#harry potter fic

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom:Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes:I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet. 

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding fromsomething?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy’s or the girl’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake’s venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six©: He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’llnever be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feelyoung.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six© might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six© seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch9)

Fandom:Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: Hey! So sorry for the delay, once again!! 

I’ve learned I really can’t make any promises based on how fast I’ll get these out XD But I have actually already started on the next chapter–in fact it’s one I’ve been excited about for a long time, so I started on it a while ago–so that’s a good sign at least, haha.

I’m very VERY excited to share this one with you!! I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do!! 

I hope you guys like it!! As always, it’s your comments, and interest, that keep me writing!! <3

@toms-wifeOkay if I tag you??

If anyone else wants to be tagged on future chapters don’t hesitate to let me know!!

Chapter 9: On the Topic of Souls, and Other Such Oddities 

Snape marched towards the Headmaster’s office, his cloak swishing about his heels. It was the next morning after everything had happed, and he couldn’t say the little sleep he got left him feeling refreshed. Numerous meetings, and even more numerous questions have a way of making one altogether restless.

And, in the end…an innocent girl was dead. It isn’t easy to sleep after such news, even barring the politics of it all.

When he entered he got the feeling that Dumbledore had just been speaking with the portraits, as words trailed off, and Dumbledore, standing in the middle of the room, turned to him like he had been about to make a very good point. The portraits too looked down at him in—if he wasn’t mistaken—an annoyed way.

“Ah, Severus. Welcome. We were merely discussing if lemon drops or chocolate frogs are better. Theodore moved that chocolate frogs are more pleasingly sweet, but I think the best sweets have a bit of tang to them. Would you like to weigh in?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. The glare the portrait gave showed there was more than a small chance the matter they were discussing was something weightier than that.

When Snape didn’t comment, Dumbledore moved on;

“Please, take a seat.” He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. Snape reluctantly swept around and sat in it.

Dumbledore walked over to a side table with a strange contraption on it, which quickly revealed itself to be a sort of odd teapot, as he proceeded to pour the steaming liquid within it into a teacup. He retained his calm, pleasant demeanor, but Snape could tell the previous day weighed on him too: there was a slight shake to his motions, and his eyes held a heaviness that his smile couldn’t mask.

“Sir…would it not be better to do this another time?”

Dumbledore gave a knowing smile. “You’re not suggesting that I am getting old, are you?”

“No, merely that such news takes a toll on all of us.”

“Many things take a toll, Severus.” He gestured to the tea to ask if he wanted a cup, Snape gave a small nod. “It is if we decide to let that toll keep us from crossing the bridge that matters.”

The headmaster brought the two cups over and he took his place on the opposite side of the desk.

Snape paused before speaking. “I assume you have brought me here to discuss the sentence of the boy with the unspeakable name.” He took a sip of tea.

“You know what they say about assuming, Severus.” He lowered his glasses. “But in this case you are correct. And it’s not so unspeakable, in fact, I encourage you to call him by it.”

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Before I endeavor to divulge my carefully-laid plans,” Dumbledore spoke, putting a handful of sugar into his tea. “I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter: what do you think we ought to do with the young Tom Riddle?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“It’s the only kind of speaking I endorse.”

“I think we should dispose of him as soon as possible. He’s too dangerous, too clever. It’s inevitable that he’ll get his memory back even if we attempt to do everything in our power to shield him from it—perhaps before we so much as try.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” One of the portraits burst out and a few others nodded in agreement.

“Keeping him alive is like keeping a ticking time bomb as a pet,” Snape continued, “thinking a little love is enough to keep it from exploding. He’s nothing more than a liability.”

Snape’s dark eyes flicked to Dumbledore, who had been listening pleasantly, with his hands folded on the desk.

“But…”—Snape drew the kind of long breath one takes when they know they’ve lost the fight before it starts, and exhaled—“something tells me you disagree.”

Dumbledore smiled. “It seems you know me too well.”

“Sir…need I remind you of your meeting with him as a child? You once told me you wished you’d been more careful, more cautious, more discerning when dealing with him in the past.”

“Thank you, but my memory has not proven faulty just yet.”

“If that’s true then I also don’t need to remind you of the things I’ve seen him do first hand. Actions that do not make me partial to the idea of keeping him alive.”

“Quite the contrary, it is for that exact reason that I am trusting with this situation.” He paused, looking at him over his half moon spectacles and saying meaningfully. “You and no one else.”

“‘Trusting me with this situation’?” He drummed his fingers on the armrest.

“Is that not what you would call telling you all this?”

Snape said nothing, taking another sip of tea. That was true too, he was sure, though this was one of those moments in which he could tell Dumbledore meant something more than just that.

Dumbledore stood, walking over to the window as if he had all the time in the world, and he wanted to enjoy some sunlight.

“That boy is not Voldemort,” he murmured, taking a sip of tea.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Respectfully, Sir, I beg to disagree.”

“That boy is merely a young Tom Riddle: a teenager who looks like who Voldemort once was when he was young, and who has some of the personality of Tom riddle, and who, if given the right parameters, could become Voldemort. But he is not Voldemort now.”

“All he needs to become the Dark Lord again is to get his memory back, something which I do not think will prove altogether difficult.”

“Perhaps. But there is something else. After giving it careful consideration I find that my theory is sound.”

“What theory would this be?”

He paused, gathering his words. “It is my understanding that a door, once opened, can be walked through in either direction.”

Snape remained silent, waiting for him to tie the statement to their situation.

“What if I told you that our dear Ginny Weasley may not be dead?”

“I would say that is something we’d all like to hear, but that it would be wiser not to put your faith into fairy tales.”

“As I expected.” He turned, smiling. “However,” he began taking careful steps towards Snape, looking at his feet, “it is my personal inclination that the method by which he returned to the land of the living had a fatal flaw.”

“Which is?”

He looked up at him and stopped, saying meaningfully, “It required a young girl’s life.

“You see,” Dumbledore continued, “he will have assumed, of course, that her soul was destroyed in the process of bringing him back to life—her life merely energy to use up. But what if, as it were, he assumed wrongly? In my experience, human souls are far more resilient than that. What if, much like she poured herself into the diary, her soul was simply”—He took an extra teacup off the table—“poured into a new vessel:”—he poured the tea from his cup into the empty one—“The form of Tom Riddle himself.”

Pondering this for a moment, Snape looked away. As he did, Dumbledore returned to his seat once more.

Snape wanted to dismiss the theory right away, and intended to. However, the more Dumbledore explained it, and the more he thought about it…it wasn’t baseless. However—

“You are assuming a rather large amount with little to go on. We can’t base our decisions on a theory, especially one so far-fetched as the idea that the simple method of revival was enough for the soul of a young girl to persist.”

Far-fetched, perhaps…but then he thought of what he saw when he read the boy’s mind yesterday. The wall in his head. How there seemed to be something trapped behind it. Something alive.

“No, but we can let theories inform our decisions. If there is that chance, do you not think it worth exploring?”

“Are you proposing we let the young Dark Lord live on the very small chance we can salvage her soul from the brink? Or else that her presence within his soul will cause him to …what? Grow a heart? Forgive me but that sounds like a hopeless endeavor. Lamentable as the situation may be, we can’t sacrifice all of wizardkind for the soul of one little girl.”

Dumbledore sighed, and there was a heaviness to it. “No. I am afraid that it is unlikely the poor Ginny would be able to return to her original state. I am unsure if her soul is even fully intact. Or, further still, she may not be entirely aware of her current predicament herself either. When speaking of souls, it’s difficult to discern where consciousness resides. It would be unwise, however, to dismiss any of these options entirely either. Rather I am proposing that the presence of her soul is a variable with unprecedented possible outcomes.”

“This is the Dark Lord we’re talking about. I don’t think one little girl’s presence—be it within his soul itself—is going to make much difference.”

Dumbledore smiled. “You of all people should know it is unwise underestimate the influence of one little girl.”

Snape’s eyes widened, unable to keep himself from reacting to that. He turned his head away.

“The Dark Lord is incapable of love, of human emotion,” Snape muttered softly.

“Perhaps. However, personally I like to refrain from making such bold statements about even the cruelest of men. But, even so, it is for precise reasons such as those why I believe the simple presence of someone who is capable of love, of human emotion, within his soul, could make all the difference. As long as there is more holy water than plain, the whole vat becomes holy.”

Snape sighed, looking away. “It is a gargantuan risk for something that is nothing more than an educated hypothesis. What if you’re wrong?”

“Then I will face the consequences.”

“Then we all will face the consequences. Those consequences could easily be the destruction of all of either wizard or muggle-kind—or both. What would you do then?”

Dumbledore sighed. “You seem to be rather caught up in that.”

“I’m more surprised to find that you’re not. Unless there is some way to guarantee he won’t repeat his past sins, then I cannot entertain the thought of keeping him alive.”

“I think we may be able to work something out.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t some misguided journey to erase your past sins, is it?”

“No.” Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. “It’s a misguided journey to try to erase his.”

“Think for a moment! If you are wrong, is there any reason you have to keep the Dark Lord alive, if not for the thought that perhaps Ginny Weasley yet lives within his soul? Any at all?”

“Oh yes, several in fact.”

Another eyebrow raise.

Dumbledore leaned forward on his desk. “I think you are underestimating the gravity of the opportunity we have been given. An opportunity which I do not believe will present itself again. We have been handed a young Tom Riddle—without memory, no less. Tom Riddle, who has yet to commit the crimes of his previous self.”

“Tom Riddle, who already exhibited little to no regard for others’ well-being! He felt no compassion upon seeing a corpse!” Anger reached his voice, he was very close to slamming his fist on the table.

“Yet he has hurt no one.”

“He’s only been around for a day.”

“A day which Voldemort could have easily spent hurting and killing as many people as he wished.”

Snape looked away. “One amnesic day does not determine the capacity of a life.”

“No, you are correct about that. But…try to imagine for a moment. Do you understand what kind of asset it would be if we were able to get a young Tom Riddle to come over to our side? If we could save him from becoming who he once was…it could save us all.”

“You’ve made this mistake before.”

“I’ve made this decision before. My mistake was in the fact that I did not realize just how much evil such a young boy was capable of. I know now what that boy could become—and already has once—and that it will take much more than a watchful eye to save him from the darkness lurking in his own heart.”

“Do you realize just how easy it would be for him to fall back into that darkness?”

“Which is why I want to keep him alive. To try to prevent him from making the mistakes of his past self. The key difference here, is that there is a chance he has light in him now, in the form of Ginny. If that’s true, we need only water that seed.”

“You don’t know that there’s light in him!” Snape stood abruptly sweeping around resting his hands the back of his chair.” At best that’s an informed hunch! Are you really willing to base such an important decision on that?! The only way to guarantee he won’t make the mistakes of his past self is to prevent him from making anydecisions at all!

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Snape blinked. “Is that all this is to you? A bit of fun?” He spat.

“Of course not.” His smile dropped at last, along with his eyes to the desk. “A young girl’s life has been lost. I’d prefer not to lose another.”

“Even if that other life is the life of the Dark Lord?”

“It is not the life of the Dark Lord.” He traced his finger along the rim of his teacup. “It is the life of the young Tom Riddle, who is entirely unaware of the crimes of his previous self—or anything much at all. He has shown no immediate inclinations to harm others, even if he is a bit insensitive. Forgive me, but I do not think it right to simply dispose of him.

“There is another thought that gives me unease as well.” Dumbledore seemed unsure he wanted to say it aloud. He folded his hands and looked at down. “If it turns out that my theory is correct, and Ginny isn’t dead after all…if we decide to dispose of him now, we, and not he, will be the ones who killed her.” The words were altogether too soft.

Snape ran his hand through his hair. “So what do you propose we do with him? Keeping the young Dark Lord alive, and a secret, will be much more difficult than simply killing him.”

“Oh I’m not denying that. If all goes according to plan, there are a number of portraits and other such lingering spirits we will have to inform of the situation.” He eyed the portraits, which folded their arms, harrumphed and looked away.

“And you’re actually proposing that we teach him magic? To the point where, when he does remember who he is, he’ll have the means at his disposal to destroy us all?”

“If we don’t teach him magic, if and when he regains his memory, do you not think he would seek out those means on his own anyways? At least this way we’re teaching him in a controlled environment, where we know where he is, and how much he knows at any given time—not to mention we can decide how much caution to exercise in the smaller details of the situation.”

“Even so…we can’t place a sixteen-year old who knows nothing of magic in first year classes.”

“Nor am I proposing that we do so. I intend to have someone teach—or remind, rather; I think he will be quick to pick it back up—of the basics over the summer. It may not be an easy task to get permission from the ministry to allow a boy under seventeen to do magic over the summer, but I think I may be able to come up with something. Either that, or we may be able to hope they assume the one doing the magic is the wizard who already lives in the house.”

“You’ve told me he has a penchant for flattery that caused many teachers to let their guard down around him. I don’t think I have to tell you why I don’t think it wise to have just any wizard teach the young Dark Lord.”

“I fear you underestimate me, Severus. You really think I would choose just any wizard teach to him? In fact—if you’ll permit my saying—he’ll have a teacher who is rather stern, and won’t find himself so easily swayed by flattery.”

“And who is the lucky contestant?”

Dumbledore gave him a look strangely similar to the smirk of a mischievous schoolboy, running his fingers along his wand.

“I did tell you I was trusting you with the situation, did I not?”

Snape’s eyes widened. He took a step back as if he’d been physically hit.

“No.”

“You asked me if I was proposing that we teach him magic,” Dumbledore elaborated, “and, for the summer at least…Actually I’m proposing that you teach him magic.”

Snape rarely found himself struck dumb but in that moment he was at a loss for both words and actions. For a moment he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been placed under a powerful confundus charm.

“During the school year, of course, he’ll learn here.” Dumbledore continued. “That is, if aforementioned summer goes smoothly.”

Snape blinked, shook his head, as if trying to remove a wrackspurt. The only thing he could ask was:

“Why me?”

Dumbledore frowned. “I thought I’d made that rather obvious. Because—as you so well proved over the past few moments—no matter how kind, how flattering, how clever, he appears, you will always keep in mind who and what he is. And, if he shows any signs of becoming his past self—or future self, as it were—you will not hesitate to do what is necessary.”

“Is there a reason you can’t do this, Sir?”

