Perceptions and the Various Folks That Have Them
Unnerved was perhaps the emotion Severus felt the most often — he was typically quite unnerved by anything that Albus ever did, for example. He was also unnerved by things such as how much Potter looked like his father, with the same hawkish nose and bronze shade of skin and utterly tragic hair, though Severus could concede that James had never resembled a bowtruckle in stature quite so much.
There were other things, too, ones that did not make him feel quite so miserable or violent, like the little Lovegood’s tendency to show up to detentions he hadn’t even assigned her because she liked cleaning cauldrons, or the way that Aurora kept entering his rooms when he wasn’t present to “borrow” his firewhisky, when he had only ever keyed her in because she’s insisted on telling him about whatever book she’d read that week ever since they were in school together.
But Severus was quite sure that nothing ever since him had quite unnerved him to the degree that Jack Riddle did. And that was rather fitting, wasn’t it? Like father, like son. Still, Severus found no particular humor in that at all. Actually, every time Severus thought about Riddle, he quite seriously considered smashing his head into the wall of his office.
Riddle was perhaps not the mastermind Dark-Lord-In-Training hellspawn second coming that everyone seemed convinced that he was. Severus was exasperated even with his own Slytherins and their very loud and perfectly obvious whispering about the boy and how he was just so terrifying. Even so, that did not mean Severus was any less nauseous about the entire ordeal. Riddle’s personality was perhaps nearer to Lucius than it was to the Dark Lord—disdainful, derisive, fairly arrogant, though perhaps more vulgar than Lucius had ever been.
He did not have quite the same frigid, wretched, panic inducing magnetism that the Dark Lord had, but Riddle was also fifteen years old, and Severus was hard pressed to believe than anyone below the age of twenty or even thirty was capable of that same repulsive sensuality. Severus remembered quite well the explicit feeling of illness that crept over him whenever he had been near the Dark Lord, the thudding of his heart in his ears, the sudden desire to heave and retch and vomit, and the subsequent weakness and exhaustion that would wrack over his form. Jack Riddle certainly made him feel nauseous, but that was more out of concern for the implications and possibilities of his existence and presence than it was from the boy's demeanor specifically.
His magic, though? That was certainly concerning. Startlingly powerful, undoubtedly dark, and it was common knowledge by now that Riddle could cast wandlessly and wordlessly, preferred it, even. His wand had certainly not offered any comfort either; pine wood, and Riddle’s wordless magic might not have been so alarming if the boy had ever bothered to fucking cast with the pine wand, and dragon heartstring, powerful, and nobody would be surprised if a dragon heartstring wand was quite happy to bind to a master who was talented in the dark arts.
Severus was also acutely aware of the horrible sensation of wrongness that practically permeated from Riddle’s being, and Severus was familiar enough with dark magic to know that was what he was feeling, though Severus was not quite sure why. Perhaps Riddle had been involved in a startling amount of dark experimentation before he came to Hogwarts that the stench of it merely clung to him, or perhaps he had some sort of curse on him. He couldn’t say for certain.
The boy was a frequent topic of conversation with Albus, in fact, and Severus could easily say that this was not the impetus he had desired to motivate Albus to talk about something other than Potter.
“He is not Voldemort himself. His magical signature is not the same. I spoke to Ollivander.” Albus had said only a few days ago. Severus had flinched, before furrowing his brow.
“I was unaware that was even a possibility. Was the situation with Quirrel not the last of him?” he said, on edge. Albus looked very sad.
“There are concerns. He looks quite like the Voldemort that you knew as a Death Eater, does he not? He was already corrupted by… dark magic, and he had aged, somewhat, at the time you knew him. But you have never seen what Tom looked like as a boy. They do not merely look similar—they are practically identical, my boy.” and Albus had offered Severus a photo. It was perhaps from a yearbook, from the chest up, and Severus thought for a split second that Albus had handed him a photograph of Jack Riddle by mistake.
“This is the Dark Lord?” he asked, arching a brow.
“Indeed. It’s uncanny, no?” said Albus. Jack Riddle did look alarmingly like his father, then. More so than Severus had thought. Their faces were exactly the same, though the Dark Lord seemed to carry himself differently. His smile was charming, easy, and he held himself impeccably well. Jack Riddle, on the other hand, always seemed to be rather cross, or at least bored. Severus was unsure if he’d ever seen the boy smile. Riddle Junior styled his hair differently, perhaps. Severus did not think he could find a single other difference between them.
