nails
You watch as tears drip from your nose, falling out of sight hundreds of meters below- you wonder if it’s cold enough for them to freeze before they hit the ground. You wrap your cloak tighter around yourself, the frigid wind crawling under your skin. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting in this tower- it’s past sunset, so a while, you suppose.
Who are you? What are you? The headmaster said there was something dark growing inside you. You can’t get the violent scene out of your head, the wild cries of fear that echoed through the classroom, the terrified expression on McGonagall’s face- you did that. You didn’t even think before those slippers transformed. Did you? Did you think, but you’re just crazy enough to convince yourself otherwise? You must be- the nightmares, the visions, your abilities- there’s something wrong with you, something violent and sick lurking underneath the surface. What if you’re just as bad as Voldemort? The faceless man, his cold grip, the screaming, the tiara- it has to all be connected, somehow.
Something slowly grows warm in your back pocket. Furrowing your eyebrows, you pull out the crystal Dumbledore gifted you weeks ago. He hasn’t used it since, but you’ve made a habit of carrying it around just in case. You grasp onto the heat, letting it seep into your fingertips. Headmaster’s Tower- URGENT is scrawled across the white stone in gold lettering.
You wipe your face on your sleeve, standing shakily and leaning your hip on the barrier. You keep your eyes focussed on the crystal. Maybe he’ll send you away to start over, like McGonagall wanted, or to Azkaban; it would certainly be safer for everyone else-
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Fuck!” you curse, jumping. The crystal falls out of your hands, and you watch as it clatters to the ground, rolling to a familiar pair of combat boots. Sirius bends down, scoops it up, and inspects it. You flick your eyes back to his shoes.
“Didn’t know you believed in crystals.”
You swallow thickly. “I don’t.”
“It’s howlite, I think. Supposed to help with clarity, being grounded. Other divination stuff.”
You’re not sure how to respond, so you don’t- you just tuck your hands under your armpits and try not to puke.
“I think they need you at the headmaster’s tower,” he says, softer. Sirius takes a step forward and holds the stone out for you.
“Thanks,” you murmur, grabbing it and tucking it away. You can’t look at him- so you turn to focus on the rising moon instead. “How’d you get the Room of Requirement to change?” you blurt out.
Sirius raises an eyebrow at you, but he plays along. “I just thought about how you needed a place to rest when I was in front of the door. Which I doubt you did rest- you look half-dead.”
You’re, again, lost for words. “That howlite hasn’t done shite,” you finally mutter, a forced lilt in your tone.
Sirius exhales through his nose, giving you a conflicted look. “Let me walk you to Dumbledore’s. You must be freezing-”
“I’m fine,” you cut him off, shaking your head forcefully. There’s a beat of silence. “I’m so sorry,” you croak, feeling your eyes start to water again. You curse yourself, wiping your nose. You feel pitiful.
“You didn’t make a murderous rabbit on purpose,” Sirius replies, walking forward to lean against the bannister with you. There’s a thin layer of sarcasm over his voice, attempting to cushion the tension. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him staring down at the lake. “At least, I think you didn’t. That would be a bit too far, and that’s coming from me.”
You let out an involuntary scoff, running your hands through your hair and squeezing your eyes shut. “No. That wasn’t on purpose. But I wasn’t talking about that- well, not just that- I’m sorry. For everything. I didn’t mean anything I said in the hospital wing.” It spills out of your mouth before you can debate the words. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t like this. I just…”
Sirius stays quiet for a moment. You can see his jaw clench in your peripheral vision. You wish you could hold his cheek and feel the muscle move in your palm. “We’ve both said shitty things to each other.”
Tears freely stream down your face. A sad smile twitches on your lips, his words only making your guilt thicker. “No. You don’t get it. You can’t. I really wish you could.”
“‘You wish’- why can’t I?” Sirius says, a hint of frustration peeking out in his tone as he turns to face you. “Why can’t you just tell me? Is letting me… know you, is it that hard? ‘Cause I know you’re not that bloody awful- so, am I? Godric, this is pathetic- forget it, I don’t know why I’m even here-” he lets out a humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s gripping the balcony tight, his knuckles ruddy in the cold- he lets go, moving away. You take a deep breath, steel yourself, and look at his eyes.