“Oh, I’m an old sap, Severus. For all we know I might grow attached to the boy.”

“And you want me to…what?” He spat. “Invite him cordially to stay in my home,” He held out a hand and bowed, “feed him, coddle him, tell him what a good little boy he is,”—he clapped his hands—“all the while teaching him all sorts of dangerous spells?!”

“No. I will inform him of the situation. Then after that I am suggesting you take him to your house—you don’t have to be too terribly cheerful about it, merely as amicable as you are able—feed him, provide him a place to stay over the summer. I’m not suggesting you coddle him—though kindness is a virtue—rather give him both praise and criticism, and each in moderation. That you teach him the basics of magic, and the spells you think would be useful, but not terribly dangerous. I trust your judgment there wholeheartedly.”

Snape stared at a speck of dirt on the ground as if that could tether him to this moment, breath weighing heavy on his chest, his mind splintering into fractals of thoughts. How could Dumbledore possibly expect this of him?

“I feel like I’m forgetting something…” Dumbledore stroked his beard in thought. “Oh!” He held up a finger. “Yes. Harry will be staying with you as well.”

Snape jerked his head to look at him, and this time couldn’t hold back:

“WHAT?!”

“I’ll admit, it’s a bit—the poor boy has been through a lot, he won’t be fond of the idea—but I think it’s important that he and the young Tom Riddle become…Well let’s put it this way, I don’t think Harry giving him hateful glares in the hallways at school will help the situation. Currently both he and you seem to have more than enough of those to spare.”

“Oh yes, and forcing us all to live together will certainly solve that problem!”

“While it’s true that living with someone can indeed increase one’s distaste…I do find that living with someone forces you to build a bond of some sort with them, and sympathize with them, in ways you would never have otherwise.”

“You’re asking the three people in this school who have the greatest distaste for each other to spend three months in a confined space!” He spat. “Not only do I think the boy would likely kill one of us before the summer is over, I’d be surprised if we don’t all end up killing each other halfway through June!”

“Or…perhaps the three of you will come to a new understanding about each other.” Dumbledore was as calm as ever. Snape wanted to wipe that smug look of his face.

“I don’t see than happening any time soon.”

“You might be surprised.”

Snape leaned against a pillar, running his hand over his face. He knew from the beginning that he wasn’t going to win this argument, but this was more than a loss, it felt like a slap in the face.

“Don’t you understand?” Dumbledore resumed his previous argument. “Tom Riddle never had a single friend—even at this age his ‘friends’ were all merely supporters and worshippers. If he and the boy destined to destroy him—who will most certainly neither blindly worship nor support him—were to become something even remotely close to friends it could make all the difference. And I think Harry is the only one who can truly change him.”

“The Dark Lord doesn’t make friends. Even without memory I don’t believe he’ll have any inclinations to form attachments—especially not to someone like Potter. He himself said he feels hatred at the sound of Potter’s name.”

“Need I remind you once more this is not the Dark Lord we’re speaking of? Memoryless, and with the presence of Ginny inside him—who already has an affinity for Harry—I think there is at least some chance his opinions on Harry, as well as concepts such as friendship itself may change. He did mention that he hates the sound of Harry’s name, as well as mine, yes. However, when I asked him if it made him sad that he had no friends, for a brief second he said yes.”

“He corrected himself immediately afterwards.”

“In all my years teaching the boy, I never saw a single moment’s hesitation, especially on a question like that.”

Snape let out a breath.

“Doesn’t Potter need to stay with his aunt and uncle?” Snape rubbed his temple, feeling defeated, voice breathy, “His mother’s protection—”

“Oh he will stay with his aunt and uncle at first, still. However, I was discussing it with the portraits, and considering the strange situation, I find the rules may be a little different, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, have him live with the Dark Lord! That will keep him very safe!” Snape sighed, slumping in his chair once again, holding his head in his hand.

“It is not one of my safest ideas, I’ll admit. But you’ll be there, of course. And you haven’t given me reason to doubt that you’re up to the task of protecting him, should the need arise.”

“You expect too much of me. There is only so much I can do.”

“It is true you can only be so many places at once. But if I did not think you were capable of accomplishing such a task, I would not ask in the first place.”

“This is lunacy,” he breathed into his hand.

“I hope I haven’t fallen prey to madness just yet. But I will not rule out the possibility.”

Dumbledore paused, standing back up and walking around the desk. “I understand if you need more time to mull it over. I often find after jarring news a walk and a good bottle of mead do wonders.”

“I only have one guest room, Sir,” Snape muttered.

“Harry can sleep on the couch.” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “He’s very small, I’m sure you’ll barely notice him.”

Snape glared at him through his fingers. “…I think I’ll notice him.”

“You haven’t answered my most pressing concern. What’s to say the boy won’t get up and kill us both in our sleep?”

“…That doesn’t sound much like Harry at all.”

“The other one.”

“We will need to discuss what protections we should put in place, certainly. But you and I are both very smart, very skilled wizards. It would be disappointing if, putting our heads together, we are unable to come up with something.”

There was a long moment of silence. Snape put his hand in his hair, thinking of all the things that could go wrong, and had gone wrong before…or at least just how much annoyance such a living situation would provide, even if there was no real danger. No matter how much chaos may occur over the school years, his summers at least had always been quiet.

His next words were soft, but thick with emotion. “I don’t think it wise for him to live with me, Sir. I don’t think I could ever feel any kindness towards the man who killed her.”

“But,” Dumbledore’s voice was as gentle as a moth’s wing beat, no annoyance or exasperation in his tone at the fact that he had to keep repeating himself, “he is not the man that killed her. Not yet. And you have the unique chance of saving him from becoming that man.”

“Not a chance that could save her.”

“No, you’re right, that chance has long since passed. But you can save hundreds of other men and women just as kind as her.”

“No one is as kind as her.”

Dumbledore knelt down beside him, putting his hand on his arm, a certain twinkle in his eyes. “If you give it a chance…I think you may just find that Harry is.”

His Butler, and the Problem with Magic (Ch1)

Fandom:Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji x Harry Potter and the Chamber of SecretsCrossover

Fic Synopsis: Life at Hogwarts isn’t all bad…usually. But when Valentine’s Day rolls around, and Lockhart throws an extravagant ball, the number of couples at school the next day skyrockets, and Sebastian finds himself a new object of devotion…Can Ciel save his butler from the spell on his own?

Character Focus:  Ciel (Sebastian, Undertaker, Harry, Grell)

Notes:This is a fic I wrote for @elegantkittycat  for a Valentines day secret-santa-style event I made a few years ago!

Yes, I’m aware there are typos in this chapter. I intend to fix them at some point. 

If you’d be willing to comment and/or reblog, it would mean more to me than you know!! They really really help motivate me to keep writing. 

Chapter 1:

The great hall, quite frankly, looked like Valentine’s day threw up on it. Those lurid pink flowers from lunch still lined the walls, but now bright streamers glided across the ceiling, big, shiny hearts fluttered in the air, reflecting mood lighting, and bubble hearts popped out of bouquets of roses, (each flower cut into hearts). The ceiling itself not only continued to drop confetti, but was blighted by puffy clouds that read the same banalities you could find in every Sweetheartsbox;Be Mine, and True Love, and XOXO. (The clouds may have actually read that outside too, but Ciel didn’t want to check.) The burly cupids from earlier in the week lumbered about the room, continuing to pelt people with off-key music, and cards that only the most hopeless and idiotic of romantics would provide, filled with the same empty statements the clouds read—(every once and a while a howler burst forth, and the actual band would come to a shrieking halt at “YOU’RE REALLY CUTE”).

Lockhart had insisted a Valentine’s day ball was in order—(a lurid end to a lurid day)—and remarked with a toss of his perfect hair and blinding smile that it would be ‘just the thing’ to brighten everyone’s moods.

The fact that Lizzie had been the first (of many, mind you) to offer her decorative expertise and assistance may or may not have contributed to the overall… valentines-day-puked-and-so-will-I vibe of the room.

Currently, said mission to lift the general spirit was failing; aside from the few school lovebirds, (who were already widely despised and avoided, without school-sanctioned and overly sugary displays of affection) most people took this as the perfect opportunity for your daily dose of sulking at the sidelines, and contemplating if magic was quite worth this amount of suffering. Not least of all Ciel, who was currently propped against the wall behind the food table. (Lizzie had pried him away from his brooding earlier to dance, but now he happily returned to the indent he’d made in the wall). He had made many attempts throughout the evening to sneak a piece of chocolate cake, but Sebastian always magically appeared to slap his hands away whenever he got too close.

Most people would have stayed in their dorms, given the chance. Lockhart, however, had sent everyone cards with his kissy face on them, telling them flirtatiously not to dawdle, and his commands got more sugary, and insistent, (not to mention awkward) the longer they stayed indoors, and floated over their heads until they dragged their butts to the ball. This was particularly affective at making sure everyone was there, because the girls melted for his voice, and the boys wanted to shut him up as soon as possible.

“Isn’t this wonderful, Ciel!” A certain Indian prince put his arm around the earl’s neck and noogied him.

“Wha—No!” Ciel struggled like a fish out of water. Upon release he wiped his hands on his dress robes (the robes Sebastian had thrown together for the event—his ‘thrown together,’ of course, looked like others ‘spent-months-laboring-over-this’)—as if he didn’t want to catch Soma’s contagious happiness. “And I’d thank you to not touch me so casually!”

“I’m sorry Ciel, it’s just seeing all this love in the air makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside!” he spun around, “Doesn’t it do the same for you?”

“That’s called acid reflux.”

Soma pouted.

“Ciieel!” Lizzie’s hug was a torpedo. She snared his hands and spun him around, “Come dance with me!”

“Ack…I just danced with you ten minutes ago! How many times do I have to dance with you before you’re satisfied?!”

“Don’t you want your fiancé to be happy?” Her green eyes, (which were already big), became the puppy dog eyes of a little girl who wants an expensive toy.

“Don’tyou?” he grumbled.

“I’ll dance with you, Elizabeth!” Soma came to the rescue. “It would be an honor to dance with such a lovely young lady!”

She blushed—“Oh please! It would be more than an honor to dance with a Prince!”—and curtsied, shooting Ciel an icy look, before joining the dance.

The young earl folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes.

As if that wasn’t enough sappiness for a lifetime, cloying words floated to his ears:

“Oh Professor Michaelis~!”

Ciel’s brow twitched.

“Come now Lavender, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

“Ahh, he’s so noble!” came a not-so-whispered consensus.

Ciel jerked his head to see the group of girls crowding around his butler, like birds to sunflower seeds in the park.

Rather than sharing his annoyance, and refusing their advances, Sebastian shimmered with flattery and flirtation. A few of them offered him boxes of chocolates and other sweets, which he took with flowery compliments, but surely had no intention of eating—it didn’t take a love expert to know they were all laced with love potions. (Or maybe he could eat them anyways; the jury was still out if love potions had any affect on the demon…some magical methods worked on him and others didn’t).

Ciel’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, “Don’t you have better things to do?!” he shouted over the throng.

Sebastian chuckled. “Mr. Phantomhive, don’t you know it’s rude to question a teacher?”

Ciel growled.

“These lovely ladies took time out of their day to offer me gifts,” the butler’s calm voice carried across the room. “It would be rude to refuse them.”

There was a syrupy sigh from the group.

“Ugh,” Ciel gave the opposite kind of sigh, and turned away before he gave into the urge to murder.

A familiar laugh at his side made him turn.

“What’s so funny?” he asked the Undertaker.

“Oh nothing much,” Undertaker forwent his usual dog biscuits for a piece of cake, “I just find your sour mood rather humorous.”

“You know me, I’m always in a sour mood.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said, his mouth full of cake, “but,” he swallowed, “it seems the atmosphere of love and joy has put you in a particularly foul state of mind,” he pointed a black nail at him.

“I just don’t find romance being thrown in my face to make for a very fun evening, that’s all. One of Lizzie’s cutsey rampages is enough for me…but this?” he shuddered.

“Well, some would say it’s sweet. That it makes them feel happy and romantic.”

“When I rise to power, those people will be sterilized.”*

He laughed. “Always the life of the party, you are.”

“What? Are you one of those people?”

“I wouldn’t say so. But seeing you in such a state is worth all the romance any day.”

“Glad I could be of service,” he grunted.

Undertaker set down his plate and twirled in front of him, then leaned forward and spoke behind his hand, “What do you say we make this party…a party?” he reached into one of his drapey sleeves and pulled out a vial, teasing it in front of his face.

A quizzical look from Ciel made Undertaker whistle in the direction of the nearby punchbowl.

Ciel sighed and rubbed his temple. “Spiking the punch…really? Isn’t that a little too cliché, even for you?”

“I prefer the term ‘failsafes.’ Even you have to admit, the atmosphere could use a little…” he glanced around the room, “spiking. Besides,” he leaned in close and whispered, “this isn’t alcohol, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“…What is it then?” Ciel moaned, eyeing the ex-reaper.

He stood back up to his full height. “I’m not one to spoil the punchline before I tell the joke.”

The young earl sighed, “You really think we should deprive people of their misery? I’m not one to interrupt some good, old-fashioned sulking.”

“The general idea is that those who are miserable would like to…not be.”

“They also say that misery loves company. Misery and I, for instance, have quite the close relationship.”

As if called by them saying ‘misery’ too many times, Lockhart’s pretty face showed up.

Ciel coughed to cover his distaste.

“Ah Undertaker! Good to see you here! Everyone’s loving the party aren’t they?”—He gestured to the glowering room—“It’s so wonderful to see all these young people in love!” he gave a throaty chuckle.

“Well, I wouldn’t say everyone.” Undertaker had a way with honesty.

“What makes you say that? Did someone tell you they weren’t enjoying it? We can’t have that!”

“It’s not so much anyone specific, but—”

“…What’s that you have?” his eyes fell on the vial that Undertaker had barely tried to conceal. Despite Ciel’s theory that Lockhart was dumber than a bag of rocks (even if the rocks were magic), it didn’t take long for the truth to dawn on him, “Spiking the punch are we?” He held up an accusatory finger, “Naughty naughty. I would have expected this from one of the students, but shouldn’t a man of your stature know better?”

“What stature?” Ciel snorted.

“What’s that, Dear Boy?” Lockhart leaned forward.

