The Serpentine Chain Part 1 - Year Of The Snake

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Thirteen – Songs of Innocence

Professor Haven had been absent for the week following the events of the Halloween feast. Her classes were cancelled during that period, much to Constance’s chagrin. She’d decided to take Divination as her minor subject for Binns’ assignment, after a few remarks made by her brother and uncle had settled the matter for her. Although she’d been chewing over Defence against the Dark Arts, particularly in light of her recent pasting at Marcus’ hands, her brother had told her that she’d be doing a lot of assignments in that subject over the course of the next year anyway. And after her uncle had devoted a lesson to the darker side of Seers – the blood sacrifices and moon rituals of the 17^th century for starters, following on with the ways in which Grindelwald had exploited their talents, her mind had been made up. She had to admit that she was becoming much more interested in the intricacies of Divination – although she’d been fascinated by the subject’s possibilities from the start, Professor Haven’s vision had made a lasting impression on her. Constance had taken the opportunity to re-read the notes she’d taken on the Sight during a particularly motivated period of study in the library. The side effects varied rather a lot, depending on the strength and duration of the vision. Nausea, dizziness, drowsiness alternating with insomnia, increased sexual desire or a diminution in the sex drive – rather a mixed bag, Constance thought. And Haven has been off for a week. She resisted the urge to make a rather lewd connection, and tried to concentrate on planning Binns’ essay.

"Made your mind up then?" Richard said, materializing at her elbow. ""It’s taken you long enough - oh, you foolish individual," he sighed, taking in the array of Divination textbooks that were scattered all over the table in the common room. "Bad will come of this, you mark my words."

"Sod off," Constance said, smiling at her friend’s impression of Lockhart. "Don’t distract me."

"I can’t help the effect I have on women," Richard replied airily. "Forgive my magnetism. I beg you."

"Beg me on your knees during breakfast, and I’ll consider it," Constance retorted, "although to be honest, I’ve seen Flobberworms with more magnetism than you."

"You shouldn’t say things like that," Aurelius said from across the table, without looking up from his newspaper. "You’ll hurt his feelings, and then he’ll have no choice but to kill you."

Richard nodded mournfully. "Rubbishing a man’s sexual prowess is a surefire way to tip him over the edge."

"Speaking from experience, are you?" Constance asked, colouring in the loop of the rather stylized G in Grindelwald. Her concentration wasn’t exactly what one would call strong at the best of times, and Richard had just brought up the one subject she’d been trying to avoid for the past week.

She’d by no means forgotten her encounter with Tom in the dungeons. Not bloody likely, she thought wryly. She’d almost welcomed the sudden increase in schoolwork as a means to taking her mind off the sudden situation that had developed. Almost, but not quite. Constance had never thought of herself as the type to sigh wistfully over missed opportunities, but even she couldn’t help but think about what would have happened had she not remembered herself and her obligations. She knew she’d done the right thing, but lying alone in her bed that night, it hadn’t seemed a very consoling thought. She’d lain awake for hours afterwards, curled up in the dark comfort of her duvet, listening to the quiet breathing of the other girls. Remembering the warmth of his hands, of his lips on hers. When she’d finally slept, she’d been plagued with disturbing dreams that had left her most unsettled. It went without saying that she’d kept their encounter to herself – there wasn’t anyone really that she could tell, even if she’d wanted to.

And he hadn’t referred to it once, speaking to her only as much as was necessary to maintain appearances, always with an air of polite, distant courtesy. He hadn’t been cold, exactly, but had seemingly retreated back into himself – effectively severing the faint bond that had been developing between them. It was as if nothing at all had happened, as if he’d returned to the isolated boy he’d been for the past five years. As if they’d never shared anything at all. Perhaps he was embarrassed at their joint loss of control. She’d made no overt signs of friendliness towards him afterwards, either. Remembering the hard, wary look in his eyes, she wondered whether he’d taken her rejection the wrong way. It’s not my fault, she thought irritably. It’s not like it was easy, for pity’s sake.

It was strange, comparing the quiet, studious prefect to the boy who’d kissed her the way he had, hard up against the dungeon wall. She’d had a bruise on her back afterwards, the legacy of a jutting out stone. Stranger still to remember that he was also the last Zalaras, with his own family wing in the castle. That was something she’d been reading up on. She’d unearthed her copy of Wizarding Families in England and Europe shortly after Halloween, and, doing her best to ignore the overblown, flowery prose, she’d spent hours reading about the history of the Zalaras line.