“I see the cause for concern,” Severus admitted. “I assume you’ve been looking into the boy's background, then?”
“Yes. I cannot find anything about him, though I am unsurprised. He says his mother is dead, whoever she was, and I am uncertain of how true that is. The Ministry has no record of a Jack Riddle, but I would hesitate to say that the Ministry has ever been particularly useful. And a letter was never sent—”
“Perhaps he used his mother’s surname before.”
“I had thought so. One Jack received and rejected a letter when young Jack would have, Jack Drake, but Mr. Drake’s parents are both well accounted for, the boy himself is homeschooled, and he is currently pursuing an apprenticeship in painting enchantments.”
Severus did not even attempt to pretend to care what Jack Drake was up to. Albus moved on.
“I am concerned about his true motivations to attend Hogwarts. I am even more concerned about how he even arrived with us—I am uncertain how he made it past the wards, and he and I were both aware that he was lying when he informed me of his supposed transfer. But… I do not know what his situation is. If his mother is truly dead, if the boy has nowhere to go, can I truly disregard him because of a few white lies?”
“If it was up to me I’d have sent the boy to the streets. To risk the Dark Lord’s son in Hogwarts because you feel bad for him is perhaps the most moronic, naive—”
“You know,” Albus interrupted. “I have always imagined that if I could turn back time, I’d have done things differently. I would not have treated young Tom with such suspicion. I would not have left him to stay in that horrible orphanage. Perhaps he would have grown up to be a kinder boy, if he was not in such a hostile environment, and perhaps he would not have learned to fear death so if I hadn’t left him to the Blitz. But most of all, perhaps he deserved someone who was merely kind to him. Don’t you ever wonder, Severus, what it would be like if you had a second chance?”
Albus merely frowned when Severus swiped all the objects off of his desk with an enraged yell and stormed out of his office. Fawkes protested with a little squawk at the sudden noise.
“You’re right,” Albus said. “It is a bit drafty in here.”
“Professor.” said a melodic but horrible voice, and Gilderoy nearly tripped over his robes. His face must’ve gone ashen, and he whirled around so fast that he felt dizzy.
“HELLO!” said Gilderoy, too loudly, and attempted to smile and lean against the stack of Magical Me copies on his desk. But they were crooked, and Gilderoy merely left his elbow hovering awkwardly in the air as the stack fell over. It was quite noisy, and Gilderoy was quite certain his pink inkwell had smashed, but he did not want to take his eyes off of the Slytherin boy in case he decided Gilderoy was a good target for an Avada Kedavra.
“Mr. Riddle! What an unexpected pleasure to see you stop by! What could you possibly want?” he asked, all too aware of how frantic he sounded.
Riddle arched a brow at him. Riddle was an absurdly handsome young boy, and Gilderoy had been annoyed at this the first few days after his appearance as the attention was on Riddle rather than himself, but Gilderoy quickly ceased to care once the news came out that Riddle was You-Know-Who’s son. How absurd! How frightening! How ghastly! The only silver lining seemed to be that he had received some letters from his students' mothers that they were glad he was their to protect their children—why, even delicate Professor Burbage with her beautiful blonde curls had told Gilderoy that he made her feel safe!
Well. Gilderoy hardly could care about that right now, not when Riddle was staring at him with a book tucked under his arm. What was it, a treatise on torture methods? An encyclopedia of spells more painful than the Cruciatus? His horrible father’s instruction manual for Riddle to follow in his dark footsteps? Oh, Slytherins were terrible! Gilderoy tried to peer at the cover. Actually, was that—?
“I’ve been quite taken with this book of yours, and I had wondered if I might bother you with some questions. I’m quite interested in money management, you see, and I’ve found that this is the most immediately in line with my interests, and it’s also the most digestible of all of the books I’ve come across.” said Riddle. Gilderoy felt like he was going to faint. Riddle held up his book—and indeed, he was staring at his own smiling face on the cover of Money Matters: Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Being Your Own Boss.
Gilderoy dropped his arm and straightened out into a position that was a little less humiliatingly awkward. He had never been quite so confused in his life. Money Matters was a book he had written last year, and it had been one that he had written mostly based on real experiences. A few lies here and there about the times purebloods he had rescued had been so astounded by his skill and heroism that they generously donated a hefty amount of coins to his Gringotts vault, but for the most part, he had included some true anecdotes about how he managed his money.
“Quite—quite the business minded individual, aren’t you, Mr. Riddle? Why, that book was not even on the book list! Haha. Hahaha. Hah. Ehm. Well, it’s not the most interesting read, not for your age group anyhow, so I’m quite surprised.”