Undertaker put his hand on Ciel’s head, covering his vision with his sleeve. “The young Er—student was just about to say that a man of my stature is not one to shy away from a little fun.” he put his other hand on Ciel’s shoulder, his grip a little too tight.

“I hardly think it’s ‘a little fun.’ We don’t want any students getting hurt, nor do we the party ruined, now do we? All it takes is one slip of the foot and someone ends up in the hospital.” He held out his hand, expecting him to hand over the vial.

“On second thought, do it,” Ciel whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be the kid who winds up in the hospital. Anything to get me out of this hellish party.”

“What are we up to?” Dumbledore joined the conversation. It appeared as though Lizzie had got to even the headmaster, as he had bows in his beard and hair, though he didn’t seem to mind much.

“I regret to inform you that our dear Undertaker has intents to spike the punch.” Lockhart said like he was a student tattling.

“Ah,” the headmaster said casually, popping a heart candy in his mouth and burping out a heart, “(Pardon me). Well you can’t blame him for trying to bring a little…sprucing up, to the room, can you?” he lifted his hands and smiled genially.

“Are you saying that my party is not of the highest caliber?”

“Oh we aren’t denying that you have an air for the grandiose, Gilderoy,” he began cutting the cake with his wand; “Mr. Phantomhive, would you like some cake?”

Ciel glanced at Sebastian, who was currently preoccupied, and tried not to smirk. “I’d love some, thanks.”

Dumbledore cut him a huge slice, handing it to him gracefully, as if he were dropping a tiny lemon sherbet into his palm instead of a mountain of chocolate. Ciel inclined his head in gratitude, (and made sure to eat a big bite when Sebastian was looking, and the incense on his face was worth it—he, of course, couldn’t do anything butler-like with the headmaster and another teacher standing there).

“Don’t beat around the bush Albus!” Lockhart cut back in, “What is it you’re trying to say?”

“No one denies your party-throwing skills, dear Professor Lockhart.” He stood, placing his hands behind his back, “But your em…” he cleared his throat, “other skills can sometimes be rather lacking…”

“I’m shocked, and hurt, Dumbledore.” He put his hand over his heart. “Shockedandhurt. I’ll have you know that I won ‘best party-thrower’ in three”—he held up three shaky fingers—“countries! I think that should more than make up for any spoiled brats who can’t see fun even if it’s standing in front of their face!”

“Was he talking about me?” Ciel murmured to Undertaker, without a hint of hurt in his voice, “I feel like he was talking about me.”

“And what countries were those?”

As they argued, Dumbledore inclined his head towards the punch bowl.

It was Ciel’s turn to be shocked. Everyone knew their headmaster was rather eccentric, but he didn’t take him to be so reckless. He’d expect this from Undertaker… but Dumbledore? He thought he had at least a little ‘responsible-grown-up’ in him (even though Undertaker was definitely a lost cause).

Ciel turned to stop the ex-reaper, but now a dotted outline remained where Undertaker previously had been, and a second later he saw a long-nailed hand appear above the punch bowl.

Ciel facepalmed.

Any desire he had to drink said punch, as well as be at this party at all, had gone into the negatives.

But, eh, at least he had cake now. So maybe it wasn’t all bad.

“Young Master!” Sebastian snatched the plate from his hand, “How many times have I told you—!”

“Oh, so now you can walk away from the girls?” Ciel spun to his butler, whose arms were full of assorted treats. (Ciel, of course, knew he’d probably have walked away sooner if it weren’t for Lockhart and Dumbledore).

He tapped his foot on the ground (which somehow didn’t imbalance the tower of sweets), “I won’t allow it. You’ll get a tummyache.”

“I’m not a child!”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow at his whining. “That may be…but regardless, you have a delicate composition.” He leaned over and set Ciel’s unfinished plate in the ‘dirty’ pile. “Sweets of this size will certainly impair your gastrointestinal health.”

Ciel looked from side to side, hoping no one was listening, feeling his face grow hot. “Delicate!”

“Would you prefer a different term? Fragile? Frail?”

“I’m not a vase!”

“Tender?”

“I’m not a steak!”

Sebastian looked over his professor-glasses at him as if to say Do you think you’re talking to someone else?

Ciel groaned, giving his butler the victory.

Sebastian set his armful of gifts in a pile along the wall. Clapping his hands clean and wiping his brow.

“What, are you tired?” he mocked, knowing full well the demon couldn’t get tired. “Is having a bunch of high-school-girls fawn over you exhausting?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Sebastian joked back, feigning thought.

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s get out of—”

A mischievous idea curled itself around his brain.

“You must be thirsty,” he said in a mockingly-concerned voice, trying to lean sideways on the table by the punch (but he almost fell over, and had to catch himself).

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t really require hydration like you humans do.”

Ciel gave him a look as if to say No, go ahead, I won’t mind. You really do look exhausted.

“But I suppose it couldn’t hurt….If you insist.”

“Oh I do.” He smirked as he watched Sebastian pour himself a cup.

More likely than not it wouldn’t have any affect on the demon, but, presented with the potential, he wasn’t going to deny himself a few hours to imagine what it might be like if it did.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Young Master?” he asked before raising the cup to his lips.

“Oh…I’m just enjoying the party.”

That didn’t clear things up. Sebastian’s brow furrowed, but, after taking a sip, he didn’t have time to ask because—

“The party has arri-ved~!” a certain familiar voice sang.

Ciel was starting to wonder if this was God finally deciding to punish him. Both master and butler felt like they were going to be violently ill, and simultaneously had a thought something akin to that’s my cue to leave! Before they could even make the first step, however—

“AhhSebas-chan!”

They winced, turning slowly to see Grell waving a princess wave at the butler over the crowd, while Ronald followed suit, nodding and blowing kisses towards the girls.

“All this love in the air,” Grell materialized beside them (they jumped a little), and crossed his hands over his heart, staring blinkily into the ceiling, “Kinda gets you thinking, doesn’t it.” He sidled up beside the demon.

“If you mean thinking about ending your life, indeed, it does.” Sebastian showed him no mercy.

“Playing hard to get, are we? Ah! How saucy!” he slapped his shoulder playfully,

Sebastian sighed, folding his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the nagging presence.

“Ciel! Ciel! Are you going to introduce me to your friends?!” Lizzie and Soma arrived at his side, as if hopeless romantics were coming out of the woodwork.

“They’re most certainly not my friends.” He cleared his throat.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Old Chap?” Ronald asked, “We may not be close, but I thought all those times we tried to kill each other meant something.”

Lizzie stared at Ronald, inching slowly away.

“Oh that’s just…a joke we have,” Ciel defended weakly.

“Oh…” Lizzie looked away, then recovered quickly, “Well, anyhow, you didn’t tell me Prince Soma was such a lovely dancer!”

“How was I supposed to know?” he grunted, “I’ve never danced with him!”

“Don’t be so rude, Ciel!” Soma defended her, “Please, you were like a—what are those dancers called? That’s right, a ballerina! —You were like ballerina, Miss Lizzie.”

“Don’t be so modest! Ciel, should take a page out of your book!”

“What page?” Ciel demanded, “The one on being a spoiled brat?”

“Sounds like someone’s already read that one,” She punched his shoulder. Her attitude changed in a second again, “I’m so thirsty!” She reached for the punch ladle.

“Wait—NO!” Ciel grabbed her wrist.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“I—uh” his face was a thermometer slowly going into the red, “I just umm…You don’t want to drink that.”

“I don’t?”

“No…yeah…it uh, tastes like uhh… cat pee,” he started to pull her away.

“How would you know what cat pee tastes like?” Ronald’s butted in.

“Maybe a cat peed in my mouth one time, you don’t know my life!”

“I’m having a hard time believing a nobleman such as yourself—”

“I just don’t think she should drink it, that’s all! Is that so inconceivable?!”

“Sorry! Sorry! Sheesh,” he shook his head, “you Nobles are pieces of work!”

Ciel rolled his eyes, turning back to Lizzie. “Why don’t you go back to your dorm?”

“But… I don’t want to go back to my dorm.” Lizzie pouted, “I’m having fun! …Or at least I was,” she murmured.

“…Look I’m sorry. I’ll-I’ll dance another number with you, okay?”

As they walked out onto the floor, he watched the other students drink the unassuming punch over his shoulder.

*****

At the risk of sounding even more cliché; the day started like any other. Ciel got up before the other boys in his dorm to a chilly February morning, and started his routine—an aspect of which was speaking to Sebastian about today’s mission and objectives before classes began. Their current mission had to do with the Chamber of Secrets—such as figuring out where it was, if it existed at all—and the heir, who they were, and how to dispose of, or join them, accordingly. At this point, they had little to no leads. With his day robes on, and homework and books in hand, he slipped out into the hall.

He’d soon wish he stayed in bed.

Once the common room door closed, his day-from-hell would begin.

For a magic school, not much happened day-to-day. Well, that wasn’t true, Harry Potter added some…pizzazz. But it was still a school, and once you get used to the magic…normal-school-things happen.

Today was one of those days which reminded him that this was not a normal school.

Sure it was the day after Valentines Day, but did those Huffpuffs have to kiss in the hallways?

And guess what? You there, standing in the hall, blocking everyone’s way? Yeah, you. There is a perfectly nice wall behind you, just waiting to be leaned against (ignore the judgmental painting in the background).

And why did anyone who wasn’t in the throws of *shudders* youthful passion have this glazed look in their eyes, like they’d eaten pot brownies for breakfast?

Most of the time, the few students who were awake at this hour chatted and giggled, inflicting the general populace with the daily gossip, at which, sure, he would still roll his eyes and groan, but it was at least better than kissing and clogging up the hallway (as well as each other’s mouths).

He was relieved to finally reach Sebastian in the The Defense Against the Dark arts classroom.

This was one thing that was no surprise, as he shared the teaching position of the class with Lockhart—(no easy task, as they were both divas who didn’t enjoy sharing spotlight, and one was totally incompetent, and the other was as overqualified a professional chef at a kids easy-bake bake off. But their even-keeled headmaster had to give them each equal time teaching. At the beginning of the year, after it was decided which classes would get which teacher, some students begged the heads of houses to reconsider putting them in Sebastian’s class. Sebastian, amicable and excessive as ever, decided to host extra classes after school to satisfy the disappointed students).

“Alright, shall we pick up where we left off?” Ciel marched towards Sebastian, throwing his books on the nearest desk.

However, unlike his usual, attentive I-solved-all-our-problems-overnight-here’s-the-solution self, the butler stared out the window…he didn’t even pay his master immediate attention.

Said master tapped his foot impatiently on the ground and snapped, “Oy, Sebastian!”

“Mm?” the demon faced him, slowly.

Again, there was that glazed look. Like he had been in a donut factory.

“Young Master, I… didn’t hear you come in.” His eyes darted around the room.

“You bloody well didn’t,” he continued to tap his foot, muttering, “Demon hearing my ass.”

When Sebastian didn’t use said demon hearing to reprimand him for swearing, he knew something was wrong. He stopped being aggravated for a second and looked a little closer.

There was a smudge on his glasses. His hair was sticking up in front of his forehead, and there was some cat hair on his robes (probably from a clowder he kept in his room).

He was…imperfect. His appearance, while still practically impeccable by human standards was sloppy by Sebastian’s. His attention, divided.

And that was reason to worry.

Ciel leaned over the desk and snapped in his face. “You can ogle photos on your own time!”

Sebastian looked at him, but every time he focused on him, as if magnetized, his eyes reeled back to a photograph on the desk.

“Do you think…do you think he could like me?” Sebastian said in a strangely uncertain voice that didn’t sound at all like him.

“Huh?”

He had never known Sebastian to be uncertain of, or fascinated by, anything, and, more importantly, he had zero regard for whether or not people liked him. He also never pried his concentrations from the missions, especially not for something so trivial and/or emotional as photos.

Ciel walked around the desk to get a good look at it. He thought it might be Lockhart, as the room was crawling with his glimmering face. Instead, in a shattered case—(Ciel thought he might hurl)—the demon fixated on a picture of Grell.

The young earl vaguely remembered Grell giving it to him—mentioning passionately something about it being a way for him to be with him at all times, with hearts in his eyes. At the time, Sebastian had rolled his eyes, said, ‘is there a version of this when I can see you at no times?’ and tossed it into the drawer with enough disregard that the glass had shattered, and (now this is just speculation) hoped to never look at it again.

For what unholy (or holy, by demon standards…no, it definitely wasn’t holy) reason would Sebastian return to it now? And what’s worse, how could a picture of Grell possibly distract him from the task his master had placed before him?

Was it possible that all those pictures, cards, the cheesy lines, and sappy gestures, all the maudlin advances, had finally made it through to Sebastian?

Hell no. He’d watch the world burn before that happened.

Hang on a minute, let’s check.

Nope, still snow on the ground.

Okay, more plausibly, did he lose his mind?

Let’s tone it down a little; Maybe this was a—albeit not funny—joke?

“What are you on about?”

The demon picked up the picture. “Grell.” He rushed towards Ciel, putting the picture in front of his eyes—“Get that out of my face!”—“Do you think he’d ever want to be with someone like me?”

The earl began to laugh, a fake, loud laugh, then abruptly stopped.

“Very funny, Sebastian, you like Grell. Can we get back to work now?”

Sebastian grabbed a book off his table and Ciel had to duck to keep it from hitting his head.

“What are you on?!”

“I may be cleverly witty when the situation calls for it, but I am not joking, Young Master! And I’d thank you to treat my beloved one with respect!”

Ciel blanched, his eyes glued open, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. “You mean this,” he pointed to the situation at hand, the words soft and enunciated, a nervous laugh behind them, “This isn’t a joke?”

“No!” he cradled the picture, “I think Grell’s the most lovely person I ever met.”

He waited for the butler to burst into laughter.

…and he kept waiting.

He knew more than anyone, neither master nor butler pulled stunts of this caliber.

Ciel grabbed one of the scrolls on the wall and wacked his butler over the head with it.

“Quit playing around! We don’t have time for children’s games!”

“I don’t understand, Young Master,” he rubbed his head (as if that could possibly hurt the demon). “You aren’t insulting Master Grell, are you?”

“No, I’m insulting you, you twat!”

He swiped the picture from him (hurt flared in the butler’s eyes). “You see how the glass is shattered here?”

He placed his hand over his heart. “Who would do a thing like that to such a perfect face?”