Tom’s wizarding family proved to be as enigmatic as he was. Like members of the very best wizarding families, Tom could trace his roots back to the time of the Hogwarts Founders. The Zalaras family had risen to the top of wizarding society, their glory peaking around the middle of the 19^th century. Flicking through the book, Constance noted that her family was frequently mentioned in conjunction with Tom’s – although very rarely in matters of matrimony. They’d formed business alliances. Financial alliances. Wartime alliances. During the turbulence of the late fifteenth century, Angelus Malfoy and Septimus Severus Zalaras had joined forces and, and had enjoyed almost complete control over the wizarding community for several years. Admittedly, they had eventually been forced into a compromise by a consortium of several powerful wizards, but that was beside the point. Angelus and Septimus had gained power because of their magical skill, their lineage, and their remarkable ruthlessness, and the two families had increased their prestige greatly. Especially when the two wizards demanded that they retained their seats in the Wizard Council – the early modern forerunner of the Ministry of Magic – and got their wish. Wizards were wizards in those days, Constance had heard her father say, and she thought she understood the sentiment. You could get away with murder back then. Up until 1909, in fact.

It was surprising, Constance thought, that the two families had only intermarried twice in a thousand years. The link between them seemed too strong to have been forged out of friendship – yet she could find no examples of a rift between any generation of the families. Even marriage alliances couldn’t have secured such loyalty. She wondered whether Pride Zalaras, the founder of Tom’s family line, and Petrus Malfoy – the then head of her own family – had sealed some form of blood oath. It must have been an incredibly powerful one, to keep two aristocratic families loyal to each other for a thousand years. And it’d explain why her brother and her uncle had known about the Zalaras Wing, and why Tom had said "Your blood knows" to her at the Halloween feast. Only, try as she might, she could find no information at all about the relationship between Salazar Slytherin and the mysterious Pride Zalaras. On that subject, her genealogy book and the few history books she had underneath her bed were strangely silent. Constance felt as though she were missing something – something important. There was some thought nagging for utterance at the back of her mind, something that would let everything slide into place – but the harder she pressed for it, the more impossible it became to figure out what it was. Something she felt she should know – but it was as though she had some form of mental block, preventing her from fitting things together. It was decidedly frustrating, and Constance hated the feeling.

"Constance!" Richard’s impatient exclamation made her startle, and she realized with some irritation that she’d smudged her work.

She looked at him, annoyed. "What?"

"We have to go," Aurelius answered, his expression implying that it wasn’t the first time he’d said this. "Potions, remember?"

"If you can drag yourself out of your trance, that is," Richard sniped. "Dozy mare."

"Right," she said shortly, as she flung her things into her bag. She wondered how long she’d been sitting, lost in thought. "You didn’t have to shout, you know."

Aurelius looked at her, oddly, she thought, but said nothing.

*

"It’s Malfoy."

Christopher Cale looked up from his freshly poured cup of tea. "What did you say?" he asked, balancing his spoon carefully on the edge of his saucer.

"Malfoy. I’m sure of it." The Flight instructor was pacing back and forth restlessly; his eyes alight with fanaticism. "Who else could it be?"

"What are you talking about?" Christopher asked, confused. "What’s Malfoy?"

Matthew Seraphim sighed impatiently. "The danger within, of course," he said brusquely. "What Haven said – the danger comes from within, just like it did at Beauxbatons – Dippet will have to listen to me now." He took another three steps around his room, then paused. "I was right about him all along."

"You don’t know that for sure," Christopher pointed out mildly. "Just because he’s somewhat – less than pleasant –"

"That’s an understatement," the Head of Gryffindor sniped. "As pleasant as a Bludger to the head, that’s Octavius Malfoy."

"Just because he’s somewhat less than pleasant," Christopher continued, "doesn’t mean he’s in league with Grindelwald."

Matthew Seraphim rolled his eyes. "I don’t know why you’re being so nice about him," he said, "given the way he’s treated you –"

"There’s a difference between being a bigot and being a murderer," the Chantwork teacher said wearily. "He doesn’t like Muggles, and he doesn’t like me, and he really doesn’t like you, but that doesn’t mean he’s planning on killing us all, and it doesn’t mean he’s going to betray us all to the Dark League."

"He’s not got a clean record," Cale’s friend insisted. "He’s been a smuggler, he’s been arrested – you know the circumstances surrounding his appointment here – and that’s not all," Seraphim ended ominously. "The whole family’s twisted, if you ask me, they’ve been dealing in the Dark for centuries."

"That’s beside the point," Christopher said patiently. "You can’t accuse him of something like this without real proof." Matthew shrugged, causing Christopher to sigh inwardly. At times like this he wished that Matthew were less emotional and more rational where such things were concerned – although he himself had never been as coolly logical as Quintus, he appreciated the Potion Master’s analytical mind more than he could say. "The prophecy could’ve meant anything," he added, "you know how inexact Divination is."

