Chapter Six
Chapter Six
A gasp flew from Astraea's mouth as she sprung up abruptly, her eyes panicked as she surveyed an outdated version of her own Hogwarts. Her hands gripped at sheets, and she stared down at the white cotton beneath her palms. It was slightly rough, and she felt her skin itch at the poor quality.
Her eyes took in the remaining environment, taking note of the metal bed frame she was currently lying on, and the identical ones that were situated around her. They had evidently been there for quite a while, the bolts holding them a little rusted. Small side tables teetered on their legs beside the beds, scratched wood and coffee rings signalling their age. A long rug lined the stone floor in block purple, though it was faded in patches by the light seeping in. She thought she might just be able to decipher the original colour, darker at the corners.
It seemed all the furniture had been replaced in her own time, except a fairly new looking set of cupboards in one corner, which she remembered from her past visits.
She noticed she was alone in the room, the vacant beds clean and made, awaiting new arrivals.
Her eyes flickered to the left as a young medi-witch became visible in the narrow doorway, wavy hair tied back into a high ponytail as she scurried to her side. A pair of black glasses, reminiscent of cat-eye frames veiled blue eyes.
"Steady, love," she soothed, her lilac robes creasing where she held a small tray close to her chest.
Setting it down on the table, nimble hands carefully re-plumped her pillows and gently leant her backwards into the bed. She found the pillows were perhaps the only good-quality bedding the infirmary seemed to have, filled with down-feather.
The healer wore a simple silver band and engagement ring on her ring finger, and she marvelled at how someone so young could already be married. Given the time period though, she guessed it wasn’t so surprising.
"How long have I been out?" She forced out, the words tasting foreign on her tongue.
She looked at the healer in inquisition, wondering what the woman's name was.
"Not long, Sweetheart," the woman reassured, "Only three days. The school's transfiguration teacher brought along some food for you this morning."
Astraea suddenly took note of the plate at the end of the bed, filled with an assortment of different delicacies. The healer brought over a piece of bread from the piece of ceramic, placing it on her lap.
"Here. Eat," the woman commanded, and Astraea frowned slightly before holding the roll up and delicately picking at it.
She found that she wasn't all that hungry, and she wondered if that was a small side effect of her journey, or just a sign of dehydration. Maybe it was, in part, due also to the rock-like consistency of the bread, seeming to have no intent on breaking apart any time soon. It smelt stale and alarmingly reminded her of cardboard.
"Three days? What does that make the date?" She queried, hoping to get the year out of her, for she wasn't too sure when she'd arrived.
"The 24th of March."
The equinox must have been on the 21st, she deduced. She nodded numbly, not wanting to ask after the year on account of drawing any more attention to herself. Her mouth chewed on another piece of bread, tongue flinching at the aftertaste.
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
Astraea knew she couldn't hand over her real name. Her grandmother, Florence, was also about her age in this time, and for all she knew, she attended Hogwarts. She figured a half lie wouldn’t hurt.
"Astraea Solstice. And yours?"
The woman's eyebrows shot up as a flustered expression covered her face, "Oh, forgive me for being so rude! My name is Madame Seraphine, but you can call me Sera.”
She smiled warmly, "Nice to meet you."
Her mind flitted back to her task at hand. Tom Riddle.
Astraea knew she had to prevent the war, but she hadn't the faintest clue how. While she knew what Dumbledore had informed her about his past, it was nothing which would cement her favour with him, and nothing substantial which would aid her. He had grown up in an appalling Orphanage, but she could do nothing with that but sympathise. She didn’t know what his interests were, nor his true motivation.
"Ah, look! Just the boy for the job! Tom! Over here," the healer called, waving over the head boy.
Her eyes darted over to him; her mind spiralled as she attempted to regain some composure.
He waltzed over to them, a charmingly confident arrogance to his gait. His shoulders were poised back, his head held high, not a wrinkle to be spotted on his robes. Dark brown hair grew from his skull, coiffed perfectly and shadowing his high cheekbones, bathing them in an austere manner. Astraea noted he was quite handsome in his youth, a mixture of light and dark which convalesced with ease. It was the dark which snapped her back to reality, reminding her of the true nature of young Voldemort – a prodigy of cruelty and unruly ambition.
She swore she could see a flash of darkness lurking behind his eyes, daring her to fail. A shiver ran down her spine.
