Chapter 34
February 20th, 1944
Tom
Swirling my goblet of wine under my nose, I happily take in the delicate bouquet of ripe cherry, oak, plum, and a hint of orange— all pilfered from the Malfoy wine cellar. Good alcohol is one of the main benefits of keeping rich people around. The firewhiskey I can afford myself tastes more like dragon farts than anything worth tasting.
Our hidden meeting space is as it always is, lit by various candles that don’t quite warm the ancient dungeon. Shadows writhe across the walls, wraiths exalting in tonight’s agenda. The scent of wine, rich mahogany wood, burning wax, and the ever present musk from dust and decay fills the room, relaxing any errant nerves I might have. Taking a slow sip while leaning back, I let the complex notes bloom on my tongue, allowing myself to thoroughly enjoy the calm before the storm.
“Today, we celebrate, lads,” I announce, my voice smooth as it carries over the low murmur of conversation. “After tonight, our group will become even more powerful.”
A chorus of cheers erupts, goblets clinking, the metallic ring echoing through the space with a satisfying harmony. Each of my current Knights seeming relieved at the lack of estrogen in the room, some slapping the table, others smirk over their drinks. However, the energy is one of anticipation, a hunger for more power and violence. Simply because Hope is not present for this meeting, doesn’t mean she doesn’t know everything. This is all by design.
“Did you acquire a dark object or instructions to a ritual, my Lord?” Dolohov asks with a skeptically arched brow. There’s still an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone, a sharp edge that hasn’t dulled since the night of the Boggart.
Lestrange chuckles, resting his forearms against the table, “If it’s another summoning, may someone else be in charge of wrangling the creature. It took three showers to get all the snake scales off me.”
“You’re lucky it was just scales,” Black snorts with an arrogant smile. “Covering the thing’s eyes was practically a suicide mission, that Basilisk nearly bit my arm off!”
Shrugging, I let my smile stretch a little further, let them wonder, let them squirm with curiosity, “Something along those lines. Which is why I’ve liberated these bottles from Armond’s private stores.”
Laughter ripples through the group, and I catch some collective tension dispelling. Whether there were worries that I would announce what I wanted to before Boggart Hope changed my plans, or that someone might be punished for the very blatant attempts to undermine my relationship— I don’t need to use Legilimency to feel a lightness enter the room. While she is already my Queen, our Knights haven’t learned her new station. That information will still be useful in figuring out who is worthy to stay, just not at this moment.
“Now that, I can toast to,” Abraxas says with a snicker, lifting his silver chalice in the air. His grin is easy, confident, and only adds to the quickly relaxing atmosphere.
Following suit, I lift my own into the air, my voice rich with amusement and certainty.
“Here’s to our future triumphs!”
The sound of clinking glasses is like music to my ears, and I take a hearty sip, enjoying the earthy taste as it glides down my throat. With my permission, conversations continue, only this time louder. Watching is entertaining enough, I rarely feel the need to partake with the drivel, always preferring to set myself apart. With Hope by my side, perhaps things will be different.
Occasionally, when we muse of the future, I get the sense that she foresees something almost resembling a family. Even if each member is not included as closely as the others, my bride ruminates on a compound where everyone important to us can live. Caring for one another, spending ample time with them outside of simply working toward a shared mission. If we continue calling our underlings Knights, as far as she’s concerned, we might as well include a round table for the lot of us.
After only mere moments, the first person begins to slur their words. Avery frowns at his drink, swaying in his seat like a slow metronome. More soon join, while the rest become wary with scattered glances. I stay calm, my smile never wavering, yet Malfoy pretends to be as unsure as those around him.
Especially when Dolohov drops his goblet on the floor with a loud clang, opening his mouth to say something, but his eyes roll into the back of his head. Then, his face hits the table, possibly hard enough to bruise. Black follows suit, slumping against his chair with an open mouth— as does Lestrange, Crabbe, Goyle, and everyone who we wish to discuss the future with.
In the end, only five heads remain upright; Callum Nott, Cassius Selwyn, Solomon Burke, Abraxas, and myself. We are barely affected by the small amount of wine we have each taken in, however those currently asleep have been dosed with a powerful sleep potion, one that will last until they wake up for classes tomorrow morning. By then, things will have changed.