The Flight instructor shook his head dismissively. "It’s enough," he said. "It confirms everything I already knew about Malfoy. He’s teaching dangerous spells to his niece, his brother bribed the Board of Governors to get him a place here, the man is poison," Matthew spat. "And Dippet won’t see it."

"Why do you hate him so much?" Christopher asked quietly. He felt sure that the intensity of his friend’s hatred stemmed from something more than just that of an impoverished Muggle-born ex-Gryffindor who’d borne the brunt of Malfoy’s – and other pureblood families’ – prejudices for years. His friend was fanatical upon the subject of Dark wizards – Christopher, thinking of John, could understand why – but he didn’t know what Malfoy had done to convince Matthew of his innate evil.

Matthew Seraphim looked away, his face shadowed. He was silent for so long that Christopher had given up expecting an answer when he finally spoke. His voice oddly calm in contrast with the venom of his previous outbursts, strangely distant and cold. "Octavius Malfoy is the living embodiment of everything that is wrong with the wizarding class system. Hopelessly corrupt. Uncaring. The Malfoys don’t care who they hurt, who they use, just as long as they get what they want in the end. They’re cruel." It was as if Matthew were talking to himself, Christopher thought. His friend didn’t seem to care whether he heard or not as he added "and he takes pleasure in it," almost in an undertone.

"There’s injustice in every society," Christopher pointed out, reasonably. Matthew had always had a chip on his shoulder about wealthy purebloods, but he’d never seemed this implacable about it before. He was also conscious of the fact that even in the Muggle world, Matthew hadn’t exactly had a head start. Inherently middle class, Christopher’s own family had provided him with advantages from the start, but Matthew Seraphim had been brought up in a very poor area of Manchester. From what Matthew had told him, getting accepted into Hogwarts had been his salvation, a way out.

"True," the Flight instructor agreed, looking at the backs of his hands. "But it’s different here. You know that as well as I do."

"The class system’s pretty much the same whether you’re a wizard or a Muggle," Christopher murmured. "It’s very hard to break the boundaries."

"The history of society," said the Head of Gryffindor, "is the history of class conflict – and in wizarding terms, it’s always been the muggle-borns who’ve come off worst."

"I know that," Christopher Cale said. "But you’ve got to admit things have improved over the past few centuries."

His friend scoffed. "Yes," he said. "We’re allowed to vote. That’s about it. "

"Don’t exaggerate," the Chantwork teacher said, with mock sternness. "It’s not that bad."

"Some Quidditch teams still won’t let Muggle-borns play," Matthew said resentfully. "They claim purebloods fly better – which, I can assure you, is complete nonsense. And we’re passed over for the top jobs at the Ministry – or anywhere else for that matter."

"I thought they’d relaxed the requirements regarding Ministry employment," Christopher said vaguely. He’d never been particularly interested in politics, wizarding or otherwise. At the Conservatory where he’d studied after Hogwarts there’d been very little discrimination – partly because most of the students had Muggle blood in them, and partly because aristocratic pureblood families didn’t usually allow their children to study music. The lower class purebloods at the Conservatory were more tolerant. There were different levels of class within pureblood society itself – and Christopher couldn’t really bring himself to care. He enjoyed the benefits of the privileged classes in the Muggle world, in a way it was only fair that he should be in the underclass of the wizarding world. His brother had felt differently about it, though. From his first day at Hogwarts, John had hated the blatant prejudice he’d encountered in pureblood wizards. He’d developed an interest in the working classes of the Muggle world too – an interest that had caused a lot of arguments between him and their parents. A rebel with too many causes, Christopher thought ruefully. John’s desire to change the world had been partly what led him to join the Aurors.

"We’ll never be Ministers of Magic, but we can make him cups of tea and check his filing cabinets?" Matthew asked sharply, jolting Christopher back to the present. The Flight instructor didn’t wait for an answer, but continued. "We’re still second class citizens – no, third class citizens. Half-bloods don’t get it nearly as bad."

There wasn’t much Christopher could say in response to that. His friend was right. Although Quintus had never seemed overly interested in his lack of wizarding heritage, Christopher knew that the rest of his friend’s family was a different matter. He’d visited the Snapes’ island home several times, during his years as a student, and had been awed by the built in sense of history. Ancestral portraits, hundreds of them, lining the walls. The family tree embroidered onto an enormous tapestry in one of the dining rooms. The mausoleum in the grounds. Tradition was the mortar that held the stones together. Christopher could trace his family back about a century. If that. Quintus could trace his back almost a thousand years. He wasn’t surprised that Valerius Snape, the head of his friend’s family, had not deigned to greet him. He was rather taken aback that Valerius had tolerated his visits at all - he doubted that the Malfoys would have allowed him into their home.