“Stay. Please,” you firmly state. He freezes. His gaze roams your expression, his dark brows furrowed in anger and confusion. You clear your throat. “Sirius, I need you to listen to me.”
“I am.”
“No,” you mutter, grabbing his hand suddenly- he blinks in surprise, but doesn’t pull away. His skin is jarringly cold. “Really listen. I… you can’t know. You can get hurt, really hurt, and I would never forgive myself if something happened-”
The frustration in his eyes slips away, leaving a pale, bewildered expression. “What are you-”
“No, Sirius,” you firmly state, squeezing his fingers. “Just don’t ask questions. The less you know, the better. I know I sound ridiculous, but- maybe it’ll be different in a little while- I hope it will. I don’t know, Sirius. Can-” you scoff, wiping your nose with your free hand and dipping your head. You can’t stand to look at him anymore, not when he’s staring at you like that, so fearful and worried and raw. “I really should go. I’m sorry. Just- do you… understand?”
The silence hangs heavy with your unspoken words. But you have faith in Sirius’s ability to connect some dots.
“You make it a little difficult,” Sirius says, cocking a dark eyebrow. Just barely, the corner of his mouth twitches up. You wipe the tears off of your face, a disbelieving laugh spilling from between your lips.
“Sorry, I…” you gesture over your shoulder, stumbling slightly as you back up to the doorway. Sirius gives you an unreadable look before you turn away, focussing on stepping down one stair at a time.
---
“It was familiar, when I looked at Tom’s face,” you say. “It was like… that same something, this invisible static, sort of, that I feel in our duels. I can’t focus on it, or figure it out or anything, but it’s there, I’m sure of it.”
You pace in front of the hearth, staring down at your feet to avoid the professors’ eyes. You vomited out what happened last night as soon as you walked into the office, omitting the fact that you were eavesdropping outside McGonagall’s door. They’ve been oddly quiet- when you glance up, they’re looking at you in a way that makes you pause. It’s full of pity, confusion, fear. Your stomach churns. She will kill or be killed soon.
“I know I sound crazy.”
“No, child,” Dumbledore sighs, his wild, greying brows furrowed, “this must be a message.” He puffs on a fat tobacco pipe- a habit you rarely see him indulge in, but from the bags under his eyes, you can tell he needs it.
“Perhaps… a vivid dream?” McGonagall murmurs. She stares at you with tearful eyes.
“No, no. I didn’t fall asleep, it felt painful and… intrusive. And the… rabbit…” Nausea slips up your throat. You take a measured breath through your nose, sinking into the armchair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. “I didn’t- I would never do that on purpose, you have to know that-”
You’re cut off by the sputtering fireplace, the flames kicking up, heat kissing your face. They dance into a green spiral, flooding the chimney; Abigail Bones appears, her hair twisting in the air before falling gracefully over her shoulders. She grins with large, white teeth that contrast her skin.
“Came as soon as you called,” she says in her thick northern accent, confidently striding out of the hearth. Her round, dark eyes land on yours, and her plucked and penciled brows twitch down in a concerned expression. “‘ey, kid. Alright?”
“Thank you for coming, Abigail,” McGonagall sighs, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Your expertise in the Dark Arts is desperately needed.”
Looking up at the young witch, you realize you know very little about her- only that she was a Slytherin, and that Dumbledore trusts her. She must sense your confusion, because she drops into the chair beside you, slipping off her vibrant traveling cloak and grabbing something out of its pocket.
“I suppose we haven’t really spoken yet, eh? Nosh?” she holds out a package of chocolate biscuits in your direction, and you shake your head wearily, stomach gurgling. She shrugs, slicing the bag open with a long, sharp, brightly-colored fake nail, and popping a biscuit in her mouth. “I work for the Ministry-” she swallows thickly, “I’m chief of Department of Mysteries. Not really supposed to tell anyone that, but. I’ve got my fair share of experience in Dark stuff, and allathat. What’s all this ‘bout a bloodthirsty rabbit?”