“Gentlemen, each of you will be afforded an option,” I casually tell those anxiously waiting to learn what on earth I’m doing, ignoring the gentle snoring all around us. “Two facts have become apparent thanks to various forms of magic, the more important being a glimpse into the future— our futures. While I could not care less for your personal predilections, it seems that blood supremacy as a goal will only lead to disastrous results.
“Not only do we lose in our endeavors, but we turn into unrecognizable wizards. Your lineages suffer immensely in every way other than monetarily, all based on a belief that I’ve learned opposes logic and testing. Who each of you marry is your decision, I could not care less where you wet your wick. That being said, things will be changing starting tomorrow. Now, further entry will be based on talent and skills instead of blood status. If anyone here is against this, speak now and you will not be punished.”
This isn’t sentimentality— it’s strategy. The old ways breed stagnation, Hope explained the scientific advancements those in her world have achieved. After her explanation, I am no longer shocked that I, a Halfblood born to an ancient Pureblood family, am the most powerful person in generations. If I want to collect impressive witches and wizards, then genetic diversity now seems to be a must. I will not lose to fools clinging to outdated superiority.
Power bows to those who seize it, those strong enough to seek it, not those who merely inherit it. Sure, some Pureblooded witches and wizards are powerful in our generation, however none compare to me. Once I set my sights on class rankings instead of family lineage, all I found was proof that other blood statuses perform just as well as those belonging to the Sacred Twenty Eight. Even without taking into account the various tutors and general upper hand afforded to those in high society, Halfbloods and Muggleborns names appear next to, below, and above those with recognizable sir names.
“Might I inquire on how you came about this information?” Callum Nott asks nervously. Despite his hands resting beneath the table, I can tell he’s fidgeting.
My relaxed countenance continues, the exact opposite of how my conscious followers are acting, “Using a magic-embed looking glass. Only one request was permitted, and I decided to look into our collective futures.”
While this might be a lie, it is necessary to protect Hope. There are enough targets on her back, and allowing more to learn about her access to what will happen in this world can only bring about more danger. Thankfully, Nott’s chocolate curls bounce as he accepts my explanation, confusion and awe swirling in his amber eyes. Solomon Burke, the nephew of the cofounder of Borgin and Burke’s, is the next to voice his concerns.
“You…So now, we are expected to incorporate Mudbloods into our ranks? Work with them side by side, as if we are equals?” the incredulous tone shining through.
“You are being given the option,” I stress carefully, meeting his gaze confidently. “If you find serving alongside powerful people based on the families they were born into, you are more than welcome to decline the offer.”
Malfoy’s troubled voice breaks through the slowly building tension, “If we do decline?”
“Then you will join the rest; Obliviated to never remember just how dangerous and ambitious my following is. You’ll return to your lives separate from the magic and power I will amass, rendered to be onlookers instead of sharing the spoils,” I explain simply.
Cassius Selwyn disturbs the silence that falls after my words, “What is the second fact?”
“I am glad you bring that up,” I lilt with a genuine smile, looking each man in the eye before continuing. “Hope Mikaelson is the Queen to my King. She will rule by my side, and each of my followers will belong to her just as much as me.”
“How can that be?” Burke asks with disgust. “Is being your wife not enough for her? Why cow to her magic instead of taking it for yourself?”
My jovial expression promptly leaves, and my eyes turn red as my voice drops, “At one time, I would have agreed with you, however I now see how ignorant that stance to be. While you may only see witches as ornaments meant for breeding, I have come to realize that the fairer sex is also the blueprint for humanity, for success. It seems that we are the beings formed simply for passing on genetics, instead of the other way around as we were taught. This oversight will also be rectified, so if working along side witches is too much, say so now.”
Seconds tick by as the men around the table debate internally. Just as planned, Malfoy is the first to conclude, “I suppose if the goal is to become the most powerful group in England, then my pride is something I will have to overcome. Mikaelson is beyond talented from what I’ve seen; if this is the route you believe we should take, then so be it.”
Malfoy’s words settle over the table like a declaration, cutting through the tension with the finality of a blade. The others remain still, their expressions warring between resistance and calculation.
Burke clenches his jaw, fingers drumming against the polished wood, muttering, “This is a mistake.”
There’s conviction in his tone—more than I like. His uncle would disapprove, his entire family would, really. Bigotry is so deeply ingrained into that family, one of his ancestors is still hanging in a portrait in the common room. Elizabeth Burke may have been a prized Headmistress once upon a time, however even I have too much Muggle in me for her tastes.