"What are you planning on saying to Dippet?" he asked his friend suddenly. "Are you going to push for Malfoy’s resignation?"

Matthew looked at him. "Better safe than sorry, don’t you think?"

"Even if you’re right about Malfoy – and I’m not saying you are – he’s from a very respected family," Christopher pointed out. "They won’t take your accusations lying down."

"I’m sure they’ll do anything to avoid publicity," Matthew said sourly. "But I have Albus’ support on this matter."

"Albus?" Christopher was surprised. The seemingly mild mannered Deputy Head had never shown any antipathy towards Octavius Malfoy – unless one counted their disagreement over the expulsion of Rubeus Hagrid. Then again, Christopher didn’t know Albus Dumbledore or Octavius Malfoy well enough to judge them with any real degree of accuracy.

The Head of Gryffindor nodded solemnly. "He’s as concerned about Malfoy as I am," he said. "Doesn’t trust him an inch where Slytherins are involved. He opposed Dippet’s decision to employ him, but was outvoted by the Board of Governors –"

" – and they pretty much do just what the Malfoy family say," Christopher ended for him. "I see."

"You have to admit," Matthew said, "he’s the most likely to have turned against us."

It did make sense, Christopher thought, remembering the rumours that circled like flies around the man in question, but he still wasn’t sure that forcing Malfoy’s resignation was the wisest option. Then again, if the man was working for Grindelwald, Hogwarts was the last place on earth that he should be. He was infinitely grateful the decision didn’t rest with him.

*

"The world may be ending," Richard announced as they left the Transfiguration classroom, "the world may be ending, but at least I know how to turn a raccoon into a Quaffle."

"Which will be bloody useful when the world ends," Aurelius said dryly. "You’ll not be caught short when they drag you down to the bowels of blackest hell, oh no. You mighty wizard, you."

"What do you mean, the world may be ending?" Constance asked, glancing behind her to see Tom Riddle and Paul Tudor following. She’d managed to remain relatively un-distracted for most of the lesson, but still. There were limits to one’s self-control. "Have you foreseen the Apocalypse, or something?"

Richard rolled his eyes. "For a bright girl," he said, "you’re unbelievably dim at times."

"Thanks for that penetrating insight into the workings of my mind. Answer the question."

The brown haired boy sighed, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "The world is ending," he began, "because we’re all about to die. If you believe everything you hear, that is."

"What do you mean?" Constance asked.

"All the first years are pissing themselves!" Richard exclaimed, gleefully. "They think Grindelwald’s coming to turn us all into flies and kill us with giant spiders!"

"Er, why giant spiders? And why flies?"

"Because of Haven’s prophecy," Aurelius answered. "Grindelwald’s known as the Lord of Webs, and all that."

"And that spider stuff last year," Richard said, looking positively joyful at the prospect of being turned into a fly, "People are wondering whether that Hagrid person wasn’t secretly working for Grindelwald –"

Constance gave a very unladylike snort. "That oaf? In league with Grindelwald? Could he even spell Grindelwald?"

"Nasty Constance," Aurelius said, in mock reproach. "It’s not his fault he’s got a severe intelligence deficiency disorder. And Grindelwald’s a very tricky name. Syllables, that’s what it’s got."

"It’s a nice, evil name," Constance said appreciatively. "Appropriate. That’s what it is."

Paul Tudor, who’d obviously been listening in, sniggered. "You never get any Dark Lords called Fred, do you?"

"I think the name’s supposed to inspire fear," Aurelius said dryly. "I don’t think Fred quite makes the grade, somehow."

"I am Fred, hear me roar!" grinned Paul. "It – lacks a certain finesse."

"Grin-del-wald," Richard said, rolling the word around in his mouth. "Sounds like something the Brothers Grimm would’ve thought up."

"The brothers who?" Constance asked blankly, pleased to see the same lack of comprehension in the faces of the others.

"Grimm," Tom Riddle offered, as he moved alongside Richard. "Muggle writers. Fairy tales." His voice was ever so slightly contemptuous as he spoke his last words. "Beautiful orphans defeating ugly witches."