Riddle blinked at him. There was an awkward silence for a moment.
“Chapter three—” Riddle started. At the same time:
“What questions did you have? I’m happy to answer!”
The blood drained from Gilderoy’s face. Was this it? Would Riddle kill him for interrupting? He didn’t want to know what Riddle would do to him, he seemed the type to cast Bombarda at first years for fun!
They were both silent again. Gilderoy did not say anything. Riddle continued, though he was beginning to look very agitated.
“Anyways, chapter three. You mentioned that there are some Ministry restrictions that prevent Wixen from using magic to take advantage of norm— muggles for financial and personal gain, but that you had found some… workarounds. You see, I am very interested in using magic to take advantage of muggles for financial and personal gain, so I had wondered….”
Gilderoy found, in the half an hour or so that followed, that perhaps Riddle was not nearly as bad nor as homicidal as he had suspected. The boy seemed quite intelligent, actually, and quite worldly in the ways of money, which was certainly curious. Gilderoy was shaking like a leaf at first, but as Riddle continued to ask questions and thumb through his copy, he found that Riddle was merely giving him a chance to do what he liked to do the most—talk about himself!
“—and muggles are all very concerned with when and where things came from, so it’s very easy to simply buy some nonsensical little trinket from any old antique shop in Diagon Alley and the like and simply offer it up to a museum or a silly little historical collection, and they’ll pay you quite well for it when they realize it’s real and they have no idea what it is. It’s quite easy, really, and the hundred or so in muggle currency that they’ll give you for such foolishness really adds up if you convert it and save! I made a bit that way before my books really began to take off, anyway…”
“Incredible,” Riddle said, drumming his fingers on the cover of the book. “You’re a brilliant man, Professor.”
“Why, of course I am!” said Gilderoy. This boy understood! “You really begin to understand how to finagle when you travel the world such as I have. It’s really quite honorable, regardless of what some people may think… it takes a certain amount of skill and creativity to come up with such things!”
“It must. The things you can worm out of people if you have magic... I’m frankly surprised there aren’t more books on the topic—why have magic at all if you don’t exploit people with it?” Riddle said.
“But exploit is such a nasty word, don’t you think?” said Gilderoy, flapping his hand dismissively.
“I’m only teasing,” said Riddle, sounding very much like he was not teasing. “Not exploit—taking advantage of all the available paths in front of you. Heading the charge. Being an innovator.”
“I’ll say, Mr. Riddle, you’re quite like me, I think! Yes, you’ll go far, Mr. Riddle.” Gilderoy said. Whoever said that Slytherins were terrible? They must have been a right idiot. And everyone was so worked up about nothing—just because Riddle’s father was You-Know-Who didn’t mean Riddle would turn out like him! Would someone destined to be a Dark Lord get along so swimmingly with someone as noble as Gilderoy? Certainly not.
“Thank you,” said Riddle, looking pleased. He sighed, then. “Well, I ought to head out. I appreciate the talk, Professor.”
“Yes, come back whenever you’d like, Mr. Riddle! Have a wonderful day.” Gilderoy said.
“Certainly,” Riddle said, with a little wave, tucking Gilderoy’s book back under his arm.
Gilderoy hummed a little tune as he began to fix his fallen stack of books. It seemed his inkwell had shattered.
“What a delightful boy.” said a portrait of Gilderoy once the door had closed.
“You’re quite right!” agreed Gilderoy.
“As usual!” said portrait Gilderoy. Gilderoy and all of his portraits laughed together about it. How true! What a pleasant afternoon this had been.
Ginny wondered if everyone except for her and Jack were going nuts.
“Ron, move,” she said, elbowing him in the gut and returning to her chicken. He wheezed, and curled in on himself. What a baby. He had been leaning in her face, interrogating her about snakes. What an idiot. What an obvious idiot, too. ‘Do you like snakes, Gin? You shouldn't. Some of ‘em are venomous. They can be real dangerous. And sometimes snakes get you to trust them because they’re handsome snakes that girls seem to really be off the shits about, but you can’t trust them, Gin! A snake is like a… snake. In a fit blokes clothing. Er, yeah. A snake in a fit blokes clothing—that’s what they always say. Do you hear what I’m telling you, Gin?’
Ginny didn’t know how Ron, Hermione, and Harry had found out about her friendship with Jack, but they were not particularly good at pretending that they didn’t know about it.
