I ask my men.
Dolohov and Malfoy reply in unison, “Yes, my Lord.”
Exiting the common room, I lead the way to breakfast. Now that the muggles we trapped are completely mindless, useless to further experimentation, I’m allowing two lucky followers the rare opportunity to master the killing curse.
Both Malfoy and Dolohov have impressed me with their dark magic, have assisted me diligently, and, most importantly, piss me off the least compared to their compatriots. I’ll hold a meeting late next week so the two can impress an audience, and those not playing in the Quidditch game will be in charge of disposing of the bodies while the rest of the school is busy.
It’s useful experience to have, and I took it as another opportunity for my men to prove themselves. Whoever comes up with the best plan to be rid of the bodies without a chance of being caught gets to supervise in my stead. Which is really a way for me to not be there, and for them to vie for my approval.
As we’re about to enter the Great Hall, Malfoy leans into me slightly, whispering, “She seems to be in a mood again.”
My head snaps to Hope, and I see what he means. While I can’t say that Hope Mikaelson is known to have a sunny disposition, she normally doesn’t glare at her breakfast like it killed her puppy. She’s looking a bit peaky too, and when I sit at our table, I grab the closest newspaper. November 11th, the night of a full moon. No wonder.
Looking at my witch, I’m barely surprised when a touch of dread enters my system. She isn’t in danger and there’s nothing I can exactly do to help, it pisses me off. Her last transition is still seared into my mind, but I can’t find a solution unless she talks to me. I’ve allowed her a reprieve, I’ve focused on my Knights, but today especially, my witch needs some attention.
Before any plans can formulate, an enchanted paper plane flies right past my nose into Malfoy’s breakfast. The owls already brought today’s mail, this must have come from somewhere in the castle.
“What is it?” I ask Malfoy curiously.
He’s staring at the unfolded paper with equal parts confusion and trepidation, “A missive from my Father. Apparently, there was a meeting for the Board of Governors and he wants to discuss something with me. Immediately.”
Then, my frown matches his. Malfoy has been my right hand for years now, and Malfoy Sr. has never been pleasant company. He’s brilliant, powerful, and well connected, I’ve learned a lot about my leadership style from the man.
However, being his son means being another one of his assets, and assets don’t have opinions, thoughts, or ambitions of their own. Abraxas Malfoy might be my best follower, but only when he’s appropriately motivated and regarded. Malfoy Sr. has never bothered with either of those things, leading to years of complaints and bitching.
“I’ll see you at class, this will likely take some time,” Abraxas sighs as he stands from the table.
The rest of breakfast is boring, I merely watch my witch be antisocial. Malfoy doesn’t reappear until after our first class starts, entering the room looking paler than a corpse. He won’t meet my eye for the entire period, and I find my ire growing the longer he ignores my gaze.
The moment class is dismissed, I’m in front of his desk, “What did your Father want?”
Finally looking at me, Malfoy whispers, “Not here.”
Grinding my teeth together, I follow the boy out and into the closest vacant classroom. Quickly, I spell the room so no one can interrupt or eavesdrop, and then I turn to Abraxas. He’s pacing, his fingers destroying his carefully quaffed hair, and he’s shaking like a leaf.
“Just look,” he says without meeting my gaze. “Know that I have no idea what to do, that the two people in this world that I cannot say no to want me to travel conflicting paths.”
Losing his steam, Abraxas falls into a chair. Waiting a moment, I take in his defeated posture before pulling a chair in front of him. Once I’m sat, he meets my eye, and a silent Legilimens allows me into his mind. Having the memory ready for me, I fall into an identical but different empty classroom.
Malfoy Sr. is pacing the room as Abraxas enters, but halts once he sees his son, “Abraxas.”
His only response is a tight lipped smile, and I don’t miss how tense his posture is. Malfoy Sr. moves to stand before his son, neither touching or greeting each other beyond this.
“Dippet informed us that there is a student in your year whom is far too magical for wands. One from a different world,” he says with an air of excitement. “I’m assuming you have befriended him?”
Abraxas’ expression morphs from confusion, to masked horror, and back again, “Him? No, Father, you’re mistaken. Hope Mikaelson is the student in question, and yes her and I are…friendly.”