You let out a low, long breath before telling her every detail you can remember; the pain, the memory, the way you couldn’t quite focus on Tom’s face- when you say Tom, Abigail’s expression drops noticeably. There’s a tense silence that lingers after you fall quiet.
“Tom…” she murmurs, eyebrows drawn tight. She looks over at the headmaster, something akin to fear in her eyes. “You don’t think…?”
He dips his head. “Tom Riddle has shown… troubling signs, especially in the last few years. I fear he may be- no, darling, I’m sorry, but I know he is Lord Voldemort." The weight of his name settles over the office like a thunderstorm- thickening the air and darkening any light. "I could feel something… undead about him, almost, when he inquired about a teaching position a few months ago. I’d hoped my suspicions were wrong.”
Abigail scrubs her face with her hands. You glance between her and the professors, heart racing.
“I’m sorry, but- do you know him, or something? I’m not-”
“We were friends,” Abigail’s voice wavers. She clears her throat, looking down at her wringing hands, her fingernails clicking together. “In school. The first few years, at least. We both loved Defense class, all the Dark stuff, y’know?” she glances over at the professors with a sad smile. “We’d sneak into the restricted section together and look at the Dark Arts books. He… started scaring me, taking it too far, being cruel- so I stopped talking to him. If I’d- maybe if I tried harder to-”
“Don’t,” McGonagall cuts her off, a sympathetic look in her eyes. “Whatever you could have done wouldn’t be enough. He was no fool, he chose this path purposefully.”
Abigail sits back in her chair, letting out a slow breath. “The only thing that I know that may apply here- there’s an old theory, from like, hundreds of years ago. That true evil, like, capital ‘E’ Evil,” the word hangs heavy in the air, “truly Dark magic, it’s… contagious, in a way. Maybe he wanted to see…” she trails off, a faraway look in her eyes.
“Wanted to see what?” you ask, breath unsteady.
“He’d go on and on about living forever. About never dying, eternal glory, all of that bullshite- that’s why I stopped talking to him. Maybe he was trying to create a horcrux, or something like that? But that doesn’t make sense; he’d need to kill you to split his…” she pauses, eyebrows furrowed.
“A horcrux?”
Dumbledore’s eyes darken. “Horrible magic, some of the worst. One must kill another to tear their soul in two, and then place that piece of their soul into an object, a vessel. It would give someone immunity to death in their human body- for a grave price.”
“But I’m alive.”
“You’re alive,” Abigail sighs. “So, no, no horcrux. But the Dark Arts are way more fluid than they’re taught, it’s called an ‘art’ for a reason. Maybe he tried to… oh, my god,” her face twists into one of fear, and she begins to rapidly talk through her thoughts, her voice quiet and low. “He could have used you as a conduit, of sorts. Tapped into your magic to give himself strength. It would be an incredibly painful process, like you said- and children’s magic has been observed as more powerful- and if he’d created a horcrux before, his magic would be tainted, he could have left some behind-”
“Like what? How could someone leave magic behind?”
She shakes her head furiously, her long, dark hair flying as she stands up to pace. “It’s like a fingerprint, like-” she walks over to Albus’s desk and dips one finger into a purple inkpot. She holds her hand out to him, eyebrows raised. “Shake my hand, professor?”
Dumbledore does so, and when he draws his hand away, a deep purple colors his palm. Abigail opens her fingers, revealing one of the headmaster’s heavy rings. He looks impressed. Abigail raises her brow, holding it up to the flickering firelight. “Tom stole something from you- ripped a piece of your magic away, leaving a stain behind. Did- how old were you when you first showed signs of magic?”
You shrug. “Birth, I guess. I’ve always been… unstable. My first memory was accidentally turning my mother’s hair pink. They always said I was a pain growing up.”
Minerva’s lips purse.
You assure her of your apathy, shrugging, “But they’re pricks, so.”
Abigail’s full lips turn up at the corners. “You were born powerful. That may have been overwhelming, maybe even scary, to you and them.”
You hum thoughtfully. “My parents- they must have realized something was different and told him. Maybe they thought I’d be… normal, after, or something. That memory was the first and only time I met Tom Riddle.” You furrow your brow. “At least that I know of.”