“You can tell me anything, Gin. You know that, right? I love you.” Ron said, eyes big. He looked like he might cry. Ginny stared at him, horrified.
“AW, LITTLE RONNIE LOVES LITTLE GINNY?” yelled Fred from a few seats away. Half of the heads in the Great Hall turned towards them. Ron turned bright red and Ginny buried her face in her hands.
“WHAT A GOOD EXAMPLE THEY’RE SETTING. WE AS A SOCIETY SHOULD REALLY APPRECIATE OUR SIBLINGS MORE.” yelled George.
“I LOVE YOU, GEORGE!”
“I LOVE YOU TOO, FRED!”
This was followed by loud fake sobbing and a hug that resulted in both of them sliding off of the bench onto the floor. Ginny wanted to die.
Ginny untucked her hair from behind her ears so it would fall in front of her face. She didn’t want anyone to look at her.
After some time, everyone calmed down and moved on. Ginny brushed her hair back again and went back to eating, though she glared at Ron as she picked up an orange and began peeling it.
Harry turned to look at Ginny. She blushed. Harry had such big, pretty eyes behind his glasses… really, he could do without the shape, they made him look a bit like a bug, but he really was so cute… Why was he looking at her like that? He looked so anxious. Maybe he wanted to ask her out on a date in the courtyard… maybe they’d even hold hands! Or hug!
“What do you think about Jack Riddle?” Harry asked. “No reason. Just wondering.”
Ginny stared at him. Harry stared back.
“What.” she said. Hermione did something that Ginny couldn’t see that made Harry jolt so hard his knee hit the table. Some of Ginny’s pumpkin juice sloshed over the side of her cup, and she narrowed her eyes.
“You know,” Hermione said, and folded her hands together on top of the table. “Sometimes older boys tell girls that they know what's best for them, or that something between them should stay a secret, but they really don’t have the girl’s best interest in mind.”
“Uh uh.” Ginny said plainly, wondering if the mean Slytherins had maybe been a little bit correct when they said that Gryffindors were boar-headed. Did Hermione think this was more subtle than what Harry had said? Actually? Truly? Really?
“And, well, girls should stick together. Or, really, they should tell anyone, if they feel uneasy about the way a boy is treating them…” she trailed off. Lavender Brown turned her head slowly to look at Hermione while she was talking. She leaned over.
“Is there something you need to talk about? I would be happy to listen.” whispered Lavender earnestly, eyes shining as she placed a manicured hand over her heart. She looked like she was going to cry. Hermione began to look very uncomfortable, opening and closing her mouth.
“Er,” she said. “No. Thank you?”
Harry coughed into his fist. His glasses went askew. Ron stared at his potatoes and refused to say anything.
Ginny felt like she was going to lose her mind.
She glanced up at a bundle of green and black, and watched as Jack left the Great Hall. He was trailed by a few from that group of Slytherins he had complained about to her the other day. She waited a few seconds, and then gathered herself and rose from the table.
“Ginny!” Ron said, looking alarmed.
“Wagh!” said Harry, and Ginny clutched her cloak as she walked away faster. What an odd, cute little noise. “Oh no! Hermione, Ron, I think she’s following Riddle…”
Ginny felt her eye twitch. She broke into a little jog. Really, they ought to calm down. Jack’s worst crime was being a little mean sometimes. He was harmless when you got to know him!
“I am going to murder this Rita Skeeter with my bare hands.” Jack said as he clutched the newspaper in his hands. There was a public opinion poll that asked how many people thought dastardly Jack Riddle should be interrogated by the Ministry “just in case.” 79% said yes. Jack had thought this was quite funny, at first, and then Blaise Zabini had said that with such public outcry the Ministry would probably consider doing just that.
“But she’s such a public figure, Riddle,” said Fawley, fretting. She looked stressed and a little bit like she might faint. Jack didn’t know when she had become his P.R. manager, and he certainly wasn’t encouraging it. She did this to herself, so he couldn’t bring himself to really care.
“Smart, though,” said Flint, flashing a crooked toothed grin. Flint, Jack could stand. Sometimes. He didn’t fawn nearly as much as everyone else. “Can’t get anything out of a Priori Incantatem , then like they could if you used the killing curse.”
“Why would I use my wand?” Jack asked. His wand was fucking hideous. He only realized the error in saying this when Flint and Fawley both sent him respectively terrified (Fawley) and fascinated (Flint) looks. Right. They’d thought he was being serious.
“... Can you cast that sort of spell endlessly?” asked Fawley, very quietly.