Nott, on the other hand, exhales sharply through his nose, his shoulders stiff. “I don’t like it,” he admits, his voice a fraction above a whisper. “However, I’d rather be on the side that wins than the one I am most comfortable with.”
“You’re sure that our current path leads to our destruction?” Selwyn asks, continuing after I nod my confirmation. “Well, then I suppose change is the only way forward. Lest our descendants lose everything we are working so hard to achieve.”
“Unless a skirt leads us to ruin before our descendants can even be born,” Burke grumbles, his surly attitude grating on my nerves. “How are you so sure that this is the best way forward?”
Letting his question hang in the air for a moment, I take a long sip of wine. Swirling it around while I smack my lips together, setting it down with enough force to startle those already awake, “If you no longer have confidence in my ability to lead, you are more than welcome to join the rest of the table.”
Heavily gulping, Burke lowers his gaze and leans back against his chair. Nott takes the opportunity to lighten the mood, “I for one am in the mood for some good change. Will we still be Knights of Walpurgis? If not, I do believe I can come up with an equally good knighthood to belong to.”
“Surely, there will be options to discuss once the new group is formed. That will allow you plenty of time to form a list, Nott,” Abraxas says with the ghost of a smile.
Selwyn takes another sip of his wine, smirking into the goblet, “If our last vote resulted in Tom’s choice, something tells me this time will go similarly.”
“Gentlemen,” I interrupt, standing from my seat. “I believe enough time has passed. What have you decided?”
******
Tom
Cracking my neck, I roll my shoulders in preparation. While I am more adept than most in nearly all things magical, I truly should take a break after how taxing so much Oblivation is. Despite being tedious work, it was well worth it. Now, my following has officially been whittled down, the new outsiders believing they’ve created their own group of mischief makers. Not one talented enough to get away with a Basilisk, however one that has done some of the lesser terrible deeds I’ve instructed them to carry out. Only, I’ve completely taken myself and my current following out of the equation.
“The door is ready? Are we late?” Malfoy asks, interrupting my thoughts.
Looking up, I find the Room of Requirement has already been summoned in the otherwise abandoned hall, “No, Hope is aware of our itinerary for the day. Being late implies that we were expected at a certain time, we are merely meant to arrive when we can.”
A sigh of relief escapes Abraxas, the only sound in the space, “Thank the Heavens. Well, shall we?”
Opening the door, sound immediately assaults my ears. The room that usually has a bed of some form or a bar has been turned into none other than a training room. A dummy explodes as I enter the room, feathers and fluff falling like snow while shouts erupt from the various teenagers.
“Did you see that? Hit it right on the bullseye!” Mary exclaims while spinning with her wand in the air.
“Great form,” Eithne compliments, wearing a brilliant smile. “Now, why don’t we focus on the speed of your casting.”
“Tom and Abraxas!” Hope yells from the side lines.
Turning to her, I cannot help but laugh at the sight in front of me. There are various large cushions laid out on the floor, one of them is supporting my lovely fiancee who has her dear friend in a rather elaborate choke hold. On the ground with her legs wrapped all around Mr. Potts, a lesser wizard might assume them to be in a passionate moment.
However, based on the extremely uncomfortable look on the would-be paramour’s face, torture seems a more apt descriptor for their current activity. When Anthony taps Hope’s leg in quick succession, she releases her hold on him— doing a backwards somersault, only to stand in one fluid motion. Meeting her approach halfway, I catch my girl when she jumps into my arms, spinning her around while chuckling at her antics.
“Hello, my Darling. I see training is going well,” I say before setting her down and kissing her forehead.
“You have no idea!” she shouts, her excitement contagious. “Eithne is far better at dueling than she let on, she almost hit me when we fought each other. Now, she’s teaching Mary everything she knows.”
“Truly?” Abraxas asks in surprise.
Hope turns her radiant expression towards him, “Yes! You’ll have to go up against her to see what I mean. Once she tires Mary out for the day, that is.”
“And what did Anthony do to earn such a beating?” I ask with a cheeky grin.
“I can hear you!” he yells in answer, slowly climbing back to his feet from where Hope left him. “It is not my fault that hand to hand combat is frowned upon in high society. I’m a complete novice while she’s been training her whole life.”
Rolling up my sleeves, I simply retort, “Then I suppose you’d have no objections to me issuing a challenge.”