It was the first time that Tom had spoken to her when there’d been no clear need for him to do so, and she glanced at him uncertainly, cursing herself for being completely inexperienced at this type of thing. And cursing her mother for neglecting such an important part of her education. And she was well aware that she’d limited herself in this area – she’d never had a close female friend to discuss such things with. And it wasn’t a situation she’d had to deal with before. Aurelius had always been – Aurelius. They’d had the odd passionless fumble at the Yule Ball, and then, by unspoken agreement, had carried on as normal. It hadn’t been difficult, for either of them. And Richard, thankfully, had always been otherwise engaged.

"Muggle writers?" exclaimed Paul, saving Constance from having to make a reply. "Richard….are you trying to tell us something?"

Richard raised a languid hand to his brow, in an incredibly melodramatic gesture. "O, is my dastardly secret about to be revealed? After so many years?"

"Come on, Richard. We’re all open-minded here. Sort of," Aurelius said, smirking.

"Tolerant bigots," Richard moaned. "How can you accept me when you know the horrible truth? The truth about my – sordid lifestyle!"

Paul Tudor’s eyes danced with delight. "You Muggle lover! I knew it! All these unsubtle references to Muggle writers, and religions and stuff – you’ve been slumming it, haven’t you?"

"Wallowing in the filth," Richard confessed. "At the weekend, my name is Martin Miggs. I am the Mad Muggle. I do Muggle things and I know it’s wrong – but it just feels so good!"

"You’re a bloody lunatic," Constance said, staring at him. She hoped he was joking. She thought he was joking. She was about ninety percent sure he was joking.

"I’m a disgrace to the house of Slytherin," Richard said, hanging his head.

"Tell us something we didn’t already know," Aurelius sniped.

"I’m a Slytherin under false pretences," the brown haired boy sighed. "Now punish me, I beg of you. Purge this sickness from my corrupted mind."

"No need," Aurelius said, with an air of tremendous smugness. "If the world’s about to end the way you like to think it is, the Dark Lord’s giant spiders will get you anyway."

"Giant spiders?" Tom asked, looking slightly confused. "What giant spiders?"

"Grindelwald’s spiders. Doom, death, prophecies, and general disaster. That kind of thing," Paul explained, with a confidential air. "Death by spiders. It’s – imaginative, I suppose."

"Oh," said Tom. "Spiders. Of course."

"Get thee into Gryffindor," Constance said to Richard, having decided that he was, in fact, joking. "For Salazar would not want his noble house tainted with your pestilent, pugnacious, putrid presence."

"Prithee, pretty lady," Richard replied dolefully. "If I could, I would. Those Gryffs are such a jolly bunch!"

"Downright champion, lad," Paul said, adopting the Yorkshire accent that Godric Gryffindor was rumoured to have had, then dropped it swiftly. "Splendid fellows, all of them. Aren’t they, old bean?"

"Utterly spiffing. Top hole. Corking," Richard agreed. "Marquise."

Richard’s apparently irrelevant last words had been directed to the concealed door of the Slytherin common room. As it slid open, Constance smiled inwardly at the Head Boy’s choice of password – she could sense her brother’s influence a mile off. No matter how much Marcus had tried to deny it, she knew perfectly well that he’d had a long-term literary love affair with the Marquise de Merteuil. It was actually quite sweet. In a twisted sense, of course.

"Absolutely fabulous, chaps," Aurelius said dryly. "Now sod off to Dippet’s office and get yourselves re-Sorted before I have to kill you."

"Can you do that?" Tom asked, with a sudden interest.

"What? Kill them?" Aurelius looked wistful as he settled himself upon the green sofa. "I bloody wish."

"Get re-Sorted, I mean," Tom said patiently.

"You’re not forsaking us, are you?" Constance murmured, tilting her head back slightly as she looked at the dark haired prefect through half closed eyes.

"Traitor," Richard whispered, loudly.

The halfblood didn’t smile, but looked straight at Constance as he answered. "I’m quite sure that the Hat put me in Slytherin for a reason." There was a very subtle hint of amusement in his voice as he added, "I’m certainly not ungrateful."

"Even if the Hat had made a mistake, it’d never admit to it," Aurelius pointed out. "I’d say it had its head up its own arse – if that wasn’t a physical impossibility."

"If it admitted its mistakes," Constance said, looking away from Tom, "it’d have Richard re-Sorted into Hufflepuff, where he belongs."

"You’re a very cruel person, did you know that?" Richard asked sadly. "You heartless girl."

Constance smiled. "I try, truly I do. And most of the time, I succeed. Aren’t I brilliant?"

"Utterly. Beyond compare. But back to the original topic," Paul said, with a sneer at Constance. "do you think we’re all doomed?"

"No," Aurelius replied, so firmly that Constance was slightly surprised. "Grindelwald admires British wizards. He likes us – he just wants to rule us."