“And that rabbit could have been a manifestation of this… leftover magic,” McGonagall says, running her fingers through her loose hair. It fans over her shoulders in a brown and grey curtain, still wavy from her typical bun. “Perhaps your implicit reactions, the things you do without any consideration, are controlled by this evil. You were exhausted and overwhelmed; it could have been easy to take over your psyche, at least for a moment.”
“But… it couldn’t grow, could it?” you ask Abigail, heart hammering against your ribs.
“I…” she furrows her brow in thought, “I don’t know, to be honest. I’m sorry, love. I’ll look through whatever Dark books I can get my hands on-”
“Tom Riddle tortured two of his peers before he came to Hogwarts.” Albus cuts her off abruptly.
McGonagall and Abigail gape at the headmaster, eyes wide. Shocked silence hangs, weighty and tense. Dumbledore stares down at his clasped hands. Dread pools in your gut.
“And you allowed him into the castle-” McGonagall’s shocked, shrill tone cuts through the air, a horrified expression on her face.
“I thought I could control him, help him-” his voice is uncharacteristically emotional, painful, guilty. His face falls into a shameful visage, almost like a scorned child.
“Oh, great bloody lot of good that did, Albus!” Minerva scoffs with the sarcasm of a teenager. Abigail stares at the professors in front of you, shock and confusion and disappointment prominent on her face. You witness her experiencing what you did weeks ago- she’s watching her idols fall, seeing Minerva and Albus just as they are, as human.
“Where was it?” you ask, already knowing the answer. Fresh, salty air, children’s laughter twisting into screams, hands grasping flesh-
“What?” Abigail asks, eyes flashing with unshed tears under furrowed brows. Dumbledore peers up at you curiously.
“Where did he… hurt them?”
“On a trip to the sea with the other children in his orphanage,” the headmaster murmurs and tugs his beard.
You swallow thickly, nodding slowly. “I saw it last night. It was fleeting, and not all there, but I felt that memory. I know it.” When you close your eyes, you swear you can sense it again, the numbness, the flicker of joy at pain, the sound of waves on a rocky shore. It’s difficult to separate from yourself, as if you were there by the sea. “You said this could be a message. Why would he show me that? Just to scare me? And why the tiara? What was he doing with it?”
Dumbledore’s watery blue eyes meet yours, full of sorrow. He has no answer for you.
---
Please don’t look up, please don’t look up-
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You freeze at the sound of Remus’s voice, wincing. Slowly turning on your heel, you struggle to meet his furious gaze in the glow of the common room hearth. It’s far past midnight, and the room is deserted except for you two. Remus stands from where he was reading, arms crossed, jaw set. In the clashing warmth of the fire and the cool moonlight, his scars shine like silver.
“What happened to me staying by your side, mate? I waited beside the girl’s staircase for a bloody hour before Lily told me you never came back to bed. Jesus Christ,” he runs a hand through his mousey hair, strands sticking straight up. “Where were you?”
“I- well-”
He cuts you off, raising a hand exasperatedly. “Nope, no. You know what? I don’t even care- you’re just going to listen. This ‘refusing help’ thing isn’t cute, alright? It’s bloody annoying. You-” to your confusion, you see tears welling in his eyes as his voice wavers. You step forward, reaching out, but he takes a step back. “You saved my life. I only remember pieces of that night, but I remember your face, and your hands, and how you wouldn’t stop talking-” he cuts himself off with a teary laugh. “But it kept me there, you know? You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just disappear and scare me like that, not after that night, not after you got fucking pummeled by a bludger and poisoned- which is insane, by the way, why’d we never talk about that?- or after everything with the- er- internship. Just-” he sighs deeply, meeting your eyes with a desperate look. “You’re everything to me. If I can’t be beside you, just tell me where you are so I don’t wonder if you’re dead. That shite was worse than bleeding out.”
You throw your arms around Remus, letting yourself melt into his familiar embrace. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, sniffing, “I’m so, so sorry. I won’t do that again, I swear. I wasn’t thinking.”
“When are you?” he drawls, and you scoff, pulling away.
“Godric, I have so much to tell you.”