An unsure expression takes over his face while he rubs the back of his head, “Magical or sparring?”
My lips quirk up at his hesitance, “Sparring. I am fairly magically drained, after all.”
“Right, how did your meeting go?” Hope asks with a touch of worry entering her countenance.
“Everything is fine, I promise,” I tell her, hoping to assuage the worst of her fears. “Burke is the only one that decided to abdicate his position, something I assumed might happen. However, Abraxas did a masterful job of pretending to not be in the know. With him paving the way, Nott and Selwyn followed with only the briefest hesitations.”
A smile takes over her features, and Hope turns to Malfoy, “Thank you. I know how difficult all this must be for both of you, and I really appreciate everything you are doing.”
“It isn’t entirely selfless, I’d rather not live in the future you’ve detailed. I believe my fearless leader is much more pleasant to look at with a nose,” Abraxas snickers with a quiet chuckle.
I watch Hope’s lips quirk in amusement while I roll my eyes, but Anthony cracking his knuckles steals my attention, “Alright lover boy, let’s get this going. At least I have a chance against you.”
“You had a chance against me!” Hope shouts playfully. “I’m just a girl, you know.”
“Hope, you are as much ‘just a girl,’ as I am,” Anthony replies, sending an irritated expression her way. “If you continue lying about your strength, I’ll hex you, I swear.”
“While I normally would gut someone for threatening Hope in such a way, that particular challenge might be entertaining. Whether with her admitting how strong she truly is, or from her kicking your arse some more,” I laugh while shaking my head fondly at the image.
Fire enters his gaze, and Potts points at me dramatically, “Those are fighting words, Riddle. Let’s get this started.”
Then he turns, walking with more determination than swagger for once. With a shrug, I follow his lead, ensuring that my sleeves won’t come loose during the brawl. Hope follows, fidgeting anxiously with a smile on her face, but thankfully Malfoy moves to Mary and Eithne’s exploding corner. Once on the mat, I notice that Anthony is only wearing socks. Taking my shoes off takes only a moment, then we face-off, circling each other.
While I might be thoroughly amused, he seems like he might have something to prove. Which would explain the predictable punch he sends my way. No one trained me, however I’m confident I’ve been in more fights than this Pureblood, especially with him being in Ravenclaw. A quick side step causes him to pass me by with momentum, and a backwards kick lands successfully. Turning around, I find my opponent off kilter for a moment, sending me a playful smile once he’s stable again.
Then it’s my turn to attack, throwing a fist his way, but only managing to graze an arm. Trading punches and kicks, we work ourselves up into a flury of movement, and it feels…nice. My blood is pumping, adrenaline coursing through my veins, and each blow I land sends a thrill through me. Even the hits I take make me feel more alive, in a different way than magic, however the effect is just as satisfying.
After a few minutes, fatigue creeps into my system, and I decide enough fun is enough. The next punch Anthony throws my way, I avoid it while stepping towards him, using the opportunity to position a leg behind his. A simple push sends the boy falling backwards, landing with a thud on his rump before I flip him onto his stomach. Grabbing a leg and the opposite arm, I sit on his back while playing with his flexibility.
“Hey! Hop off!” Potts exclaims, struggling beneath me.
Hope’s chuckling pulls my focus, and I watch her shoulders lightly shake as she hides her mouth behind a hand. When she opens her eyes, my darkened gaze meets her crystalline blue. Ever since my birthday, when she gifted me a journal with my chosen name on it, my heart skips a beat when our eyes meet. A sensation I used to scoff at, the very idea far beyond ridiculous. Now, after just a couple months, it feels so familiar, something I would miss if it were to disappear.
“…fat arse off of me!” he shouts, pulling me from my daze.
Rolling my eyes, I stand only to turn and offer the boy my hand, “Come off it, I was simply enjoying my win.”
“Right, I’m sure,” he grumbles as he takes my hand and climbs to his feet, lightly glaring while he pointedly looks between me and Hope. “Then it must be a coincidence that there’s a blushing bride on the side lines.”
Huffing in faux irritation, I look to appreciate the blush in question, allowing my lips to quirk upwards, “Simply because you wish to spare Ms. Thomas from the dangers of this fledgling group does not mean that you can begrudge those without such reservations. Or is it Hope’s status as my fiancee that has you so sullen?”
This time, Anthony is the one to blush. Red quickly spreads across his cheeks and down his neck, his glare gaining some venom, “Regardless, lounging on my back is not on the schedule for today.”