"Only people who stand in his way are doomed, then," Constance mused. "I can’t say I’m overly bothered about Flay, though."

"It wasn’t so much the purebloods who were threatened in Europe," Richard said, thoughtful for once. "Remy said that it was the Jewish wizards Grindelwald was really concerned with."

"I thought Jewish magic was very powerful," Constance asked, trying to remember the details they’d been given in Charms the year before. "Aren’t the practitioners of Kabbala as strong as mainstream wizards?"

"Yes, in a way," Tom Riddle answered, his expression unreadable. "But to some, it’s an obscenity – blasphemous. And Grindelwald has – rather eccentric personal beliefs, to say the least."

"In what way?" Aurelius asked. "How do you know?"

"Because I hang on Binns’ every word," the prefect said, with some asperity. "Anyway, he wants the Jewish race wiped out completely, which is why he’s working with Hitler."

"Hitler’s the German Muggle, isn’t he?" Aurelius asked.

"Austrian," Tom corrected him. "But he is a Muggle."

"What kind of ethnic cleanser works with Muggles?" Paul demanded. "I mean, honestly. Let them have their own bloody wars."

Ever the epitome of tact

, Constance thought, glancing almost involuntarily at Tom. She’d noticed various signs in the past that indicated he was rather sensitive about his Muggle heritage. Although his composure was formidable – as she’d experienced firsthand for herself – whenever Muggles were mentioned there were always tiny signs that betrayed him. His fingers twined around his bag straps – to prevent trembling? She wondered what it was like, having to live with the Muggle war during holiday time, and the wizarding war during term time. She’d heard that the British Muggles were having a much bloodier war than the wizarding community at present, and although she couldn’t care less what the Muggles did to each other, she felt rather sorry for Tom.

"Well," Aurelius said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Grindelwald’s not fond of Muggle-born wizards – but I don’t think he’s planning on wiping out Muggles full stop. He’s just using them to get rid of the Jews."

"Muggles, Muggles, Muggles," Paul sighed. "I don’t see the attraction. And they should be kept in their bloody place, if you ask me."

"Which we didn’t, but your opinion’s always enough to brighten up our day," Aurelius said graciously.

It was an opinion that Constance could understand. Since the changes in legislation regarding the rights of muggle-borns, she’d heard it said that the rights and privileges afforded to members of pureblood families had diminished somewhat. Although she didn’t know firsthand – she hadn’t even been born when the Muggle Born Opportunities Act had been passed in 1911 – she’d heard enough from her father and grandfather. Caecilius Malfoy had been one of the staunchest opponents of the new laws, and her father had told her many times that proper wizarding blood was counting for less and less. He’d been appalled at the prospect of Muggle born wizards working in the Ministry – how could someone with no magical background ever hope to understand the traditions and complexities of pureblood society? Her family, and many others, had spent centuries building up their rank and fortune – it was downright rude to expect a Muggle-born to hold similar status to a Malfoy. It went against everything traditional in wizarding society – blood was one of the most important elements in strong magic, and blood ties were incredibly powerful. Family really was everything. Again, her thoughts turned to Tom. He was sitting silently on one of the floor cushions that lay scattered around the common room, his face carefully neutral. She looked away before he noticed her gaze, utterly mystified as to what on earth had possessed Styliane Zalaras to marry a Muggle. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine the attraction. Well. She could. Although it depends which side of the family Tom got his looks from. She couldn’t deny the fact that he was aesthetically pleasing. To say the least. But even that didn’t excuse Styliane’s behaviour, not in Constance’s eyes. If I could control myself with a Riddle, why couldn’t she? The thought was intrusive and annoying – not least because Constance knew that, if Tom had been a pureblood, she probably wouldn’t have controlled herself that Halloween night.

"If he comes here," Paul said, and Constance realized that she hadn’t been paying attention for quite some time, "if he comes here, I hope he gets Bernstein. And I hope I get to watch!"

There was a short silence. "Well, that effectively killed the conversation," Richard said cheerfully, "if you’ll pardon the pun."

"Paul, anti-Semite and future serial killer, hath spoken," Constance murmured.

"Oh, I’m not anti-Semitic," Paul said quickly. "I just can’t stand Jacob Bernstein."

"Perfectly understandable, that," Richard agreed. "Tell you what – if Grindelwald doesn’t get him, how about we do it together?"

"Yes!" Paul said, with vindictive glee. "We can hide his corpse in the Forbidden Forest – and nobody will ever know!"

"Except us," Aurelius pointed out dryly. "Or are you planning on offing us, too?"

"Screw you," Richard said, with relish. "We were going to let you help!"