I could laugh at the statement, Hope has been ignoring Abraxas just as thoroughly as me. However, she did ask him to teach her about Pureblood society. I don’t know how many hours they spent together, but Abraxas was so excited when he thought he was teaching me about the Room of Requirement.
I could have taught her about society, and I had to stop myself from cursing Malfoy. Once he let me see the room that Hope summoned, I let go of my irritation in favor of his compliance.
“A witch?” Malfoy Sr. breathes in shock. A moment later, he’s gripping his son’s shoulders with an expression more animated than I’ve ever seen, “Congratulations, Son. You’ve just uttered the name of your future bride.”
Abraxas rears back, but his Father’s grip is too strong. The panic is clear on his face, a complete contrast to the hunger in his Father’s eyes.
“Father, yo— you don’t want that. She’s a Halfblood, rumor has it that her Mother is a Muggle,” he stammers, still trying to get free.
Malfoy Sr. bursts into laughter, letting go of his son in favor of holding his belly. Abraxas almost falls backwards, but quickly finds his feet and rights his robes. With wide eyes and a hesitant frown, I can practically see the words what do I do floating through his mind.
“Abraxas,” he starts, smiling at his son like he’s a toddler who doesn’t understand silverware yet. “I would not care if the girl was born from two Muggles. Malfoy’s have always sought after power and magic, and she has both from what I’ve gathered. What did you say her name was? Hope?
“Well, soon her name will be Hope Malfoy, and our line will become the most respected and powerful name in the entire world. Not just Britain and France, dear boy. Where she came from is of no consequence, soul bonding with her and then producing a hoard of heirs, is.”
Searching the room as if an answer will suddenly appear, I watch as Abraxas grapples for something to say, “I—But Father, you don’t understand.”
“What is the problem?” Malfoy Sr. demands, irritation bleeding into his tone. “You said you’re friendly with the girl, how difficult is it to win the affections of one witch?”
Clenching his hands at his sides, Abraxas replies with a clipped tone, “While I’m friendly with her, Hope has made it abundantly clear that she does not want anyone from Slytherin. How am I supposed to change her mind when our Slytherin qualities are what we hold most dear?”
His argument is flimsy at best, but based on the look on Abraxas’ face, he knows that. Malfoy Sr. merely rolls his eyes and shakes his head like any disappointed parent.
“You simply need to present yourself as the lesser of all evils.”
Abraxas tilts his head to the side, stopping the scoff from exiting his mouth before speaking, “What does that mean?”
A mischevious smile lights up the older man’s face, “It means that I am not the only Pureblooded parent excited to bring Ms. Mikaelson into their family. The other Governors will gossip about this juicy piece of information, more families will find out about the powerful and unattached witch. If your housemates aren’t fighting over her by the end of the month, I’ll release your inheritance early. That is how sure I am in the race for her hand, so get to it.”
Exiting Malfoy’s mind, I find the boy with his head in his hands. The classroom is as I left it, only the despair has become stifling. His white, blonde hair is messy and he has pen ink on his face now, as well as on his hands.
“I know you want her,” he states, as if it’s the obvious thing in the world. “You don’t need to deny it, I’ve known you too long for that. Beyond my Father’s wishes, I have no interest in courting her. However, I cannot make both of you happy, and I’m not sure how long my Father is willing to hold off while I think about this.”
The devastation he’s exhibited finally makes sense. While I’m not confident in how Malfoy Sr. would react to insubordination, I know that I’ve historically made people regret any transgressions. Thoroughly. However, Abraxas is asking for my help, seeing as he doesn’t want to disappoint either of us.
“Your Father mentioned that news of her existence will spread among the Pureblood community,” I state, pleased when Malfoy lifts his head to look at me dumbfounded.
“Yes,” he starts, clearing his throat. “Likely, every other able bodied male heir will be sent to acquire her affections. If we fail, second or third sons will join the race, as my Father so eloquently put it. Thankfully, Boot isn’t a Pureblood, so his family won’t be pressuring him to expand on his progress.”
The envy in his voice has more to do with Boot’s family than anything else, but his statement still confuses me, “What do you mean?”
“You haven’t heard?” Abraxas asks me, his fear resurfacing.