“You do realize that only one question stands between you and getting a ring on her finger, correct?” I taunt jovially.
Shaking hands like good sports after a fight, Anthony sends a longing look off to the side, “I understand, however my Mother is rather…traditional. Our letters have been filled with arguments, she refuses to give me her ring.”
“That’s frustrating,” I sigh, ignoring the confusion that fills me at his sudden admission. Which makes me feel both a pang in my chest and lucky that I no longer have to concern myself with that worry. “Are you unable to buy one yourself?”
Running a hand through his shaggy hair, making it stick up in odd places, “Taylor knows about my family ring, that is the one she’s expecting. My family is not like Malfoy’s, we are considered what Hope calls ‘new money.’ Over many generations, my ancestors fought their way into relevance, and my parents’ marriage was arranged. She was born a Black, and taught to despise while my Father was brought up to be understanding of other’s circumstances.
“I don’t…I cannot find a way for her to understand that we are a family of Purebloods only because of the desire to marry advantageously. However, we no longer need to do so, our family has amassed enough wealth and influence. There is nothing beyond our reach, so I don’t understand why marrying for love is such a terrible thing.”
“To people with such beliefs, anyone less than ‘Pure’ is simply unacceptable. Believe me, I’ve met my share of traditional Purebloods,” I tell him, clapping a hand on his shoulder for a second. “If your Father is understanding, perhaps ask for his advice. Otherwise, I could recommend a good enchanter for you.”
That earns me a grin, and I swallow my growing ire for his mother in favor of sharing his expression. Moving to Hope’s side, I throw an arm around her shoulder as the three of us move to watch Malfoy dueling Sayre. As my favorite follower, Abraxas has received ample training in both defensive and offensive maneuvers that Hogwarts does not teach.
Yet, here he is, struggling against a younger witch. That is not an insult to him, but an immense compliment to her. Eithne moves with a singular focus, her body lithe and elegant as she beautifully casts in quick succession. He blocks nearly everything, redirecting what he cannot, but Malfoy is definitively on the defensive.
“Hope, can you show me some more moves? I want to learn how to flip someone,” Mary asks with a fiendish grin.
She snorts and lightly kisses my check before exiting my grip, “Sure, I can do that. You know, before I left I was working on perfecting the flying-neck-scissor-choke-takedown. If you want, you can work your way up and then we can practice it together.”
“I have no idea what that is, but bloody hell do I want to learn how to do it,” Mary replies, walking back to the mats.
Hope accompanies her, and I watch my witch walk away in the tights she calls ‘leggings.’ Despite how entertaining Miss Sayre’s skills are, I still find myself distracted.
“I understand that your loyalties lie with Hope,” Anthony suddenly says, pulling my attention away from swaying hips. “However, if we are all focused on her well being, then we may as well consider our teams merged.”
Looking at him seriously, I consider his words, “You and Mary are very protective of her, however I cannot say I understand why. Hope is more than worthy of such friendships, I simply fail to see how you two benefit.”
“Which is fair, I suppose,” he shrugs, glancing Mary who is trying to flip Hope. “One similarity between our houses is the academic competitiveness. While my housemates are not outwardly ambitious, there is still the need to be the best after our Hogwarts careers. By our ages, there is so much subtext to every interaction, plans for decades from now quietly lying in between the lines.
“Hope is the exact opposite, in every way. By simply existing, without trying, she’s going to change our world. I’ve known that since she first exhibited her gifts in Defense class, when wandless magic was effortless for her yet all she did was make her classmates laugh. She has limitless power as far as I’m concerned, yet all she wants for now is a quiet life where her and those close to her are safe. Someone like her…I want to be by their side.”
A seemingly simple sentiment somehow feels profound. I’ve thought similar things, that her restraint that day is commendable and her abilities go above and beyond my wildest dreams. Those things lead me to a similar conclusion, which is why Hope and I are currently together. The suspicious and jealous set of my features make him break out into laughter before I can think further down that path.
“Not romantically, no she’s a beaut, but far too complex for my plate. My love for her is the same as my love for Mary— sibling like and completely platonic. Taylor is my dream girl, always has been,” he continues once he regains his composure.
“As long as that’s true, I have no issue allying with you nor the others. Well, that and a promise to continue practicing your fighting skills,” I respond with a half smirk.