"Brilliant," said Constance. "Can we kill Coombes as well?" He’d been decidedly snippy since the little incident with the Tremens Hex. Irritating little git.

"We can make a weekend of it," Aurelius suggested. "The killing of select Gryffindors, followed by a gentle, leisurely stroll in the Forest, and some light digging. Perfect entertainment for those dull Sunday afternoons."

"We could even harvest some fungi," Paul added.

"Strictly for Herbology purposes, I hope," Tom murmured, his low voice rich with amusement.

"Oh, naturally," Paul assured him. "We’re all conscientious students here – well, I’m not, I’ve got a life – and we’d never be naughty with mushrooms, oh no."

"And afterwards," Richard said, grinning, "we can all relax with a nice cup of tea. Nothing satisfies like a good cup of tea. Except maybe the look in Potter’s eyes when he sees me and my trusty meat cleaver heading his way."

Constance laughed as Richard trailed off, a blissful expression on his face. "Wouldn’t a meat cleaver make a lot of mess?" she asked. "Some wizard you are."

"It’s already been established that Richard’s a Muggle-loving idiot," Paul said. "Keep up, you dim bint."

"Besides," Richard said, "meat cleavers would be a lot more satisfying than the Killing Curse."

"More "hands on" - so to speak?" Tom asked, pensively.

"Exactly," Richard said. "I’ve put a lot of thought into this, y’know."

"Maybe we could sell their body parts down Knockturn Alley," Aurelius said enthusiastically. Then he frowned. "God, no. It’d just be my father trying to buy them. And he’d never look at me in quite the same way again."

"Nah," Richard said lazily. "He’d probably be pleased you were showing initiative. Making a man of yourself."

"Wouldn’t he wonder why you had body parts to sell in the first place?" Paul asked. "And be slightly worried as to the dubious morality of his only son?"

Aurelius shook his head, smirking. "My father’s private stores contain a lot of unmentionable things," he said. "Dubious morality is hereditary, I fear."

Constance grinned. "He’s got loads of human hearts," she said to Paul. "I saw them last summer – some of them were still beating!"

"Isn’t that a medical impossibility?" Aurelius asked, as Paul grimaced. "Besides, my father would never let an untalented outsider like you into his private stores. No matter how much you flirt with him, you horrid little girl."

Constance was outraged, more so by the sudden flash of hilarity in Riddle’s eyes. She glared at Aurelius. "I do not flirt with your father! Because, in the nicest possible sense of the word, your father’s bloody terrifying! And besides, I’m not an outsider, I’ve known you since I was a baby."

"Note the way she doesn’t deny being untalented," Richard said confidentially. "Maybe she’s finally coming to terms with being useless."

"Oh just die," Constance said. "I’m theoretically quite good at Potions, I’ll have you know."

"Theoretically," Aurelius agreed. "But in reality, you’re just hopelessly impractical where cauldrons and things are concerned. It’s me that has to do all the work, you know it is."

"Poor Aurelius. Nasty, lazy, horrid Constance," Richard said grinning. "Clumsy Constance can’t even cut carrots because she’s so cack-handed."

"I am not that bad," Constance said serenely. "Although I admit, I am often a trifle rough with my scalpel."

"You were very hard on my root last week," Tom said, his mouth twitching. Constance gave him an incredibly filthy look, then remembered she’d partnered him in Potions just before Halloween. And she’d made a right mess of their Mandrake root.

"I’m sure that sounded much better in your head, Riddle," Paul said, sniggering. "Dirty little boy."

"He’s not little," Constance said, smiling sweetly as Riddle raised an eyebrow. She paused, just to ensure that the half-blood knew two could play at double entendres. "Why, he’s one of the – tallest – boys I know."

"Am I the only person without a one track mind?" Aurelius asked, trying to look mournful as the others laughed. Even Tom had smiled, Constance saw, although he’d then looked away. Letting her win that one.

"In Slytherin?" Richard asked. "I’d say so. And you should really rectify that. Soon."

"All things come to he who waits," Aurelius said, smirking. "And you can take that anyway you like."

"Oh can I? Can I?" Richard said, grinning.

"Anyway, I’m taller than Riddle," Aurelius added, ignoring the others as he spoke directly to Constance. "So there."

*

An unfamiliar barn owl for the Potions Master had arrived only that morning. A reply, finally, to his questions about the three dead Aurors. Lovegrove’s handwriting was as ugly as ever, his sparse script stark upon the page, and the content of his letter was just as ugly. The Potions Master scanned it quickly, taking in the rather peremptory request for several more batches of the Impervio potion. Lovegrove did not mention what the Aurors had done with the Nox Mirabilis that Quintus and his cousin had recently brewed – but that was no real surprise. There were different levels of classified information within the Ministry.