“Probably. I can cast it with a wand, anyways.” Jack said, considering the damage was already done and remembering the times he’d have little fits and cast it aimlessly at the paper walls of the diary, because it was basically the only spell from Harry Potter that he knew.
“You’ve cast the killing curse before?” Flint asked, leaning in towards Jack. He looked a little crazed. Jack leaned away.
“Get away from me.” he said, grimacing, and moving to walk closer to Fawley. Flint had come straight to dinner from flying and he smelled like sweat. Fawley looked like she thought Jack was going to kill her at his sudden proximity. God, he wished Ginny was here. At least he liked her.
“Jack!” called a familiar voice, and Jack nearly sank to the floor and converted to Christianity then and there.
“God is good,” Jack said, turning around. Ginny looked puzzled, but Jack ignored that and tugged her closer by the wrist. She made a little noise of protest, but moved in step with him and grabbed his hand when he attempted to let go of her. Jack rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. Ginny seemed convinced that Jack was going to turn blurry forever and die if they weren’t physically interacting whenever they were near each other. Jack was pretty certain that wasn’t how that worked, but whatever. He was also pretty certain that all eleven year olds catastrophize that way.
“Hey, Ginger,” said Flint.
“Hello, Weasley.” said Farley, her expression going blank. She shot a look towards Flint, who glared at her. Ginny glared at them both, and held up her chin as she walked.
Jack had told the group of pests that liked to cling to him that Ginny Weasley was fine and to leave her alone, because he recalled how often Ginny complained about the Slytherins picking on her in their diary days. They had seemed bewildered and offended, and only really seemed to realize he was being serious when Jack called her his friend, though it had been with great reluctance. They listened, anyways, though the pests seemed to be the least annoying of the Slytherins, somehow, so they were merely the conduit by which word was spread throughout Slytherin.
Jack had meant what he had said—Ginny was his friend, though apparently everyone thought this was some sort of code word for dark sidekick apprentice or something equally fucking stupid and juvenile, and Jack really wondered how any of these people were going to survive in the real world if this was how they perceived human behavior. Jack wondered if they were like this in the original series or if this was specifically because he was apparently the son of the Worst Guy Ever. Jack still didn’t even know what Voldemort actually did wrong—he knows Harry Potter killed him as a baby, and if his worst offense was that he was an embarrassing fucking loser then Jack was certain the rest of these clowns should also have their own inconvenient and annoying monnikers.
“I’m so annoyed, Jack,” said Ginny. “Everyone’s lost their minds. Ron and Harry and Hermione all know I’m friends with you, but they’re acting like you’re going to eat me!”
“I’d never do that. There’s not enough meat on you,” Jack said. Ginny smiled crookedly. “Harry Potter?”
“Well, yes. He’s friends with Ron, you know, and so they’re all very concerned… I guess because Harry is Harry Potter must be part of the reason too, because of your father.”
“Right. My genius plan to get close to Harry Potter’s mate’s sister so that I can get insider information on Potter and take him down.” Jack said, thinking this was very funny, and very stupid.
“Brilliant.” Flint whispered to Farley, and Jack was about to turn to look at Flint and ask him if he’d maybe had an anvil dropped on him as a baby if he thought that Jack needed to scheme to “take down” a twelve year old when he could probably accomplish that by propping up a box with a stick, but he was interrupted by a loud gasp behind him.
Jack sighed very deeply as he heard Flint and Farley both take out their wands and spin around, and Ginny squeezed his hand tightly as she turned around herself. Tugged by her hand, he turned around as well. There was a boy who looked quite a bit like Ginny, a girl with massive hair and buck teeth, and a boy who, by his hair, looked like maybe he’d been electrocuted. Jack suspected this was Mystery Incorporated.
“Put your fucking wands away,” Jack said, annoyed. He was talking to both the pests and to the babies, but the pests, if hesitantly, acquiesced while the babies looked like Jack had just threatened to kill their parents. Well, Jack thought, amused, as he glanced towards Probably-Harry.
“Get your hands off of my sister, Riddle. ” sneered Probably-Ron, threateningly waving his wand.
“This is embarrassing, Ron. I know you think it’s not, but it is.” Ginny tried.
“What the fuck is wrong with your wand?” asked Jack, at the same time. Ron’s wand looked even more fucking hideous than Jack’s, and that was saying something, because Jack’s wand looked like it had been run through a meat grinder and reassembled by a toddler with a hot glue gun.