He lightly punches my shoulder, an action I would have once punished severely, yet I feel the comradery behind the action. It…it feels nice. Due to my upbringing, ‘friendship’ is a concept I gave up on after bullying continued so at Hogwarts. There always turned out to be a reason to single me out, to cast me from the herd. For the first time, that seems to be a failing of my house more than the wizarding world in general.
Opening myself to Hope was a necessary gamble, one that has resulted in my desired future, however there have been so many unexpected results. Whenever the change grates against my nerves, I always remember the vision of myself from Hope’s memories; the ugly, decaying, shadow of a being. Continuing to revel in loneliness would slowly destroy me over the decades. If she remembers the timeline more or less correctly, I wouldn’t collectively live as long as many wizards currently alive— the antitheses to my objectives.
While I don’t have a promise that my deviations will result in a successful path, I do have a promise they will result in a life with Hope. One that will likely be very long, if the life spans of her family are any judge. Whatever our future turns out to be, the ‘our’ is the important part, the part I’ll fight for.
****
February 23rd, 1944
Hope
Steam rises from my tea, steeped to perfection, tasting perfectly malty and spicy. I watch my counter part cooling his own cup, being careful of his orange robes that remind me so much of sunsets. Small talk only lasted us until the tea was poured, our last encounter souring what should be a relaxing break from school. Dumbledore doesn’t exude any awkwardness somehow, his expression as unreadable as ever.
“So, I noticed you haven’t touched the paints,” he says lightly, his blue eyes twinkling over the rim of his cup.
I lower my mug, glancing at the corner of his office where a neat, wooden case of painting supplies sits untouched. The Christmas present I refuse to sneak into the dorms, deigning to leave them in the safety of his office, far away from any judgmental eyes. Knowing that I’m about as cherished as Harry Potter would be, I’m far too suspicious of the very expensive paint set he shipped from America. Filled with the best acrylic and oil paints, multiple canvases of varying sizes, pallets, brushes of every size, and even a smock with my name embroidered on it.
“I’ve been busy,” I respond simply with a shrug.
“A fair excuse,” Dumbledore muses, stirring a cube of sugar into his tea. “And yet, I wonder—does the busyness come from external demands or internal hesitation?”
Huffing a soft laugh, I shake my head in disbelief. How is he the one accusing me of anything? “Are we really doing this? I came for tea, not to be psychoanalyzed.”
“My dear girl, with tea comes conversation. And with conversation, well… sometimes insights find their way in,” his merry attitude is just as it always is. Grating on my nerves today.
I lean back, stretching my legs out under the chair, “Alright, then let’s talk insights. Since we’re being honest, Professor, how long have you planned to use me as a pawn? Did it start when I showed you my memories, or after Riddle first took an interest in me?”
Dumbledore pauses, mid-stir, before placing his spoon down with precise care. Ensuring only the smallest clink before clucking, “Ah. A bold accusation— although not an unfair one.”
“You don’t even deny it,” I mutter, crossing my arms and glaring at the man who supposedly offered me help.
“I find honesty to be the least burdensome path,” he replies, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. “But tell me, how exactly do you believe I am using you?”
Scoffing, I meet his gaze, unwavering, “Grindelwald’s men came after me, and you might not have expected it, but you knew there was a strong possibility. That, and how you’ve pushed me towards the Slytherins. Did you assume that my goodness would rub off on them, or was the idea that the lure of my magic would be enough to sway them to my morals?”
Dumbledore considers my words, nodding slightly after a moment, “I would say rather that you are a ripple in a pond, Miss Mikaelson. One that disturbs the stillness in ways we are only beginning to understand.”
“A ripple that happens to be conveniently placed between two of the most powerful dark wizards in history. Taking the brunt of the work and worry off your shoulders, if they’re too busy focusing on me rather than the mayhem that would happen in my absence,” I counter dryly, my expression suspective.
“Convenience is often mistaken for fate,” he murmurs, peering at me with a depth that makes my stomach turn. “Yet, is it not true that you make your own choices, regardless of my presence?”
Crossing my arms, I allow my features to take on a dubious set. It isn’t like he denied using me, so why continue to be so vague? All these half truths and leading metaphors make me want to scream while punching the old man.
“You’re good at this,” I say after a brief pause, dropping my gaze to my cup as I take a long sip.
“At what?”
Looking back at Dumbledore, I keep his eye contact as I state, “At leading me to feel like I’m in control when I’m really just playing into your plans anyway.”