After shaking my head no, he worries his lip with his teeth before answering, “Well, remember how Ravenclaw beat Gryffindor in the first Quidditch match? I heard that Hope played music for the after party, where her and Martin Boot were seen dirty dancing together. That’s all I know.”
Glacial rage fills my veins, sending ice through my system. However, he is not my biggest obstacle at this point. Martin Boot will have to be punished for touching my witch on a later date. For now, I have Purebloods to out maneuver.
“Swear to me now that you will assist me in winning her hand,” I start, only pausing to process the look of tentative hope on his face. “Then, I will help you please both me and your Father.”
***************
Tom
Classes drag on and on for the rest of the day, my plans burning a hole in my mind as I wait. By the time I reach Transfiguration, my last class of the day, I’m about ready to Avada Dumbledore.
Standing in the front of the room, he blathers on about chess pieces. My entire career at Hogwarts has taught me that no amount of flattery or manipulation will make Dumbledore like me. While every other professor nearly kisses my feet, he is the solitary hold out.
After that Myrtle girl died, he knew it was me. Without any proof, Dippet was loath to take his word over mine. After all, there were plenty of boys from respectable families claiming my innocence, giving me an alibi. However, since that day, the old man has out right ignored me in his classroom unless absolutely necessary.
The taunting look he gave me at the Ball was surprising. After hugging Hope, twice, his challenge was made clear. Hope Mikaelson is under his protection, and he’ll do what he can to keep her safe. Which, loosely translated, means far away from me.
“Now, deviating from our schedule slightly,” Dumbledore announces, catching my attention. “I am sad to say that I must depart from class early. Ensure that you complete your essays before our next meeting, three feet of parchment. No more, no less.”
After pointedly looking around the class, an action that surprises everyone, Dumbledore exits the room. His announcement and departure so quick that no one had time to question him. A moment of silence passes, and then cheers erupt. While packing my things, I check the time, and am pleased to find it’s only 4 p.m.
“What should we do with our afternoon free?” Dolohov asks from my left.
Sighing, I tell him, “Do as you wish. I have an important matter to attend to.”
Not bothering to wait for him or anyone else, I exit the classroom. With the halls nearly empty, it doesn’t take much time to reach outside. With a long walk and not a lot of time, I push my limbs to move quickly despite the frigid air.
As the walled garden comes into view, I catch a glimpse of auburn and blue detailed robes entering the enclosure. Picking up the pace, I all but sprint to the garden. The cabbages are still agitated, so I grab some carrots, throw them around the annoying plants, and then jump into the tunnel.
I can’t hear her movements, so my race continues. After a minute, I hear Hope call out a loud ‘Hello?’ but I still can’t see her. Her senses must be heightened, whether that’s only during the full moon or always is a question for another time.
Once she is in my view, I find her in a fighting stance, “Riddle?”
Breathing heavily, I smile at the witch whose been ignoring me, “Hello, Hope. Long time and all that.”
“Go back to the castle,” she commands, her expression severe as she straightens. “I’m in no mood.”
Turning on her heel, Hope continues through the tunnel. The space isn’t big enough for us to walk side by side, I can barely stand at my full height without dirt getting in my hair. So, I walk behind her, a polite distance separating us.
“I’ve given you enough space as it is. Don’t worry, I’ll leave before your transition begins,” I tell her.
She groans, but her legs keep moving, “Why, exactly, are you following me? Is listening to my torture really that appealing?”
“Not at all,” I say honestly. “However, I figure that you might want some company that you don’t have to hide this secret from.”
She stops so suddenly I nearly run her over. Turning to me slowly with a mean look of skepticism, “And why do you figure that?”
“Because you were right, I stayed last time. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that I have experience in torture; both the receiving end and dolling it out. While I can’t claim to have witnessed anything like your transition, I do know how lonely it must be having to go through it alone every month,” I explain without wavering or breaking eye contact.
She almost looks moved by my sentiment, but I can practically see the moment she fortifies her walls, “You just want to interrogate me more, don’t you.”
Hope doesn’t wait for my reply, she just starts walking again. If I didn’t vividly remember our kiss, I’d almost think she actually hates me. Even if she did, I could work with that. While she might be right that I have things to ask her, none of the questions are selfish in nature. Well, at least not entirely.