"I was just about to ask someone if they could show our visitor around. You wouldn't mind would you Tom?" The woman asked, a smile on her face as she stared at Tom.
It seemed he'd charmed almost everyone, except Dumbledore, famously.
"No. Of course not," he responded smoothly, plastering on a false smile before turning his gaze to her, holding out a hand of greeting.
She stared at it accusingly, picturing it curled around a white and murderous weapon.
"Hi. I'm Tom Riddle," he smiled, holding out a hand.
There was something sickly sweet about his gaze, a printed façade that hadn’t quite understood there was danger in a smile so manicured. It was unsettling for her, perhaps because she knew who he was. Danger and threat hid behind a blanket of peace and chivalry, and she found herself anxious to be as far away from him as possible. His hand seemed to smirk at her, indicating her lack of choice.
Cautiously, she let her hand take his, making sure her occlumency walls were high and vicious in her mind. She pictured barbed wire and sand, cutting through and shredding whoever dared enter.
As she brushed against his hand with hers, she noted his hand was calloused. She'd always expected them to be smooth and manicured, meticulously upheld like everything else about him.
"Astraea Solstice," she replied easily, firmly keeping away the hurt and anger she felt toward his future self.
She couldn't allow emotions to cloud her. And it was largely unfair of her to treat him ill when he hadn’t committed the worst of his crimes yet. That would make her akin to Dumbledore.
Tom nodded shortly, his eyes studying her face for a moment before he released her hand and drew his back to his side, readjusting his bag strap. She glanced at the satchel quickly, examining the worn black leather and rusting latches before focusing back on his face.
"Can you move yet, do you think, sweetheart?" She snapped her head to the medi-witch, looking at her kindly.
Nodding shortly, she carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed padding over to the pair of flats at the end of the bed. The flats she'd been wearing before she left her own time period. They were old, a gift from her uncle, and made of white leather. She smiled fondly at the memory, tinged with sadness at her distance from him.
"I cleaned your clothes for you. I hope you don't mind," the healer explained, and Astraea looked down.
Her attire was clean, and the shirt she'd been wearing was perfectly white, red stain from strawberry juice forgotten. It was one of her mother’s, which she suspected would fit in better here. The cuffs were simple, secured by gold enamel buttons. She realised that the witch must have cleaned those too, as the scuffed gold plating looked new.
"I hadn't noticed. Thank you, Sera," she said in gratitude, smiling over at the nurse.
"You're welcome."
The nurse then walked back out into the hall, presumably to her own chambers. Her lilac robes had tigers running around the bottom, and she smiled. It was ornate embroidery she hadn’t seen since she sorted through her grandmother’s wardrobe years ago.
"So, where did you come from exactly?" A question was fired at her, and she stiffened slightly.
She knew Tom was manipulative, especially in his youth, and the more information he gained on her, the more dangerous it was. He couldn't have the advantage.
"I came from France," she lied, "My parents were hiding from Grindelwald. They didn't survive."
She smiled sadly, hoping it made her seem more genuine as Tom nodded cautiously. He seemed to believe her and clicked his fingers as an order to follow after him. She inwardly scoffed.
"Rude," she muttered, "I'm not a dog that listens to your beck and call."
His head flew back in her direction, a red flash taking over his eyes briefly. There was a dangerous glint in them, but she wasn’t sure if it was mischievous or threatening.
"What was that?"
Astraea smiled sweetly, mirroring his own false expression.
"I was just complimenting your absolutely spectacular social skills," she commented slyly, eyes studying him carefully.
He stepped forward threateningly. Maybe, had it been his elder self, she might’ve been scared. But Astraea found his aggressive demeanour pitiful and weak. He had something of a superiority complex, as someone who had done nothing to be worthy of one.
"You’ll learn that I demand respect here," he stated, matter of fact, "I will not be so lenient next time.”
His sneer launched a fire inside her, her frame hardening as she glared daggers up at him. He believed she was the dirt at the bottom of his shoe, and while she didn’t wish to actively anger him, she would not let him think he could order her around like everyone else.
“I can assure you Riddle," she responded calmly, "I don’t respond positively to threats. So, save them for someone else."
She gave him a pointed stare before stalking away, heading down the corridor and towards Dippet's office. It was only customary that's where she was headed anyway. But in those few moments, her ire had clouded her judgement.
Tom Riddle watched her suspiciously as she walked away from him, spectating her every move as she sauntered down the hallway as if she belonged there.
As if she knew exactly where she was.