He chuckles softly, eyes crinkling at the edges, “Ah, but therein lies the beauty of free will, my dear. You are not a pawn, a knight, nor a queen. You are yet another player. And that, I daresay, is what truly terrifies those who wish to control the board.”
Lifting his cup, he winks at me before drinking. Rubbing my temples, I can’t look at him when I ask, “Why?”
“As I have stated before,” he tells me with a deep sigh. Thankfully, he understands that I’m not questioning his latest analogy, “You are a very remarkable young woman. One with great power, however your restraint and kindness are the true gems of your character. My opinion that someone like you would only better the castle has seemed to turn out well, as I imagine you’ve come to realize.”
I exhale roughly, rolling my eyes but unable to keep the hint of dry amusement from my voice, “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Perish the thought,” Dumbledore teases, taking a leisurely sip of his tea. “As for my old friend, I do not expect the minnow to overcome the carp— regardless of how inaccurate that may be in your case. You likely already know what is meant to happen, and my goal is merely to distract his rather…pernicious appetite while I seek out a solution to my problem.”
Sorting through his story, I try to remember how and when he defeats Grindlewald. While I saw the Fantastic Beasts movies, appreciating them for what they were, I cannot say that I remember them as well as the main series. There was a reason why Dumbledore couldn’t win right away, something holding him back.
A lesser witch might assume it’s the romantic history between the two, but sentimentality isn’t something the wizard across from me would become so afflicted with. Not someone who looks at life as a game, regardless of if he sees others as chess pieces or players.
“When I came here, I told you what I want in life,” I state, unsure of how to feel at the moment. “So, why does it feel like you’re sabotaging me at every turn?”
That makes him let out a long breath, shaking his head in displeasure, “Wanting is part of being human. We all want for something, usually for things out of our grasp or control. Accepting that not everything is within our reach is part of growing up, unfortunately. A lesson I am still learning, even in my established age.”
The longing stare he sends out a window could be easily dismissed, but I know more about his life than most in this world. Even I want to discount him initially, yet I can’t help but feel that he’s being genuine. More so than I’ve witnessed in the past.
Tilting my head to the side, I think out loud. Unable to fully keep the ire from my tone, “So, after meeting me, you knew I likely wouldn’t find the life I’m looking for. When a hero plopped into your lap, showing you the future, without one for her own— you quickly found a reason to keep me around.
“Once my presence proved useful against one potential enemy, you offered the orphan girl some semblance of a family. Exploiting the faux relation to attract Grindelwald, much like a drop of blood in the water to attract a shark.”
“You certainly are a brilliant student,” he hums, meeting my gaze with an almost open expression. “While my actions may be unseemly to most, my intentions have always been to leave this world a better place.”
“For the greater good,” I quietly recite.
My hands tighten into fists beneath the table, but my anger quickly burns out. Like a pile of hay set aflame, I feel a moment of pure rage, and then there’s nothing but smoke. No matter how much I want to stay in the fiery emotions, how my body screams at me to fight back, the urge dissipates far too soon. I can be upset all I want at being part of another game I never asked to play, but being angry at a tiger for having stripes?
That would probably turn out to be a terrible waste of time. In reality, I’m the foolish one. Even after knowing the story, understanding how the man across from me would use even his own death as a bargaining chip, why wouldn’t he use me? My feelings on the matter are just as important as the boy who lived, the one who hasn’t even been born yet.
Being exhausted about my lot in life doesn’t make me special, even if the specific circumstances do. I am not the first, or the last, person to be upset about being used for something bigger than myself. The only thing I can do is take the pieces of what I know, and craft the best life I can. Who knows what will happen with me in this world, the likelihood of me needing Dumbledore and his influence for something one day is high.
Turning to the paints again, my lips pressing together into an accepting frown, “Maybe I’ll use them soon, when things settle down.”
Dumbledore hums, “Art is not for when the storm has passed, Miss Mikaelson. It is for when the winds howl the loudest.”
I don’t answer, only watching the candlelight flicker in his office. A quiet part of me knows I’ll pick up the brush sooner than I expect, detailing the history of my family has made me pretty home sick. Painting always reminds me of my Father, his familiar, phantom presence seeming to hang over my shoulder as my brush decorates a canvas. But for now, I finish my tea, and Dumbledore—whether manipulator or mentor—lets the conversation drift into silence.