“You, you bloody idiot! Don’t you remember?” he smacked his head with the paper again, making it crease, “When Grell gave you that you tossed it into the drawer and said you ‘wanted to see him at notimes.’”

“Me?” he snatched the picture back, holding it tight to his chest. “No, I would never!” he said like Grell was the purest little ray of sunshine, and Ciel said he’d kicked a puppy yesterday.

“No, what you would never, is return said…” he cleared his throat and didn’t finish the sentence.

“I don’t understand, Young Master. Here I am, bearing my heart. Why must you squash it?”

His eye twitched. “To remind you you don’t have a heart!”

“I—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” he slammed his hands on the desk, “There’s no way this can be real!” he slumped onto the desk and ran his hand through his hair, looking more deranged than the one who was actually delirious, “Why, in all that is—How—Why would you ever—?!”

“Be careful, Young Master, don’t let that anger fester; it’s bad for your health.”

And it dawned on him.

He slammed his palm into his forehead.

The punch at the party—it was so obvious. Undertaker had even told him it didn’t contain alcohol.

“Young Master, are you saying our love is not real? Are you insulting master Grell?” his voice became a sickening tone.

Ciel now fully understood the situation: Sebastian, having been given a love-potion—(turns out they did work on him…or, even if they didn’t, maybe Undertaker made some extra-potent, mutant variety that did)—and Grell being the first person he saw (or heard) after taking it, fully believed Grell to be his one-true-love.

And as he watched a shadow (much bigger than the demon’s human shape) spread across the floor, he realized he believed it enough to attack anyone who stood against said love. Even his master.

The young earl knocked into desks as he scrambled way, his outward attitude towards the situation performing a 180:

“Uh, no no! No, no, no! I believe you!” he grabbed his bag, “There’s nothing weird or horrifying about you being in love with Grell at all. I just was a little…mmmm surprised!” his voice went up an octave. He shoved a desk into the space between them, “That’s all?! I’ll…I’ll just be going, now! You uh…you go back to…what you were doing!” he gave him a thumbs up (something he’d never done in his life) as dashed out the door.

After getting some ways down the hall, he doubled over, breath sharp and fast, piercing his side, his thoughts whirring around.

He’d wanted to mess with Sebastian, but he, first of all, hadn’t thought it would work, and second of all, hadn’t meant to mess with him this much—especially not in a way that affected him. This wasn’t fun or funny, this was just…gross. And now he had to fix it, when, had he left the situation alone and not given Sebastian the punch in the first place, he’d have his demon butler to help him, and the predicament would probably be solved in less than a day.

Now when he saw the students making out, or walking around dazed, he understood the full ramifications of Undertaker’s little stunt.

Speaking of which…

He heightened his pace until he was rushing through the halls, speeding past dreamy eyes, and cuddly couples.

Everyone,everyone had been at that party. Not only had the whole school been at that party, the punch was one of the few things available for the sweaty and thirsty dancers to drink. Even the sulking folks, who didn’t intend to dance, surely wouldn’t have had a problem grabbing a snack or two, and, well, a cup of punch to go with it. Now instead of one night of suffering in a lovebird’s playground, the whole school could be set to pop music. And, like the villain in a fairy tale, it was his job to break apart the happy couples.

And his first order of business was to find the mastermind who put them together.

Undertaker performed many of the odd jobs around, and often made it a job to make things odd (but Ciel of course knew that his primary function was probably to make dead bodies disappear discreetly). He and Peeves were overly chummy, and their pranks could sometimes be unbearable…but neither had ever attempted something of this magnitude before.

He was close to Filch’s corridor—

When the bell rang.

In the pandemonium he had forgotten today was still a normal school day.

“Sebast—” he began, hoping for an easy way not to be late, but remembered that his butler was …otherwise occupied. He grit his teeth, clenched his fists, and hurtled towards the transfiguration classroom.

*****

“Mister Phantomhive!” snapped a clipped voice as he swung open the door, gasping for breath. “I thank you not to be late! And while you’re at it, not to disrupt my class while in session!”

“Sorry—” he clutched at his side, “Professor— McGonagall.”

“Usually,” she ran her fingers along her wand, stretching out the word, “I would give you detention. However, as it seems you are not the only one…out of sorts this morning” she drummed her fingers on the podium, giving Ciel a moment to look around the room—There were always a few latecomers, especially during first period, but the number of empty chairs rivaled the number of students present—“I will let you off with a warning.”

“Thank you,” he coughed—“Professor.”—And slumped at his desk like an old sock.

Thankfully not everyone had been affected by the spiked punch. Certain kids in class had that far-off look in their eyes, and a few even kissed in class (they were definitely sent to detention, though, of course, nothing much mattered to them but their newfound love). There were also teachers who had starry looks, and instead of giving them genuine lessons, muttered trite words about love, like a broken radio that only plays emo songs. There were, however, others who acted just as confused, annoyed and shell-shocked as Ciel at the current predicament. Clearly they had either found something else to drink at the party, simply not drank anything, or escaped the festivities somehow.

McGonagall was clearly among the unaffected, and while he was grateful for a little normalcy, he might have traded her for someone a little more lenient, and liked to see how her disposition changed while under the affects of love.

Throughout the day, he told the few students who were still awake and alive to the world that someone had spiked the punch with a love potion the previous night. This seemed to give them relief that they weren’t going crazy, still, none of them had any idea what to do about it. Love potions weren’t exactly considered an important course in potions class, especially not with a teacher like Snape—(in fact, a certain Ravenclaw had asked how to make a love potion in class on Valentine’s Day, and later Ciel saw that Ravenclaw mysteriously lost ten points). Some worried for their friends, while others eyes lit with an impish glint at the realization that—as long as they didn’t insult their ‘true love’— they could do anything to mess with their friends.

He had to give Undertaker at least a little credit: that day was one of the most memorable in his entire time at Hogwarts:

During transfiguration, on multiple separate occasions, students, instead of transfiguring their hamsters into dominoes, transfigured them into rings, and flowers used to profess their love, or even propose to Professor McGonagall herself. She only looked down her nose, and demanded where this talent had been the entire semester, and wracked up a body count of detention-bound students.

In Herbology, while not nearly as exciting as others, Professor Sprout went on and on about how amazing Neville was—(whenever he passed him in the hallway that day Neville looked as red as plants they tended to…He probably hadn’t had much of anyone else to talk to at the party).

If Divination wasn’t enough already, Trelawney made them look into their futures and see their potential for romance (…it was hard to tell if she was under the spell or not), and it was both worth noting, and a source of personal pride that she looked into Ciel’s and saw lots and lots of hate.

And best of all, during potions, which was his last class of the day, Snape looked like he was ready to kill someone…and got close when Lockhart burst in and proclaimed that he simply couldn’t take it anymore, that they were made for each other. (Out of all the the crazy, embarrassing things that happened that day, this was the one Ciel guessed would be the most difficult for either of them to live down).

Hilarious confessions aside, Ciel was relieved to find that the potions master was at least trying to counteract the curse himself, by having them make antidotes and anti-love potions, and drink them (allegedly, lots of students refused to drink them in earlier classes, so he had to forgo their Latin name and call them “Happy Sunshine Potions,” which was quite possibly the best string of words he’d ever heard Snape say, and the unaffected students looked like chipmunks holding in their laughter in when hearing it). Although this was another teacher Ciel would have liked to see under the affects, he was guessing the net worth of breaking the curse would be far greater.

However, as far as he could tell, currently, Snape’s attempts to douse the proverbial fire were ineffective. (Yet another reason to think Undertaker’s love potion was some mutant version).

At each break he had, Ciel attempted to find Undertaker—(Except at lunch, when everyone was screaming that Draco was running around, and in increasingly boisterous and/or risqué methods, trying to declare his love for Ron Weasley. While Harry and Ron were also running around, either avoiding him at all costs, or messing with him. It was, first of all, difficult to get around the crowd, and, second of all, not something to miss.)—But Undertaker had an ongoing disappearing act that had nothing to do with magic. The one thing Ciel knew, was that the old coot couldn’t have left; he’d want to see every glorious minute of the chaos he wrought, so Ciel wasn’t giving up on finding him.

After school, hungry, tired, and desperate (especially after a run-in with Peeves, through which he earned the ex-reaper’s location, but also a cluster of lipstick marks on his face) he finally found Undertaker back in the Divination Classroom (of course he just had to pick one of the tallest, most tiring towers to climb). The room was cold, and Trelawney was nowhere in sight.

The pretty, setting sky over the frosty roof outside didn’t provide an iota of solace.

Ciel rolled up his sleeves, his anger a newfound immunity to the cold, and, with fingers curled into fists, marched up to him.

“You.”

The Undertaker, resting against the windowsill, turned to the seething boy, grinned, and spoke as if this was no more than an ordinary meeting.

“My, Young Earl, looks like you’ve been getting busy.”

“Wh—?!” he remembered the marks on his face and rubbed them off on his sleeve as Undertaker cackled.

“You seem awfully upset about something,” Undertaker continued, “Don’t want to let it fester—as your butler would say.”

“You spiked the punch with a love potion.” The boy growled.

“Did I?” he put a finger on his chin as if thinking, “I can’t seem to recall.”

Ciel’s brow twitched. “You bloody well know you did, I watched you. Now tell me how to undo it.”

“How do undo it, you say? And why would we want to do a thing like that?”

“I am in no mood for your games.”

Undertaker shrugged. “‘Fraid I can’t help you then. You know the rules; no payment, no information.”

“The whole school is a joke! That’s your payment!”

He contemplated it. “Sure you wouldn’t like to give an old man a good chuckle?”

“I’mcertain.”

He sighed. “I suppose you got me there. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t quite got to the whole undoing it part.” He twirled his hand in the air like the ringmaster in this show.

Ciel blinked, emotion flickering as he spluttered, “How can…? But you—? I—? What?!”

He laughed, and the Undertaker’s nonchalance and disregard made anger jumpstart his tongue.

“Youmade it, didn’t you?” he kept his voice low, and his hand on the wand in his pocket, marching forward, “You can at least tell me how you made it. Then maybe I can unmake it.”

Undertaker tapped his chin, as if knocking around the marbles in his skull, “Don’t much feel like it.”

“You don’t feel like it?! Listen here—!”

He no sooner pulled out his wand than it was in Undertaker’s hand. He hadn’t even noticed Undertaker draw his own wand.

Undertaker ruffled his hair as he walked by, dropping the boy’s wand back into his pocket, “Part of the fun is figuring it out for yourself, Young Earl. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”

He headed down the stairs, leaving Ciel standing alone, angry breaths steaming up the chilly classroom.

*****

When Ciel trudged back to his dorm, all the energy he had used to run around that day had given up the ghost. He barely noticed the smooching and starstruck kids in the hallways anymore, and didn’t have the energy to send even a derisive snort their way.

Sebastian was supposed to be the one running around trying to find answers. These menial tasks were beneath him. Hard work, and running around, looking for answers, was no suit for a fourteen-year-old boy to wear. Oh, Ciel would devise a particularly difficult and useless task for his butler to accomplish once he—or someone—finally broke the curse.

Caught up in thoughts of needless revenge, he ran into someone in the hallway, sending both their books to the floor.

“Sorry!” The boy called.

As they both crouched down to pick up their fallen items, Ciel looked up to see unruly black hair, crooked glasses, and lightning-struck forehead.

“Harry Potter.”

“Yeah…?”

“Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I’m Ciel Phantomhive.” He held out his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry smiled, taking his hand.

“Likewise—er, sorry about your books.”

“It’s alright. I seem to have some bad luck with that lately! At least ink didn’t spill all over everything this time.”

“That happened?”

“Yeah…It happened yesterday actually.”

“Oh, that sounds awful.”

“Nothing a little magic couldn’t fix,” he shrugged.

They both returned to their task.

“It looks like you haven’t been…love-ified,” Harry noted.

“You seem to have your wits about you as well.”

“Lucky us…Draco wasn’t so lucky though,” he laughed. “I heard someone spiked the punch at Lockhart’s Valentine’s day ball.”

“I heard that too.”

“A perfect end to the night, huh?”

“Hehe…yeah…”

Ciel turned to the next book, about to hand it to Harry.

Here’s the thing, about dark magic.

It has this sort of…pull. The more you use it, the more sway it has on you.

A pure soul looks at a dark object and feels uneasy, but doesn’t know why.

Someone who has participated in the dark before, let it creep in and corrode the soul, is attuned to the darkness. Like a resonant frequency, a humming in the back of their mind, putting them on the same wavelength, (and if they listen too long, they might shatter). They may not always know what it is, or does, and sometimes they wont recognize why something has this aura, but they will know that an object is not just that, in as much as darkness is not just the absence of the light.

Ciel Phantomhive was no ordinary student. While he may have learned from the teachers at Hogwarts, the reason he was here was at the request of the Queen, not for learning, and his most informative teacher, was Sebastian. Before they arrived at Hogwarts, Sebastian, going above and beyond as always, made sure he knew more spells than half the students in his year. More importantly, however, fear of the dark had long left them both. Knowing dark magic, they surmised, would put them ahead of their enemies (not to mention their friends…well, if you could call them friends), and could be a powerful trump card were the situation to call for it.

When Ciel looked at this diary everything slowed. Like in a movie, when you can hear your heartbeat, and the camera zooms in. From the moment he saw it he knew it would be both silly and dangerous to think it was merely a diary. One may pour their soul into the words dear diary, but the Something that lurked beneath it’s pages was far more than the heartfelt and trivial adages of teenage boys and girls. There was something living in those pages.

He knew it was alive. Unlike other dark artifacts, which gave off a hint, a whisper of more-than-I-seem, this was more than a whiff of untapped potential, or forbidden mystery; the resonant darkness, rather than a faint, inanimate hum, was a Horror singing old-fashioned lullabies to himself in the darkest corners of the pages.

Ciel was tired. Tired of running around, tired of searching for a cure, tired of doing all the work himself. He wanted an easy way out. That’s how he’d always been. People who like to take the long way ‘round don’t make contracts with demons.

So, in a moment of weakness…

…or a moment of strength

He slipped the diary into his own bag.

*****

That night, despite being interested enough in the book to steal it, he hadn’t had any energy to begin figuring out what that darkness was, meant, or could do. Nor did he have any energy to spend on figuring out the antidote to the plague himself. In fact, he had had so little regard for either, that he ignored the dumb looks of his roommates, slipped the diary into the chest at the foot of his bed, flopped facedown on top of his covers (screaming into his pillows for good measure), and went to sleep.

