Redirection
“Who’s that?”
“Who’s who?’
“That woman in pink, beside the Headmaster.”
Harry looked up, following Hermione’s gaze, his eyes burned with recognition as Harry caught sight of her face as the woman in the fluffy, pink cardigan turned to take a sip out of her goblet. Her pallid, toadlike face had been burned into his head a while back. “She's that Dolores Umbridge woman” “Who?” Hermione asked, staring at Umbridge, eyes taking on a calculating glint.
“Dolores Umbridge, she works for Fudge, I saw her at my hearing.” Harry said, ignoring Ron’s sarcastic comment of ‘nice cardigan’.
“What on earth is she doing here then?”
“Dunno…”
Their attention shifted as the buzzing of the great hall quietened down, their focus shifting as Mcgonagall led a line of nervous first-years to the front of the staff table. The deputy headmistress set down a wooden stool, atop sat an ancient wizard’s hat. The rip near the sorting hat’s brim opened up and it burst into song.
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“Well, that was…uh, something?” Ron mumbled. Harry agreed. Usually, the sorting hat described each house’s qualities in song, never had it given advice before. An anxious-sounding Hermione spoke from beside him, “ I wonder if it has ever given warnings before?” Harry continued to think in silence, only looking up to watch the first years get sorted.
As everybody in the hall finished up their meal, the buzzing in the great hall picked up again, only to cease immediately as Dumbledore stood up to address the school. “Well, now that we are all digesting another feast, I beg for your attention for the start-of-term notices.” Dumbledore began and everybody listened in rapt attention.
The great hall was relatively quiet, save for the unenthusiastic but polite clapping when Umbridge was announced as the new Defence Against The Dark Arts professor. The headmaster was soon finishing up his speech
“Tryouts for the house Quidditch teams will take place on the-”
“Hem, hem,”
Heads turned as Umbridge cleared her throat, standing beside a taken-aback Dumbledore. After a moment, the headmaster sat down, giving the toadlike woman his attention, waiting for her to speak. No new teacher had interrupted Dumbledore before, Mcgonagall, especially, looked at Umbridge disapprovingly, lips pressed into a thin line. Umbridge, unphased by the many disapproving looks she got, looked around the hall with a sickly sweet smile.
“Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome.” she simpered, her voice high-pitched. Harry thought she was more screeching than speaking. The woman cleared her throat again. “It is lovely to be back at Hogwarts and to see such happy little faces looking up at me!”
Harry had to hold back a scoff as he glanced around the hall filled with rather unhappy-looking students. Umbridge cleared her throat again -how many times is she going to do this?- her voice taking on a more serious edge as she spoke “ The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare-”
Harry tuned out her shrill voice as he stared absently at the table. Harry didn’t like this Umbridge woman, and judging by the many frowning faces around him, not many people did. Maybe Umbridge was just another ministry official, yet Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. There goes his plans for a normal school year.
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Harry zoned out in the safety of his four-poster bed in his dorm room, lying on his back. He tried to focus on anything else other than the mysterious boy he saw in his dreams-surely Umbridge’s presence at Hogwarts was something to think about- but no, not with the sudden appearance of a strange boy in his slumber.
It was weird, honestly, he hadn’t had such dreams in the past, sure he got glimpses into Voldemort’s mind -which always ended in a terrible migraine- every once in a while but never could he see into the past. Was it the past? Or was it his weird connection with an insane dark lord messing with his sanity? Harry couldn’t lie to himself, he was intrigued by the boy with hair so platinum it could rival Malfoy’s. What was his name? Did he attend Hogwarts? Most importantly, what was his connection to 9-year-old Voldemort?
Surely anybody with such personal connections to the dark lord could only spell trouble? Harry wanted to know. He understood a bit how Hermione felt at that moment. Maybe, he’d dream about the boy again and learn more about him.
And dream he did.
“Tom, look! It’s snowing!” London was covered in a soft blanket of white, as glittering snowflakes fell from the sky. The falling snow made everything appear duller than before. All the flowers in the orphanage’s yard had succumbed to the frosty season and withered away, at least Tom was no longer forced to do any more yard work.
“I think we should head back, we’re not supposed to be out. Mrs Cole will punish us if we’re caught.” Tom said, yet making no move to leave his spot behind behind an evergreen tree. Wool’s looked dreadful every day of the year, but just a few blocks behind the soulless building was an evergreen forest. Though most of the sea of trees had been destroyed in the unforgiving wake of war, Tom still found the place peaceful.
He visited the forest often to read and get away from the chaos in the orphanage as none of the children were allowed there. Just a month ago Tom had brought a certain green-eyed boy there. It was weird, The taller boy would have been angry if any of the other children had infiltrated his place of serenity, but Anastasius was the exception, Tom had decided the moment they first sat together near a fairly large tree.
Tom could feel the icy breeze, like sharp razors gently grazing his face, stinging his cheeks and leaving behind a cooling numbness, he shifted in place, hands finding warmth in the pockets of his coat, he hadn’t saved enough for a pair of gloves yet. He watched as his friend- they were friends, weren’t they?- tried to catch the glistening snowflakes falling from the sky, not a care in the world. Tom noted his face, nose red and cheeks tinged a lovely pink from the subzero climate. The boy’s bare hands waving around, cold and rigid from the freezing temperature. Tom wanted to hold them, warm them with his body heat, he didn’t know where that thought had come from, but Tom had already come to terms with it about a minute ago.
He should probably drag the boy back inside, lest the poor thing gets frostbite.