“Oh, this can’ t be the way… we’ll get in trouble, Ron, Harry, you’re the only ones with your wands out! Put them away!” cried Probably-Hermione.
There was a moment of silence that probably would’ve been tense if Jack hadn’t been suddenly distracted by watching a couple in a painting begin to make out a few feet away. Finally, Ron and Harry began to put away their wands.
Meanwhile, Jack wondered if somewhat-sentient paintings were ideal for a school with children in it as the man in the painting began to hitch up the dress of the woman in the painting, when a little red and gold blur suddenly darted forward and grabbed Ginny to pull her back towards the Gryffindors, as if he thought this was a hostage crisis.
“Harry!” Hermione shouted as Harry suddenly released Ginny’s wrist, crying out in pain and falling to the floor as his hands flew to his forehead.
“Mate! What’s—is it your scar?” Ron fussed, trailing off as he joined Hermione on the ground beside their friend.
“They’re just going at it.” Jack said, brows furrowed as he put his hands on his hips. Ginny backed up towards Jack again, looking very startled. And Jack absentmindedly placed a hand on her shoulder when she bumped into him.
“Riddle, his scar!” Farley said, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” Jack said instinctively, though he wasn’t really paying attention to her. “Are you seeing this, Farley? Flint? The people in the painting—they're actually having sex! Just right there, out in the open, where anyone can see.”
“Do you mind?” the man in the painting said, pulling away from his mewling partner. Jack couldn’t believe this was happening.
“There are children at this school, you know. Have a bit of goddamn decorum. There’s not a painting discarded in a closet somewhere you two can run off to?”
“Why, I never—!” said the woman in the painting.
From the floor, Harry looked up as the throbbing pain in his scar abated, teary eyes locking onto Ginny. Hermione and Ron were at his sides, rambling about how it was his nearness to Riddle, and how he must've touched him by accident when he grabbed Ginny, but… Harry hadn’t. He hadn’t touched Riddle at all—he’d grabbed Ginny’s free arm. And Ginny wasn’t the one who was Voldemort’s kid, so…
Harry rose to his feet, shaking. Ron and Hermione rose with him, concerned.
“It was Ginny.” Harry said, feeling dizzy.
“Are you okay? Was that me? I didn’t… oh, I don’t understand, was it accidental magic? You startled me, Harry, I don’t—”
“It wasn’t accidental magic.” Harry said, resolute.
“What are you talking about, Harry? What’s wrong with Gin?” Ron asked, grabbing his elbow.
“Don’t say that, Ron, nothing is wrong with her—” Hermione said.
“It was Ginny. He’s done something to her. Riddle’s done something to her!” Harry shouted, drawing his wand again. Riddle couldn’t be trusted—not after touching Ginny made his scar hurt, not after what they’d heard him say to her by the Black Lake, not knowing who his father was!
“Harry!” Ron and Hermione both shouted.
“—Aren’t you embarrassed? Honestly, I’ve dabbled in a bit of exhibitionism here and there, but it’s really gross to risk such a thing around kids. How unbelievably tacky. Really, I—” Jack was saying to the painting, as he’d been arguing with both of the figures this entire time, deciding that whatever stressed out children this much wasn't really important.
“Jack!” Ginny shouted, grabbing his arm, at the same time that Farley drew her wand and yelled, “Riddle!”
Annoyed, Jack looked away from the painting to ask what they wanted, only to meet Harry’s eyes as the boy aimed his wand at him. Harry didn’t say anything, and Jack had the half-disappointed thought that his own wordless casting really couldn’t be that impressive if a second year could do it, before a white-gold spell fired at Jack.
Jack hadn’t really had to deal with getting spells flung at him, and Harry was only a few feet away anyways, so Jack figured oh well, and merely stood there. It was quite underwhelming, anyways, because the spell merely bounced right off of Jack’s chest and flew right back towards Harry. Jack couldn’t help an amused bark of laughter as the spell seemed to rocket right into Harry’s forehead, knocking the boy over—and out, apparently.
“Jesus Christ!” Jack laughed, delighted. There was nothing quite as funny as kids doing stupid shit. Harry seemed mostly fine, there was no blood at least, and he was probably only a little unconscious. Everyone was suddenly yelling at Jack and/or fussing over Harry, but Jack barely cared because he felt like he might piss himself laughing.
“What was that? This is the boy who killed Voldemort?”
What a dork, Jack thought, barely noticing Farley and Flint beginning to drag him away. What a good laugh. Surely this will have no negative repercussions.