The next morning wasn’t much better. He woke up with a splitting headache, the love-zombies were still up to their shenanigans—(he half hoped it would end in the morning)—and when he tentatively checked on Sebastian, the demon had traveled further down the Grell-obsessed rabbit hole than before.

When Ciel entered the teacher’s lounge (it had taken a moment to find him) the smell of flowers smacked him full in the face. Unlike some of the teachers present, Ciel was unimpressed, and quite honestly queasy, to see that he had moved on from admiring the picture of his affection, to creating his own; or rather than a picture, a bust made of flowers of none other than his…erm lady-love, Grell.

Just like Sebastian, he was attentive to detail; only the freshest of flowers for his beloved, and each component of Grell’s complexion was a different flower: the coat was made of red Amaryllis’, the vest, brown orchids, the shirt, white hydrangeas, the face was pale dahlias, the eyes were green carnations, and the hair was, of course, roses. He wondered if Sebastian went far to find all of them, though knowing him he probably ran to the finest flower shop in Paris at 1:00AM that morning for them and was back before anyone could wonder where he’d gone.

Yes, quite far gone. But not far enough to forget the ‘offense’ Ciel had caused to his new master the day before.

Or perhaps Ciel had caused him new offense by blurting out “What the devil is this?!” upon seeing his labor-of-love.

If it was good idea in general for the public not to talk to the young earl, today, it was an inescapable rule: if people didn’t give him a wide berth, they learned quickly he was not in the mood for human (or reaper, or demon) interaction.

Wasting his time before class on pointless attempts to slap the delusion out of his butler was idiotic. So he headed to the library to actually try and make some progress, and picked up a book on love potions—(Madam Pince was too busy writing love poems to scold kids like him for going into the restricted section. Knowing this was a rare opportunity, he grabbed several more books he’d had his eyes on while he was there.)—with the intent to read up on counter curses every spare minute he got, not excluding during certain classes overtaken by horny teachers.

More students were missing from classes today, and those who weren’t were either more randy than before, or losing patience and brain cells every second they were around those afflicted. The teachers who were still in possession of their faculties—namely McGonagall, Snape, Vector, and Flitwick, (Madam Pomfrey was too, but she wasn’t present)—made an announcement at lunch, in front of their dreamy-eyed headmaster, that they were trying their best to find a solution to the problem presently.

While it was comforting to hear they weren’t sitting on their asses, and it would save him a hell of a lot of trouble if they did solve it, he didn’t expect they’d figure it out anytime soon. If Snape couldn’t figure it out on his own, he wasn’t sure they would have much luck, even together. Even if he had had faith in them, he wouldn’t have stopped his own research. He and Sebastian always did it their way, this was personality, not practice—(he’d learned from a young age he couldn’t rely on anyone else)—and a setback, even one that kept his butler from his work, wasn’t going to stop him.

It was during a disappointing lunch that he saw a flash of red in the doorway to the great hall. At first he thought nothing of it—it was probably a banner some kid made to impress their one-true-love, or a bunch of heart-shaped balloons, or a leftover decoration—it didn’t matter, he was going to try his best to eat, and read, in peace.

Until the ‘banner’ came inside to steal his food.

When he finally realized who it was, he practically screamed;

“Grell!”

“That’s my name darling, don’t to wear it out,” he blew a kiss, sitting up on the table.

“Love potions, huh?” in his horror, Ciel hadn’t even noticed Ronald had stolen the book (as well as a sandwich).

“Ooh!” Grell called, leaning in closer, raising his eyebrows. “Is somebody looking to trick some poor soul into loving him?”

“No! No, in fact I’m trying to un-romance someone, thank you very much.” He stood.

“That shouldn’t be too hard…for you.”

Ciel rolled his eyes.

“So, not that crushing the dreams of others isn’t in your repertoire, why do you want to do that?”

“It may be difficult for you to understand, but some of us don’t look for romance in every guy they meet,” he stole the book back from Ronald (who was starting to to look too interested for the young earl’s comfort.)

“Now that’s just rude,” Grell folded his arms over his chest and put his chin in his hand. “But, I’ll choose to ignore your impotence,” he turned, becoming more animated, “because you’re in charge of my Sebas-chan. Speaking of love,” he said the word like it was fine caramel, “where is my precious Sebas-chan?” he looked around, casting his eyes towards the blank spaces at staff table.

“He’s—”

Before the sentence could fall on his tongue, the words snagged on the mental image of Grell and Sebastian canoodling like schoolboys.

“NO!”

That caught their attention.

“I mean uh—” he coughed, “No…He’s uhh…I…”

He could barely think with these images making him sick to his stomach. He set down what was left of the lunch he was no longer hungry for, trying to shove his brain into the mode where it could formulate a cunning plan.

“Well? Spit it out, boy! We haven’t got all day! Some of us have plans. I, for one, have a hair appointment this afternoon,” he fluffed his crimson locks.

“You know what?” Ciel chose a more confrontational approach. “I don’t have to tell you where Sebastian is.”

“You don’t have to, darling, you should wantto.”

“No. You know what? I don’t want to. And you know why I don’t want to?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

He had to think of something fast. Something clever. A good excuse.

“Why don’t you ever want to spend time with me?” he slammed the book on the table.

So much for that.

“Huh?” Grell, Ronald—(and Ciel’s own brain)—responded upon hearing the words.

“Yeah. You heard me.” It wasn’t the best plan—hell, it wasn’t even a good plan—but Ciel was committed at this point, and came up with a plot fiercely in his mind, “That’s right. It’s always ‘Sebastian this’, ‘Sebastian that’, but what about me?!”

“What about you, brat? You’ve never shown any interest in me. What happened to ‘we’re definitely not friends?’” he mocked his voice.

“….That’s what I say to my true friends.” They definitely weren’t convinced, so he added, “I’m only nice to my fake friends.” (Ronald lifted his head like a dog being told he was a good boy all along).

“Regardless if you’re telling the truth—which, I don’t believe you are—what makes you think I’ll give you the key to my heart now, after you threw away your chances? That’s no way to treat a lady!”

“I…I never had the chance to,” he looked away and hugged himself, trying to look pitiful, “what with you fawning over Sebas…chan,”—it made him sick to speak the nickname, but not as sick as he would feel if they found each other— “you never even pay me any mind.”

“What’s there to pay mind to?”

Ciel bit his tongue, and tried not to let that get to him, reminding himself everything could and would be far worse.

“Hey, hey!” Ronald stepped in the middle, noticing the rising tension of the scene, “There’s a simple solution after all; why don’t you and Mr. Sutcliff go for a walk today? That’s not too much to ask, right?” he turned to Grell, “You’ll still have time to see Sebas-chan before your appointment.”

“I suppose,” Grell bit his nails, ruining his manicure—which he quickly realized, and petted them as if to say ‘forgive me!’ “But I’d better get some quality time with my Sebas-chan!”

“Does that sound alright with you, Mr. Phantomhive?”

The thought of spending any amount of quality time with the reaper was repugnant. But not more repugnant than certain other thoughts and predictions his brain was happy to provide.

“Yes, that sounds just fine.”

“Then let’s get this overwith,” Grell stepped dramatically off the table, twirling his high-heeled shoes in the air.

Ciel’s thoughts exactly.

But there was something he had to do first.

“Erm, Ronald, would you mind doing something for me while we’re on our walk?”

Grell put his hands on his hips, suspicion and curiosity in his eyes.

“Uhh sure—I mean, that depends on what it is”

He pulled Ronald aside, towards the wall, out of earshot of the red-haired reaper.

“I just need to buy some time,” he whispered, “Will you please get Sebastian out of the teacher’s lounge for me.”

“Um…” he glanced between the two of them. “I suppose I could. May I ask why?”

“No you may not.” When Ronald seemed less than happy with this response, he added, “I can pay you back. Money, sandwiches…whatever you want.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” he grinned.

“Alright, Grell,” he cleared his throat, “it appears as though you and I will be going for a nice walk together.”

“‘Nice’ would be pushing it.” Grell muttered.

Ciel couldn’t agree more.

*****

The scene reminded him too much of a Thomas Kinkade painting; the snow covered trees and grounds, the faint chirping of birds, the pitter of small animals in the snow, the patter of kids playing, as well as more than a few romantic escapades displayed for all the world to see—like everything else in this sugarcoated nightmare, it was so sweet and was sickening. Ciel spent great lengths trying to avoid the mystic hellscape that was ‘outside,’ and whenever he found himself forced into its grasp, he remembered why.

Well, he supposed it wouldn’t have been so bad…if it weren’t for the blithering idiot beside him.

“Yeesh… love really is in the air around Valentine’s day.” Grell commented in the direction of the kids kissing by the frozen river.

“Oh? I thought romance was…your thing.”

“WhenI’m involved! Not these ragamuffins slobbering all over each other,” he shuddered.

They spent a while in awkward silence, before Grell spoke, “So, what do I have to do to get you off my back, Brat?”

“Ohh just spend a little quality time with me,” Ciel sang, putting his hands behind his back and stepping in front of Grell like a mischievous schoolboy. “That isn’t too much to ask, is it?”

Grell looked away. “I better be Carlos’ last customer today; my hair’s going to be a mess by the end of this.”

Ciel laughed fakely.

“So…” Ciel tried to think of something to talk about, “tell me about Carlos. Is he…cute?”

“Oh come on!” Grell stomped in front of him, “You can’t possibly mean any of this! You’ve never shown any amount of interest in me. I may be prone to fantasy, but I’m no fool!” he crossed his arms and looked away, then his green eyes trailed to him suspiciously, “What are you plotting?”

“Plotting?” Ciel laughed again, “Why so sinister?”

“Oh things are always sinister when Sebas-chan is involved,” he said ‘sinister’ like a radio announcer telling you that sinister is what you want, “usually it sends tingles down my spine! But this is just…” he looked down at the earl, his lip curling in distaste, “freaky.”

Ciel tried to ignore the fact that they were on the same brainwave today.

But he could see that he wasn’t going to fool him for long if he didn’t do something.

“Well…” Instead of formulating a suitable answer, he subtly pulled his wand from his robe pocket sliding it behind his back, and cast a little nonverbal spell that sent a snowball hurtling at the back of Grell’s head.

“Hey!” Grell spun around to two kids playing on the bank. “Which one of you imbeciles did that?! Haven’t I suffered enough?” he held up a split end of his hair.

The kids glanced at each other, confused.

“Now Carlos will have to give me the extra treatment to cover this!” he took a strand of hair and petted it.

Ciel smirked.

Messing with the reaper seemed both more effective, and more enjoyable, than chatting, so whenever a risky topic came up, he had a little extra fun avoiding the subject (goodness knows he needed it)—until enough time had passed that, if Ronald had done his job, Sebastian would be out of the teachers’ lounge, and they headed back into the school.

“Sebastian’s right around the corner.”

“He better be, Brat, after the hell-walk you took me on.” Ciel tried not to laugh when he looked at Grell—the sticks in his frazzled hair, the smeared mascara and lipstick, the muddy clothes (he had eventually stopped trying to protect or fix his appearance).

Ciel gave the fake laugh again, opening the door.

Despite requests and expectations, Sebastian was right around the corner.

There the demon remained (apparently he had been there all day) with a finished bust of the reaper sparkling beside him, not to mention a few more, smaller art pieces of the Redhead in different poses of increasing erotica.

Ciel felt all the anger that had been briefly soothed by messing with Grell re-entering his body with ferocity.

Why hadn’t Ronald removed him from this place like he asked? All he asked for was one simple thing, and he couldn’t even do that. Well, maybe it was his own fault he had put his trust in someone so incompetent as Ronald. Whoever’s fault it was, this encounter, and the memory of it, might just stain his brain forever, and someone was surely going to pay for it.

He turned towards Grell (the real one). Both his eyes and mouth were open wide, focused on the statue of himself, leering down at him with a flirtatious grin.

When the butler emerged from behind it, and saw Grell, he too froze, but in the quiet, reverent way the hot dude does when they see their love in romantic movies.

Ciel wanted to grab one, or both, of them and wrench them away from each other—exorcise the romantic spirits out of them (it’s an odd day when you want to exorcise a demon out of a demon), and maybe wring their necks—but he knew that would be met with more than a little resistance, (and using the Imperius curse in the teacher’s lounge would be more than a little conspicuous), and there was something rather mesmerizing about the scene; like a horror movie you can’t bring yourself to look away from.

Sebastian closed his eyes, giving a small smile before rushing to grab a rather large bouquet (likely made of the leftover flowers) and bowed, presenting them to Grell.

“For you, my darling Mr. Sutcliff.”

Ciel covered his eyes with his hand.

“For…me?” Grell’s words were distant and confused.

Rather than taking them with honors—Ciel saw between his fingers—however, he took a step back.

Sebastian held them higher. “Only you.”

Grell glanced between master and butler, and his hands shook as he took them (then his arms sagged with the weight).

Ciel shut his eyes tight, waiting for hell.

Soon the scene would turn into the amorous novel Grell always dreamed of, and that would be it. They’d find love in each other…or what passed for love when it comes to love potions. Should Ciel leave now and spare his mind the eternal horror? Or should he wait and just make absolutely sure that’s what would happen? Maybe there was some sick part of him that was even curious what would happen.

His patience, however, was rewarded;

“Get away from me you freak!” Grell threw the flowers across the room, and rushed to hide behind Ciel. “What the hell have you done with my precious Sebas-chan?!”

This time it was Ciel’s mouth and eyes that dropped open, staring, dumbstruck, like a bird that had hit a window.

Grell had flirted with Sebastian from the moment he met him (to be fair, he did this with pretty much every attractive guy he came across, still…). There were times when master and butler could use this infatuation to their advantage, but most of the time it was just a gigantic nuisance. Luckily, Sebastian shared Ciel’s distaste for the reaper’s advances, and never returned them. Since it had seemed impossible, before today, Ciel hadn’t had much time to imagine what Grell would do if the butler returned his affection. Not one of the sickening scenarios his mind had provided today had Grell rejecting Sebastian. Grell had always appeared superficial enough that Ciel guessed he wouldn’t

His Butler, and the Problem with Magic (Ch2)

Fandom:Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji x Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Crossover

Fic Synopsis: Life at Hogwarts isn’t all bad…usually. But when Valentine’s Day rolls around, and Lockhart throws an extravagant ball, the number of couples at school the next day skyrockets, and Sebastian finds himself a new object of devotion…Can Ciel save his butler from the spell on his own?