Following her through the tunnels, I admit, “I do have questions for you, but only about your breed of werewolf.”
Reaching the trap door that leads to her house, Hope barely spares me a glance before hopping up to open it. Using her fist, she basically punches the door, and it swings open with a loud thump. Her feet only touch the muddy floor for a moment before she jumps up again, this time grabbing on of the sides.
In an impressive move, I watch as Hope folds herself in half and almost somersaults into the opening. My entry is far less impressive, but my long limbs and strength keep me steady the whole way as I follow her.
“Whatever, ask away. But, no promises that I’ll answer,” she sighs as she plops into a chair.
The house is just as I remember, plus some new scratches and dents. Nothing is new, but everything has been taken care of. The furniture is well worn, seeming comfortable despite the expensive pieces. Taking a chair across from Hope, I discard my robes, and cross my legs.
“How does wolfsbane effect you?”
My question brings a laugh to the surface, Hope giving me a curious look, “Are you really asking me to tell you about my weaknesses? How stupid do you take me for, Riddle?”
My frown is twofold; I’m trying to help her yet she thinks I’m looking for ways to hurt her, and I realize just how long it’s been since I’ve heard her actually laugh. The first day I listened to her music and she showed me that wildly inappropriate song, that’s when she shocked me with her very own kind of music.
Hope doesn’t sound cute or delicate when she laughs, the sound lacking the poise that most women have practiced since childhood. No, Hope sounds free, alive, loud. Everything she should be, everything she deserves to be.
Shaking off my thoughts, “In this world, there is a potion to help our breed of werewolves get through the full moon. Obviously you’re different, meaning that various changes need to be made to the recipe, and wolfsbane is the most important ingredient. If the plant affects you in a completely different way, then that’s something I need to know.”
Hope freezes and her mouth barely opens as she stares at me. Then she starts blinking like I might suddenly disappear, as if I’m just a fragment of imagination. When she looks off to the side, her eyebrows scrunching together, and her teeth biting her lip, I wonder what exactly she’s debating.
“You…You want to help me?” she asks so quietly I almost don’t hear.
When her eyes find me again, I can’t decipher the emotion burning behind them, “I don’t want you to have to suffer like this every month. Isn’t being female enough of a burden as it is?”
I’m sure that her bones breaking is much more painful than cramps, but still. Having to bleed once a month to keep up fertility has terrorized most of the girls in Hogwarts since around their third years.
Most immature idiots would use girl’s cycles as cannon fodder, which only made charming the ladies that much easier. However, I don’t think bringing Hope chocolate every full moon will result in a blowie.
Watching Hope fight a smile warms my chest, it’s proof that I still effect her despite her efforts. I just need to build on that, create a foundation before the other vultures come into the picture.
“It burns me.”
It takes me a second to realize she isn’t referring to her cycle, she’s answering my original question, “Okay, does anything heal the effects?”
Hope still doesn’t look at me with trust, but she’s smart enough to weigh the pros and cons. It doesn’t take a genius to piece together that raw wolfsbane hurts werewolves, she hasn’t actually given me any information that I couldn’t have deduced on my own if I wanted to poison her.
“No, but in my world werewolves sometimes drink it to weaken them. It’s not pleasant and most definitely hurts. But, most aren’t lucky enough to have a spelled house, and getting out of restraints can end…badly,” she explains.
Nodding my head, I think about what she’s told me. Standing, I start pacing around the living room. The sun is setting, I don’t have much longer before I’ll have to go. If I make the potion, I’ll have to add some ingredients from a burn-healing paste.
The processed wolfsbane might not hurt her, but I’ll add it just to be safe. Her transition is obviously more intense than the werewolves here, so I’ll have to play with the potency. Hope will likely require more wolfsbane to stave off the breaking of her bones, but adding too much too soon will only hurt her.
“Why do you want to help me?” I hear her ask, pulling me from my planning.
When I turn to her, Hope seems almost…fragile. Whether it’s because of what’s about to happen or because of my offered help, I’m unsure. Either way, I move to kneel in front of her, making us eye level thanks to the chair she’s in.
Lightly grabbing one of her hands, I look deeply into her eyes, “Because, Hope, against every instinct I have, I care about you. More than I’d like. And, I always protect what’s mine.”