Character Focus:  Ciel (Edward Midford, Grell, Lizzie, Snape)

Notes:I bet you all thought I forgot about this fic didnt you? SIKE! I forget nothing.

(By the way, I’ll definitely repost chapter 1 of this as well, in case you guys forgot about it XD)

I was informed that Valentines day with this coming Sunday and I couldn’t believe it. I had been wanting to work on multiple valentines fics and I thought I had weeks left to write them XD So in light of that, I knew I had been slowly chipping away at a chapter 2 of this over time, so I decided to check it out and see how much work I had to do to make it postable in time for valentines day. To my surprise, the chapter was pretty much ready to go! So at long last, here it is!!

I really hope you enjoy it!! If you do, I implore you to consider commenting and/or reblogging!! I assure you its much much more likely this fic will get a chapter 3 if I know that people are interested in reading more <3

@elegantkittycat Tagging you in case you’re still interested in reading more!!

Chapter 2:

Ciel jerked his hand away as the cauldron sizzled, muttering curses under his breath—(the normal kind, not the magic kind). Usually Sebastian managed their clandestine dealings and he didn’t have to worry about burning his fingers off.

His conversation with Tom Riddle had left him with a list of ingredients, and a method of combining them into a potion that would allegedly cure Sebastian and others of this ailment.

He was fully aware trusting strange voices in diaries wasn’t the best decision he could make on the career path of life, but considering he had found no other options, and a whole lot of annoyance, he didn’t have much to lose. Besides, Sebastian was a demon, so even if it was supposed to make your eyes pop out or something, he’d probably be okay.

Ciel looked down the instructions and grimaced, reaching over for the next ingredient, trying not to look directly at it.

Despite the potions classroom being the main place to get potions, and potion making materials, he was not in the potions classroom. This late in the evening, Snape probably would have killed him. He was in a room on the seventh floor which Sebastian had found last May. It seemed to hold within it whatever the person walking by it required.

He dropped the last ingredient in, raised his wand, muttered a very complicated spell and sighed.

The only thing left to do was wait. It had to brew for twenty-four hours, which meant it wouldn’t be ready until six o’clock the next evening. Twenty-four hours was too much time with a love infested school to deal with.

Ciel packed up his stuff and headed out into the hall—making sure to check for Filch first. He was almost back to his common room when—

“CIEL PHANTOMHIVE!”

He nearly tripped and toppled to the ground taking all his supplies and homework with him.

As he righted himself, he jerked his head up to observe the source of the disturbance: a tall, blonde boy, a few years older than Ciel, sporting his Gryffindor robes as if he was the reincarnation of Godric goddamn Gryffindor himself.

Ciel had the displeasure of knowing this boy.

“Edward?!” he growled, recovering his dignity and dusting himself off. “Are you trying to kill me?!”

“That depends,” he said in a low murmur that seemed to hide waves of anger.

He marched up to his future-brother-in-law, stopped far too close, and stared into Ciel’s eyes like he could bore into his brain with his gaze.

“What. Did you do. To my sister?”

“What did I— ?” Ciel blinked, rivalling anger disappearing in the face of concern. “What?”

Edward was the son of the proud, and not to mention handy-with-swords Marquess Midford, and all this noble, virtue-loving, God-fearing, paladin energy was often channeled into being protective of his younger sister Lizzie…who also happened to be Ciel’s fiancé.

“Lizzie. What did you do to her?!”

“Yes, I’m familiar with to whom you’re referring!” He pushed him back, “What’s wrong with her?!”

It was Edward’s turn to blink. “You don’t know?”

“You may or may not have noticed I am otherwise occupied! I’ve been running around trying to save my butler from this hell, thank you very much!”

“Oh,” his eyes flickered.

Ciel looked up at him, then blinked. “You think I caused this?!”

“Well you don’t exactly foster an atmosphere of peace and calm, now do you?”

“I’d thank you to have more confidence in me in the future! For your information, Undertaker caused this!”

“Undertaker?! Oh that slimy bloke hasn’t seen the last of me!” He turned, putting his fist into his palm, beginning to march out of the room.

Ciel lazily grabbed the sleeve of his robe, pulling him back. “Hunting him down isn’t going to get you any answers—and will likely make you more frustrated. Believe me, I’ve already tried. Now, if you’d be so kind, I’d like to know what’s wrong with my fiancé.”

Edward rubbed the back of his head. “Well…”

“Tell me, Edward.” It was Ciel’s turn to stare him down. Apparently it was effective, because Edward couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Well…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I went to go say hi, and I found her sitting in the common room, staring out the window. She barely took any notice of me. And when she did she started spitting prattling nonsense about this man she met,” he said the last words like men were the most revolting things in the planet. “Naturally I assumed this was a newfound appreciation for you, or she simply was admiring Lockhart like she usually does.”—Ciel made a face at this—“But apparently…not.”

Ciel blanched. He was about to speak, but Edward continued:

“When I learned it wasn’t you, I told her to have some decency, but it was as if she couldn’t even hear me!” His air of forced calm broke. “Apparently she’s madly in love with some—some—some idiot!”

“She’s… what?” The words were soft.

“I said—”

“I heard what you said!” He grabbed his robes.

Some third years walked by at that exact moment and stared at them. Ciel released him, and he and Edward paused and waved awkwardly. After they passed, Ciel continued in a shout-whisper.

“How the hell did this happen?! I specifically made sure she stayed away from the punch at that party!”

“The punch? What punch?”

“The punch Undertaker spiked!”

“Undertaker spiked—?! Oh…Maybe she drank some when you weren’t looking? You can’t have been keeping her under constant surveillance, can you?”

“I was watching her very closely, she couldn’t have!” He said, realizing his usually-more-than-adept butler was quite possibly compromised at the time. “When did these symptoms start? The morning after Valentines Day?”

“Um,” Edward put a hand to his chin, thinking, “I…I’m not sure.”

“Oh you’re just useless aren’t you?”

“More useful than you! If you knew it was spiked at the party, why didn’t you tell everyone?! Or try to stop him?!”

“It seemed like a harmless prank!”

“What are we up to?” Snape’s greasy form appeared, cutting the scene.

“Nothing, Professor Snape,” Edward said quickly. “We were just—”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” He folded his arms and stared down his hooked nose at Ciel. “Your detention is to take place tomorrow evening at six o’clock. Meet me in my office. Try not to earn yourself another one before then.”

“Yes, Sir.” Ciel said softly.

Snape’s black robes swished passed them.

“So Lizzie—? Wait, did he just say six o’clock?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Damn it!” Ciel groaned, leaning against the bannister.

“What’s wrong?”

He waved him off. “It’s none of your concern.”

Edward folded his arms and glared at him.

“I’m working on a potion to try to neutralize this whole…love mess.”

“I’d say that’s very much of my concern! You have the antidote?!”

“I said I’m working on it. It’ll be ready at six o’clock tomorrow evening—six o’clockexactly.”

“I guess you’ll have to get it after you get back.” Edward shrugged.

“It’s a very delicate potion I have to—Ugh Nevermind.”

After a pause Edward asked, “…And you’re sure this antidote will work?”

“I’m not sure of much of anything. The only thing I am sure about is if the potion doesn’t kill me, if I’m late to his detention, Snape just might.”

*****

As Ciel sat down to breakfast he made the silent resolve to quickly finish the potion at six o’clock, then speed to the dungeon as fast as possible, taking the bottle with him to his detention, and hurry to Sebastian right afterwards. Snape wouldn’t be happy, but, despite what he said to Edward earlier, the worst he’d do was give him another detention, or take a large sum of house points. And he wasn’t so strict he’d make students empty their pockets, so he shouldn’t notice while he sat sitting for a few hours cleaning viper guts off potion bottles. There was no telling what this potion would do if he left it for however long detention was, so it took priority. And even if his detention went into the night, that would be the perfect time to test it—the demon wouldn’t be asleep anyways.

Ciel was currently trying to make his seat in the great hall a little corner of peace and calm, and block out the chaos in the rest of the hall, setting down his knife properly, trying to ignore the food flying across the hall, when—

“Oh, Brat~!”

Ciel sighed resignedly as his least favorite redhead came swinging into his vision.

“What are you doing back here so soon?” Ciel grumbled, holding his scowling face in one hand, sticking his fork aimlessly into his eggs with the other.

“And when I came all this way to see you, too?!” He turned up his nose in disgust. “I couldn’t possibly get my beauty sleep after I saw my Sebas-chan in such dire straits.” He pulled a scroll out of his jacket pocket, “So I was up all night thinking of ways to get him back to his sexy self!” He unrolled its impressive length, the end landing in Ciel’s eggs.

Ciel couldn’t help but skim through some his ideas, if nothing else for a good laugh.

They ranged from the more simple and reasonable Find the spell, and make a counter curse,andBash his head in, to the not-so-reasonable Maybe true loves kiss will work~?

“What’s this?” Ciel squinted at a particular line. “‘Put that brat he calls “master” in mortal danger’?”

It was starred and underlined several times.

“Oh you noticed that one did you?” He said in fake innocence. “That’s one of my personal favorites!”

Ciel’s eyes lidded.

“And how exactly would putting me in mortal danger solve the problem of my butler being in love with you?”

“For some reason—can’t see why—Sebas-chan is very attached to you—”

“Sure, it has nothing to do with the contract we made.”

“Yes, yes.” He waved him off. “Well he’s very against you being in any sort of danger. See the idea,”—He put a nail on the table— “is that if we put you in mortal danger his primal demonic—”—he said the word in a way Ciel was not fond of—“inclinations will override the spell and snap him out of it.”

Ciel blinked, staring down at the line of text.

The worst thing was…that actually made some smidgen of sense. You know, in a sadistic kind of way.

“And how would you propose we do that? You know, without actually killing me?”

“Oh all part of the fun. I have a number of ideas as to how we could push you riiight up to the edge! It’ll be delightfully diabolical. Of course, if it doeskill you, well…” he turned away and muttered, “All’s well that ends well, as they say.”

“Not that that doesn’t sound fun…” Ciel stood, pushing the list away. “I’ve found my own way of breaking the spell thank you very much.”

“Oh?” Grell blinked, intrigued. “Have you now?”

“Not that its any of your business, yes.” He brushed himself off, gathering his stuff, “If you’ll excuse me, I have my own business to attend to.”

“Well when that fails don’t hesitate to come crawling back to your favorite reaper Grellypoo ~!” He rolled up the scroll.

“You’re not even my fifth favorite reaper!” He threw over his shoulder.

“But at least I’m on the list!”

*****

Due to the fact that little real learning was happening on either side—unless you count learning too much about various students and teacher’s romantic habits—they had decided to cancel classes for the time being. This gave the teachers more time to devote to finding the cure as well.

Ciel decided to take this time to ascertain the validity of Edward’s statement the night previous and visit Lizzie.

She was a Gryffindor like her brother. Visiting the Gryffindor common room wouldn’t be first, or even last, in a list of things he wanted to do…but he’d half to bear it.

As he walked up the stairs he bumped into someone. At first they apologized and continued walking but soon the other person called back:

“Hey, I ran into yesterday didn’t I?”

Ciel turned to see none other than Harry Potter.

“Yes?”

“Did you happen to see a diary? Like when you were helping me pick up my stuff?”

“The great Harry Potter keeps a diary?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s not my diary. Just adiary.”

“A diary that just so happened to find its way into your bag?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Sorry to say, I haven’t seen it.”

“Hmm…Alright. Thanks anyways.” He waved as he continued down the stairs.

As another Gryffindor left, he slipped into the common room.

Lizzie was sitting in a chair against the window, just like Edward said she would be. She rested her hand on her chin, her elbow on the table, and watched the rain fall.

“Lizzie!” he ran up to her.

“Oh…Ciel…it’s you,” she said in a dreamy, nonplussed tone.

“Yes it’s me. What happened? Have you completely lost your senses?!”

“No I’d say my senses are in tact thank you. And I’d thank you not to ask a lady such an impolite question.”

“Sorry but…what happened? Why are you—?”

“I don’t know. I just, of a sudden, found him to very attractive one morning, and I’m having trouble thinking of much else.”

“Who?” He sat in the chair across from her.

“That’s not really of your concern, is it?”

“It is when I’m your fiancé!” He said a little too loudly, making Gryffindors turn towards him.

“Mm…” She muttered like it wasn’t an issue.

“Lizzie, I tried to make sure you didn’t drink that punch at the party! How did this happen?!”

“Party?” She paused, and for a moment he wasn’t sure she was even going to continue the conversation. “…Oh I don’t know. I seem to faintly recall the most beautiful man I’d ever met saying I simply must try it.”

His eyes widened. “Someone gave it to you directly?! Who?! Why?!”

“I’ve already tried that, I don’t think you’ll get much luck. She won’t tell me either.” Edward arrived at his side, then leaned over and whispered, “I think she knows we’ll come after him.”

“I was going to opt for slow psychological torture,” he muttered back, “but I’d like to hear more about your method.”

Edward tried to suppress a smile.

“And you really love this man?” Ciel asked Lizzie.

“Oh, with all my heart!” She seemed to gain a rush of energy.

He sighed, realizing more questions would be futile, and getting up.

“Alright well…” He ran his hand gently over Lizzie’s fingers. “I-I’ll see you soon.”

“You’ll give me the potion as soon as you can, right?” Edward demanded.

“I’m going to use Sebastian as a test subject, but, if it works, then this will be my next stop.”

“The password is ‘chocolate frog.’ Feel free to wake me up. I can’t stand another minute knowing Lizzie is in love with some-some lunatic!”

“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”

*****

Ciel carefully held the porcupine quills, and gingko leaves over the cauldron, dripping them in one at a time, stirring counterclockwise with his other hand, glancing continually back to the instructions.

Finishing off the potion was proving no easier than making the rest of it, but at last, it gave a final sigh, and turned a foggy white.

Ciel gave his own sigh of relief, before using tongs to dip and fill the bottle beside him, making sure to clean off the sides of it—(it was a good thing he used a towel to do so, because the stray drops burned through the fabric).

He held up the bottle, staring at the potion. At long last. Finally, after three days of slow torture, he’d finally be rid of this curse, and the world could return to its normal state—demon butlers included.

He slipped one into his robe pocket and the moment he stepped out of the room, he sped off towards Snape’s dungeon for his detention without a moment to clean up the rest.

He hadn’t intended to burst through the door, but he found himself doing that a lot over these past few days.

Snape’s black eyes narrowed upon his panting form as if he were a worm to bottle. Then they flicked to the clock.

“You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, Professor, I—”

Snape held up a hand to stop him. “The last three days have been longer than the past few months, and am not interested in feeble excuses, Mr. Phantomhive.” He glided around his desk, but instead of setting him up at a desk, he marched past him, swung open, and exited the classroom.

Ciel paused a moment, leaning over to the side, watching him exit, a quizzical look on his face, before deciding he wanted him to follow him.

“Where are we going, Professor?” He asked as he caught up—(not altogether happy that he’d have to do more walking after the run he just made).

“Your detention is to take place in the Forbidden Forest tonight.”

Ciel’s eyes widened.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Is our dear Mister Phantomhive afraid of the dark?”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m just a little surprised, that’s all…due to it being forbidden and all.”

Snape smirked. “Most of the time, yes. But on some extra special detentions we may take students inside.”

He was right: The Forbidden Forest wasn’t exactly a common detention spot, though it wasn’t unheard of either. What was more surprising was that Snape taking him there. Usually Snape’s detentions consisted of pickling rat brains, or cleaning octopi suckers off desks. Not that he’d been to very many of his detentions—he’d always been pretty good at potions. It was this godforsaken spell that had reduced him to a less-than-model student.

“Professor, may I ask what exactly will we be doing?” He asked as they traversed the grounds, the trees growing ever closer.

“You will be coming with me to gather a rare flower that lives in these woods.”

Ciel gave a curt nod. It was a moment or two before he asked, “May I ask what it’s for?”

“I am a potions master, Mister Phantomhive. I encourage you to use your brain.”

“I understand that. But what potion is it for, Sir?”

“I am attempting to remedy the spell that has plagued the school.”

Ciel fell silent at that, resisting the urge to tell him he already had the solution in his pocket.

They arrived at the edge of the forest, the trees reaching towards them with gnarled claws, the darkness like curtains for a stage set.

“Lumos.” Snape spoke, and Ciel drew his wand and did the same as they ventured into the shadows.

The trees seemed to taunt them, to whisper about them, to dare them to come any closer, any phantom sound at home here.

After more than a few minutes walk in silence—quite possibly half an hour—Snape stopped and spoke: “They should be around here, nor should they be difficult to spot. Look for a glowing blue flower.”

Ciel made a move to venture off in search of them, but Snape grabbed his arm, warning:

“Don’t wander off where you can’t see me.”

Ciel nodded before venturing into the trees, scanning the ground for anything glowing, or blue, continually glancing back to make sure he could still make out the figure of his teacher.

It wasn’t long before he saw something glowing, and ran up to it. …It turned out just to be a mushroom.

As he sighed disappointedly, and stood back up, he saw two beady eyes staring at him from the darkness.

His heart began to pound as he stared, unsure if he should back up, stand his ground, play dead, or attack, the ghost of a certain name forming on his tongue.

He never had to fear beady eyes, bandits, or bullets with Sebastian around. This was the first time he felt real fear in a long while.

A black spectral horse reared out of the bushes, its eyes aglow with more than just a reflection of the dark.

It stepped towards him in slow, calculated hoofbeats, flaring its nostrils a little too frequently for his liking.

He’d read about these before.

He continued backing up, as the thestral didn’t seem like it planned on stopping its pursuit anytime soon.

“Mister Phantomhive,”—Snape’s voice was low, warning—“I am aware you likely don’t see anything but—”

“I can see it.” He continued his reverse walk.

Snape gave him a short glance like he had a newfound respect for him.

These creatures only appeared to people who had seen death, and he was sure the look in his parents’ eyes that night sufficed. But they didn’t commonly act like this.

Snape lifted his wand, casting a nonverbal spell, and the thestral fell to the ground with a bloodcurdling whinny too much like a scream, ropes binding its legs.

Ciel let out a relieved exhale as Snape joined him.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine…Thestrals…they aren’t commonly…aggressive, are they?”

“No.” Snape muttered softly, gazing for a moment at the now-helpless creature, then turned sharply to Ciel, pointing his wand at him. “Empty your pockets.”

Ciel jerked his head to the professor, saying a little too loudly, “What?!”

The thestral fought against the binds, and Ciel took a step back.

“I said, ‘empty your pockets.’”

“Why?!”

Snape flicked his wand, and his pockets’ contents excavated themselves of their own volition.

Snape grabbed the potion from the air, and let the rest of spare quills and things fall helplessly to the forest floor. He held it up and stared at it, observing the contents, his emotion as imperceptible as always. Then he lifted the cork, sniffing it. His eyes widened and he jerked to look at Ciel, his eyes almost more terrifying than those of the thestral, and definitely not holding a look his eyes had ever contained for him before.

“Where did you get this?” He whispered.

“Excuse me?”

He lifted the potion up, and violently smashed it on the ground, the contents breaking out with a puff of smoke, spilling helplessly onto the forest floor.

“NO!”

Snape grabbed his arm as Ciel made to reach for it, as if to save the unsalvageable.

“I said—” he grabbed both his arms, forcing him to look at him. “Where. Did you get that?”

“Sir…. I don’t understand…”

Snape’s face was far too close to him for comfort.

“Listen to me and listen to me very carefully. That potion is more than dangerous—it’s banned in every major country. It’s not something I could easily mistake. If you were to use it, you wouldn’t just die an excruciating death, it would rot you from the inside, and leave you open to the possession of any vile spirit in the vicinity. A fourteen-year-old boy such as yourself shouldn’t be carrying it around in his pocket,” he spat. “And I’d like to think that you didn’t know what it was when you gained possession of it. Now.” His grip tightened on one of his arms, his nails digging in, as he put his wand to his throat with the other enunciating each word, “WHERE. DID. YOU. GET. IT?!”

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch10)

Fandom:Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Chapter 10: Missing

When Harry woke up, Ron wasn’t there. There was only one day left of term, and his stuff was still by his bed, so Harry assumed he hadn’t gone home early, still…

The previous evening Harry and Hermione had stayed up a while, sitting silently by the fire, and the silence was far more comforting than words ever could be. When he went back to his room, he didn’t get much sleep that night. He knew he wouldn’t. And when he did, his dreams were fraught with snakes, and screams, and the color red.

When he woke up and turned over, hoping to see that Ron had made it back safely, and an empty bed greeting him…the pit in his stomach grew teeth.

He’d lost Ginny. He didn’t want to lose Ron too.

How much time had Ron spent with Ginny before someone came to fetch him?

Did Dumbledore take the Weasleys down there? Did they see her lying there all—?

What did they do with her body?

No. He shouldn’t think about those things. There was nothing he could do about any of it even so. Spending too much time thinking about it was only going to make him sad, and anxious, and angry.

When he went to the common room Hermione was standing by the window and—

And Ron was sitting in front of the couch, staring at the fire, his eyes glazed.

He felt a rush of relief at the sight of his friend. Just knowing he was okay—or at least there—was enough to soothe the thing gnawing at him at least a little. He made a move to run towards Ron but paused. He should probably talk to Hermione first. She could let him know if he’d rather be left alone. The last thing Harry wanted to was upset Ron further

“Well, there is one bit of good news.” She said softly as he arrived.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, wanting nothing more.

She pointed out the window.

He came to her side and looked out. Hagrid’s hut had smoke billowing out of the top.

“Hagrid’s back.” She gave a weak smile.

Whaddya know? That was good news.

“We should go see him.” He smiled back with the same weakened quality.

“Definitely.”

His smile slowly faded as he looked back at Ron.

“Have you tried talking to Ron yet?”

She looked over at Ron too, and nodded. “He…he doesn’t seem to feel like talking.” She mentioned softly. She looked at her hands and started fidgeting. “Percy hasn’t left his room. …And we-we don’t know where the twins are.”

The thing in his stomach writhed and churned.

“Do you think it’s a bad idea to try to talk to Ron?”

She shrugged. “He might be more likely to talk to you than me.”

He nodded, and made his way over and sat on the carpet beside Ron.

“Hagrid’s back.” He offered softly.

Ron didn’t say anything.

“Hermoine and I are thinking maybe we could go see him later. We thought you could come too.”

“Mm.” Ron grunted.

Harry, seeing that Hermoine had assessed the situation rather well, turned his attention to the fire. For a while he just sat there and didn’t say anything, unable to bring himself to leave his friend’s side.

“You-You wanna come down to breakfast with us?” Hermoine asked softly after a while.

“Not hungry.” Ron finally spoke, though his voice was distant.

Hermoine looked at Harry and bit her lip, clearly unsure how to proceed.

“Why don’t you go down to breakfast, Hermoine?” Harry offered. “Bring me back some sausages or something.”

Hermoine opened her mouth, likely about to say she’d rather stay, but nodded.

“Sure you don’t want anything, Ron?” She asked as if pleading with him to get up and go with her.

He didn’t reply. Hermoine looked at Harry. Harry tried to give her a reassuring, I’ll-hold-down-the-fort, look, but he wasn’t sure he accomplished it, as she looked nervous, and a little hurt as she turned to leave.

For a while Harry just sat with Ron in silence. Harry knew it was best to wait for him to speak; prodding him with questions, or else annoying him with answers, wouldn’t make him feel better. He knew from experience. So they sat in silence, the common room slowly draining of activity as the other Gryffindor’s went down to breakfast.

“You know,” Ron said a few minutes after everyone had left. “There…There was this one time when some neighbor kids…they bullied her.”

Ron didn’t say who, but Harry knew immediately.

“She came home crying. The next day we—Bill, and Charlie, Fred and George and me, I mean—were out for blood. I don’t know what we would have done to them, but it wouldn’t have been pretty. But…when we got there one was sitting there holding his bloody nose, and the other one ran away screaming when we arrived, smelling faintly of urine. And there was Ginny,” a smile crept onto his face, along with tears to his eyes, “standing there with her hands behind her back, not crying or anything.” The smile broadened. “Turns out Ginny had punched him. Mom was furious. Said we’d filled her head with violence. We’d never been so proud.

“She had the sweetest laugh.” Ron murmured. “Fred and George would would tease her and prank her. Sometimes she’d get upset, but she’d always shake it off. A few times she even pranked them back. One time they had an all out glitter war. Wish you could’ve been there. My underpants sparkled for weeks.

“…You know sometimes I think she was gutsier than all of us combined.”

He paused a moment, his smile sloughing off his face, his eyes traveling somewhere far from here.

“I can’t believe I’ll never hear that laugh again. Funny how that is. I never noticed how pretty it was before.”

“She sent me one of those valentines this year, you know.” Harry swallowed. “I thought it was silly at the time but now…” Harry bit his lip.

“Now you can’t stop replaying it in your head.” Ron’s words were cracking.

Hermione came back a little while later with breakfast—enough for Ron, even though he said he wasn’t hungry—citing that she tried to pick the best sausages she could find, and that she couldn’t remember what kind of jam that they liked on their toast, so she just grabbed them all.

When the topic of going to see Hagrid came up again, there was no debate, and barely any conversation. They were walking across the grounds to Hagrid’s hut before they could put much thought into any other options.

The sight of Hagrid’s face was like aloe on an intense sunburn, and they could almost convince themselves his hug squeezed all the sadness out of them. They asked how Hagrid was doing—he said he was a little worse for wear, but they couldn’t keep him away for too long—and tried to avoid any dangerous topics. When they walked back up the grounds, they did so feeling a little lighter, like the day might be a little brighter from here on out.

They were barely back inside the castle when a voice behind them severed that notion:

“Potter.”

Harry nearly jumped at the sound of Snape’s voice, not to mention the image of him materializing from the corner like a bat.

“The Headmaster wants to see you.”

Harry looked at Ron and Hermione, and they gave him looks that were fearful, sympathetic, and curious all at the same time.

Harry knew he couldn’t refuse, and also wanted to know what Dumbledore wanted to talk to him about, and if it was about Tom, so allowed himself to be escorted to the office. He could get there just fine by himself, but it seemed Snape thought if he didn’t watch him he’d just run off.

Snape was silent the entire time, but when they arrived, he spoke rather harshly:

“Let me make clear that I am not thrilled about this either.”

And with that ominous proclamation, he shut the door.

*****

Harry sat there, sure time had stopped moving. The clock on the wall had stopped ticking. His body had been doused in ice. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.

The whole summer with Snape. The whole summer with Snape. The whole summer livingwithSnape. Not just having lessons with him—two hours summoned straight from hell, as far as he was concerned—but actually living with him, in the same house, occupying the same space, at every hour.

Harry dreaded the summer, hated going back to the Dursleys for any amount of time, and two months always seemed like a lifetime. Last year he’d sat at the window dreaming of what it would be like to stay with one of his own kind. At this prospect, however, he thought he’d rather live with the Durselys for the entire year than spend even a week in the same house with Snape.

After what had clearly been a longer-than-natural amount of silence Harry asked feebly.

“But…” The words sputtered on his lips. “But-But why?”

“If we are going to make any strides at reforming the young Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore explained, “in addition to confirming he does not intend to make the mistakes of his predecessor, we must help him relearn magic over the summer. It is imperative that we have someone watching him at all times as well. He needs to stay with someone who is trustworthy. Who will not hesitate to act if he shows any signs of returning to his old ways. I thought professor Snape would be uniquely suitable for this job.”

Whatever Dumbledore said Harry didn’t think Snape was trustworthy, or suitable to teach kids of any age. Though he wouldn’t say the image of Tom hanging upside down getting an incorrect answer was unappealing. Still Snape would probably grow to favor him like he did Malfoy. Which brought him to his main concern.

“I understand that, Sir, but what I was wondering is why I have to live with him too?”

“As Voldemort has now returned in such a form, the rules for your summer arrangements may have changed a bit, don’t you think?”

Harry blinked. “You mean about me needing to stay with my aunt and uncle? That’s great! Then why can’t I stay with Ron?! Or…Or you?!” he gestured to Dumbledore. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. “I am flattered you would be interested in living with me, Harry. But, on that account, I find it would be much more advantageous if you and the young Tom Riddle were to become…” He paused a moment, clearly being careful about choosing his words. “friends. Or something approximating the like.”

The word surged and burned down from his ears down through his blood, curling his hands into fists.

“Friends?!” Harry shot up, the chair groaning against the floor. “You want me to become friends with the guy who murdered my parents?!”

“I know I am asking a great much of you, Harry,” Dumbledore said calmly. “And if you think I am asking too much of you, I will understand, and attempt to discern another way to go about this situation. But please try to look at the big picture. For one thing, we would like to try our best to keep the identity of Tom Riddle between you, myself, and professor Snape—as well as a certain number of portraits and ghosts.” He gestured to the portraits, who crossed their arms and glared at him. “It would be rather telling if, well…” He paused again. “Forgive me, but your attitude towards him is not overabundant with kindness.”

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was being asked to live with both the teacher he hated most in this school, and the young version of the literal Lord Voldemort, and it was all because of that very hatred. Because Dumbledore thought living with them would make him hate them less, as opposed to the answer Harry thought much more likely: that they would all come out of this hating each other a hundred times more.

“Kids hate each other all the time! I hardly think that’s something that needs a drastic remedy! You told him yourself he was a bully—it would be weirder if I wasn’t glaring hatefully at him! Why is this any different?!”

“You yourself know full well why it’s different.” Dumbledore never ceased his calm, cool tones. “This isn’t just any childish rivalry, nor do I think things will remain that way, if they continue on as they are.”

“Again! Why would you ask me to—?!”

“Because hatred of this brand corrupts even the purest of souls. It is one thing that everyone is capable of falling prey to. Kind people would never think of torturing or killing innocents, but hate, well…there is always evil in the world. And kind people struggle with the presence of this evil most of all. It is the mark of a good soul to be appalled by evil. However, we cannot allow that evil to infect our own souls with hate, lest we become like the very thing we are fighting so hard against.”

Harry swallowed. Whatever Dumbledore said, he didn’t much care if his soul was ‘infected by hatred’ as it were.

“If we intend to allow the young Tom Riddle to live,” Dumbledore continued, “I cannot in good faith allow things to go on this way. If you continue to hate him as much as I see you do now…it is my belief that you will certainly become the rivals you were always destined to be—or perhaps I should say, you once were.”

“What’s wrong with that? Why shouldn’t we be?! Why are you defending Voldemort?!”

“But he is not Voldemort. Remember Harry,” Dumbledore walked around the desk to stand in front of Harry. “At this moment the boy in the hospital wing is not, in fact, the man who murdered your parents. He is not the man who tortured so many. He is not the evil warlord, twisted by his own depraved experiments. I am not asking you to become friends with that man, nor would I advise it. However, he is a boy who might become the man who murdered your parents, if he falls upon the wrong path again. That is to say, if we fail to lead him down the proper path. I am asking you to try to become friends with boy he was before he became a killer. That boy right now is merely a boy like you. One who is, yes, a bit cold and self-serving, a bit too cunning and clever for his own good, but—though he will not admit it—who is also unfathomably lonely. That it why it is so crucial that we do our best to give him the proper guidance and support he so desperately needs. Just think about it. I won’t force you. But please note that your presence in his life may be the distinction between success and failure.

Harry slumped back in his chair. “You’re placing an awful lot of pressure on me, Sir. What makes you think you can lead him down the right path?”

“Oh I don’t have any delusions about leading him down the right path myself. As I’ve said, I think you, Harry, can lead him down the right path. And, most likely…only you can.”

“Why me?”

“Professor Snape can teach him magic, can try to discern the workings of his mind and if he intends to return to his old ways, but Tom Riddle has never been one persuaded to change by authority. On the contrary, he is prone to manipulate authority to his will rather as much as his peers—a trait, I imagine he will likely pick back up quickly. Hence why I have specifically chosen Professor Snape for this task. He is particularly resistant to flattery and the like. I would do it myself but something tells me his past hatred of me is not so easily forgotten. But as for someone who can be a more positive influence, rather than a disciplinary one, I think you would fit that role rather well.”

“If he doesn’t listen to you, why would he listen to me?! Did he ever listen to his classmates—let alone someone younger than him?!”

“When Tom was at school yes, he was surrounded by obedient followers who would not hesitate to throw themselves headfirst into danger for him. But Harry I believe you are uniquely suited to such a task, in no small part because you are aware of his past sins—or perhaps we should say, his future sins. Your awareness of what he is capable of, in tandem with your kind, resilient spirit makes you particularly adapted to helping lost souls such as Tom, and guiding them back to the light.”

“But this isn’t some lost soul! This is Voldemort we’re talking about! You really think someone like that is capable change?! Of compassion?! Of-Of anything?!”

“It is precisely because this is Voldemort that it is imperative we try. What would you prefer? That we stand idly by and watch him become the same man he was, without even attempting to reform him? We have a unique opportunity to rewrite history, to try again. I find opportunities of this nature do not come around twice.”

“We…” Harry paused. Swallowed. Not sure he should say what he was thinking. “We could…We could…get rid of him…Then the threat would be over…”

“Oh? But didn’t you yourself make the decision not to kill him in the Chamber, even when you believed he was still Voldemort? And have I not already told you my thoughts on the that decision? I, for one, am very grateful you didn’t. If you did, we wouldn’t have the opportunity we have now. Besides, we need not split young souls such as yours with such acts. Would it not make us uncomfortably similar to Voldemort if we decided to kill a defenseless boy without memory?”

Harry sighed. He was feeling less and less grateful for his decision by the day.

“I know it is a great burden I am placing on you.” Dumbledore added. “But it is also the greatest compliment I can give: that I have full faith that you could reform even the darkest of souls.”

Something in Harry wore out. His words were soft: “He killed Ginny.”

Dumbledore blinked up at him.

“I am not entirely certain that he did.”

He jerked up his head. “What?”

“Lord Voldemort, unlike with most other incidents, didn’t use the killing curse upon her. Instead, he used a very unique method to return to the land of the living, one that required a young girl’s life.”

“Exactly! That’s what killed her!”

“Do you understand what I’m saying? It required her life. Voldemort would have assumed this meant that her life was used up in the process, but what if it wasn’t? What if her soul was not destroyed, but transferred?”

“Transferred?” Realization hit him as soon as he asked the question, and horror twisted in Harry’s gut. “Y-You’re telling me that Ginny’s soul is inside—?!”

“It is my theory at least.” Dumbledore spoke as if they were discussing what to have for lunch. He folded his arms in front of him. “Whether it is fact, or nothing more than an educated hypothesis, only more research will yield the answers.”

Harry sat on the edge of his seat, thinking hard.

Ginny might still be alive. Her soul at least. Alive but trapped in the body of Tom Riddle. Hope and horror enacted a bloody duel in Harry’s gut.

“Do-Do you think we could save her, Sir? Get her out, I mean.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I am not certain but, considering as her body is already—”

“What if we could preserve her body?!” He stood up. “You know, make it so, if we could just get her soul out then…”

Dumbledore looked down, running his hand over his beard. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Then maybe—maybe we could return her soul to her body!” He began pacing. “She could go back to living with her family! She’d be—”

Dumbledore held up a hand to stop him.

“It is a …possibility, but a possibility nonetheless. We must remember that this is nothing but a theory in the first place, and the prospect of preserving her body on the slim hope that we might be able to retrieve her soul from his body—if it is even there in the first place—would be rather a lot to put her family through.”

Harry was barely listening, his brain moving a thousand miles an hour. “We just need to find a way to get her soul out! There must be some way! Then everything can go back to normal!”

Dumbledore paused. “Before we make any decisions, I am wondering if perhaps we ought to consider another route as well.”

“What’s that?”

“Being unsure if we will be able to salvage her soul from its current state, I’ve been considering the possibility that the presence of her soul within Tom would grant him a level of compassion he has not previously exhibited. This is something which I have already seen exhibited during our previous conversation with him. While I am unsure we can return her soul to her body, this is something that, if my theory is true, is already in place. It is one of the reasons why I believe we might be able to reform him.”

Harry allowed himself to consider this a moment. The presence of Ginny’s soul within Tom…In some ways it was more appealing than simply viewing Tom as Voldemort, still, he didn’t much care for the thought of her trapped within the body of his parent’s murderer. It felt gross and wrong.

“I also must say that, due to her life being the thing that allowed him to return to life, I am unsure we could remove her soul without killing him.”

Harry wasn’t sure that was such an unwanted side effect.

Ginny was still alive. That changed everything. The prospect of living with either Snape or Tom made him feel sick. But both? He’d likely be needing a barf bag. However, at this prospect he felt a little more up to the challenge.

So he agreed to live with them over the summer, not to reform Tom, but to save Ginny.

*****

Considering it was the Leaving Feast, and he hadn’t done a very good job of eating well the past few days, Harry decided it was time to have dinner in the great hall. Ron could only say no to his stomach for so long, so he came with them.

When he entered the room his stomach sank. Last year the room was decorated with the colors of the house that won the Quidditch cup, but today they black, he knew why.

He found his place at the Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the questions fluttering around about the color of the banners.

He also tried to ignore the heat he felt as his back. It was as if he was being watched, but not just that, it was as if whoever was watching him could shoot laser beams out of their eyes. He was pretty sure he knew who it was, and sure enough, as he turned around he found it was coming off the potions master. He didn’t think it was possible, but Snape’s usual distaste had amplified tenfold.

He turned back to his food and tried not to exhibit that same distaste.

What he didn’t ignore was the sight of Percy and the twins at the table. Percy’s eyes looked just as veiled as Ron’s had, and he looked a bit green. When Fred saw Harry, he gave him a small nod, as if thanking him for his service, and George put his arm around Ron—something Harry had rarely, if ever, seen him do—and Harry tried not to feel worse.

After they’d finished dinner Dumbledore walked up to give his end-of-year speech, he said a few of the things Harry remembered him mentioning last year, then proceeded:

“This feast is a time for both celebration and loss this year.” He folded his hands in front of him.

“This year has been a strange one for Hogwarts. Throughout it many of you have no doubt heard the rumor that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, as well as seen the strange messages and incidents that gave credence to this rumor.

“Well I will inform you, if it is not already clear, that the rumor is indeed true. The Chamber had been opened. And I thank whatever higher power might be out there that, for the most part, petrification was the only real consequence.

“I am even more thankful to inform you at this time, that the threat has ended.”

There was a general consensus about the room that this was a good thing, though the celebration was tinged with curiosity at what had happened.

“We can thank none other than Harry Potter for this.” He gestured to Harry, and too many heads turned for Harry’s comfort. “With the help of his friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger”—Ron tried to make himself look small, and Hermione waved awkwardly—“they were able to discern the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets, and defeat its monster. The Chamber will bring no more harm to any of you.”

More cheers and clinking of glasses.

“However, as some of you may have heard by now, that victory came at a great cost. Harry arrived as fast as he could, and fought his hardest, but—through no fault of his own—our dear Ginny Weasley, who had been taken by the heir of Slytherin into the Chamber itself tragically…” He paused now, taking a deep breath. “lost her life.”

The room was simultaneously spiked with loud gasps, exclamations and cries, and hushed as if a dampener had been placed over it.

“Those of you who knew her know she was fiery, brave, kind, and compassionate, possessing these and many other qualities that embody Gryffindor. We have lost a wonderful girl, who could have, in time, become a great woman.”

Harry bit his lip, looking down, trying not to let those words make his mind wander. He felt a squeeze at his hand and turned to see Hermione, holding his hand, as well as Ron’s, turning to each of them sympathetically. Ron was staring at the table.

“The heir of Slytherin had been working through her by virtue of a diary. Seemingly innocuous, she did not realize this diary was in actuality an object of extraordinary dark power.”

Anger rose in Harry’s gut when he thought of the boy in the he himself had seen in the diary, the one who had framed Hagrid, and lured Ginny in with that famous flattery Dumbledore mentioned earlier. He hoped he wasn’t listening now.

“Harry did everything in his power to keep her alive, and risked his own life several times over the course of the night, but in the end…” He trailed off. They all knew what it meant.

I couldn’t save her.

“Slytherin’s monster is no more, and the diary through which the heir of Slytherin worked has been destroyed. But Ginny Weasley’s memory lives on. Her body will not—as the writing on the wall so crudely and cruelly proclaimed—lie in the Chamber forever. Her body will return home with her parents to receive a proper burial.”

“Ron, you’re hurting me,” Hermione whispered, and Harry turned to see Ron relax his grip on her hand a little.

“A spirit like hers is not one so easily lost. Those of you who knew Ginny, do not let the pain of this incident cause her soul to fade from memory. Let her sprit live on in your hearts. Let the part of her that lives on in each of you guide you in your darkest moments.”

At this Harry wondered if Tom was indeed there, and the words were intended for him specifically. Though, when he looked around, he didn’t see him anywhere.

“I ask you not to pester the Weasleys, nor Harry, too much with questions about this incident. They have been through a lot and should be allowed to grieve in peace.”

At the painful, distant looks from each of the Weasleys present Harry wished more than anything he could tell them the truth of the situation, that Ginny was still alive it was just…a little more complicated than that. That he was going to everything in his power to save her. Yet he could do nothing but sit there silently, feeling sick.

And after a few more closing words, he left them all with the silence in the room, tragedy hanging over all their heads like the black curtains draped across the room.

*****

It was with a heart heavy as coal, a lump in his throat that hadn’t left since the feast, and the gnawing pit in his stomach that Harry packed up his things that day. He’d be going to the Dursleys first, still, but just knowing that he wouldn’t be able to talk to Ron, to make sure he was okay, and that he’d be living with Snape very soon didn’t make him at all eager to leave—not that he would be anyways.

He was then reminded of another boy who once wanted to stay at Hogwarts over the summer, and internally smacked himself for thinking that way.

It was a quiet ride on the train, too quiet. Even Fred and George, who usually never stopped cracking jokes, had developed an interest in their own shoelaces. Hermione tried to cheer everyone up by suggesting they practice disarming spells. They did so without much real heart–though Harry found he was getting rather good at them, even so. Still trying their best to enjoy what few moments of magic they had left, they then played Exploding Snap, and lit off the rest of Fred and George’s Filibuster fireworks. All of these things helped distract them at least a little, but nothing could fill the emptiness that threatened to swallow them, the emptiness that spawned from the seat where Ginny was supposed to be.