The Potions Master allowed himself, for the first time in quite a few years, to wonder exactly how many people had died as a result of potions he’d brewed. Only ten drops of the Nox Mirabilis to drive a man mad, fifteen to kill him. And that was only the most recent. He’d been brewing lethal potions since he was thirteen, under his uncle’s tutelage. He’d had a sharp warning from Valerius, years ago, after he’d confessed to feeling uneasy about what their potions could do to people. It was still fresh in his memory.

"You are a tool," Valerius said, his dark eyes cold and shrewd. There was a hint of steel in his voice as he continued. "That is all you are."

Quintus, fifteen and home from Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays, shifted uncomfortably under his uncle’s dispassionate stare. Valerius Snape, he thought, was Intimidation personified. His stony nature could wear anyone down – Quintus remembered huge arguments between his father and his uncle that had usually ended with Antonius Snape storming out in defeat. He’d never known just what the arguments were about, but his father always submitted to Valerius, and carried out his family duties. His father’s temper was hot and short-lived, especially when compared to Valerius Snape’s cold, white anger.

"Do you understand me, boy?" Quintus’ uncle asked, his long fingers tapping his desk. A slow, deliberate gesture, calculated to unnerve.

"Yes sir," Quintus replied, but he hadn’t found his uncle’s words very reassuring. He didn’t like to think what the Ministry would do with the unrefined Veritaserum he’d brewed with his uncle. In its rawest form, Veritaserum was highly corrosive. It lacerated the stomach. Eating a person from inside.

Valerius Snape seemed to read his mind. "How others choose to employ you is irrelevant," his uncle said. "You serve. That is all that need concern you."

"Serve, sir?" Quintus dared to ask.

"You are

my tool," the older man said, his eyes gleaming from beneath a curtain of thick black hair. His voice laden with a significance Quintus hadn’t understood – and wouldn’t until much later. "I will use you as I see fit. Do you understand?"

"Whatever it takes, sir," Quintus murmured, as submissive as his father in the end..

It is not your place to question me. The words Valerius Snape hadn’t said. Hadn’t needed to say. Quintus knew his uncle was, in a sense, absolving him of responsibility. He knew he was being rather foolish – the Snape family had supplied all sorts of potions to all sorts of customers for centuries, and they hadn’t built up their wealth and reputation by being squeamish. His over-sensitive conscience was, in the face of this, quite ridiculous. Especially as he wasn’t the heir, and would never have much say in the family’s future. That was his cousin’s responsibility.

Even back then, Quintus thought, staring at Lovegrove’s letter, even back then Aurelius had shown himself to be far more suited to the role of patriarch than either he or Antonius could ever have been. The shrewdness of his father was in him, from the start. Aurelius was very much his father’s son. Quintus remembered his cousin’s easy acceptance of what he was being quietly trained to do. What the Aurors do with the Nox Mirabilis is their own responsibility. Learning is never wrong. Even learning how to kill isn’t wrong. It’s just a thing to learn. A very practical way of looking at things. A very Slytherin way of looking at things.

He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The rest of Lovegrove’s letter was somewhat less than pleasant. In a postscript, three names were listed. The first two names – Frederick Sassoon and James Owen – were unfamiliar to Quintus, but the third confirmed his suspicions. John Cale had indeed been one of the three Aurors killed by prolonged exposure to the Nox Mirabilis.

The Potions Master had already decided that he would not share this information with his friend – better to let him believe that John had died a clean, quick death. Avada Kedavra was supposed to be painless, although nobody had ever been able to confirm this. The Nox Mirabilis inflicted complete paralysis upon its victims, and the hallucinations it induced could drive a man stark, raving mad. Christopher Cale did not need to know this. And he didn’t need to know that his brother had been dismembered in the same fashion as Ferdinand Flay. Death was bearable, desecration was not. And besides, Quintus thought, I couldn’t very well tell Christopher how I knew this.

He would keep the truth about John Cale’s death to himself. It was a secret he could live with.

*

Apart from the increasingly familiar yet still disturbing intrusive thoughts – which usually involved Tom Riddle and a double bed, and sometimes the bed didn’t even figure – Constance’s dreams also included a flurry of illegal curses being flung at her by faceless opponents. That Friday night, sleep was even more elusive, and her brief, fragmented dreams so intense that she jolted awake several times, shaking and breathless, but whether from pain or pleasure she couldn’t say. It wasn’t the first time Constance had had trouble sleeping, but it was the first time she’d become so frustrated – in more senses than one – that she’d found remaining in bed completely unendurable. Her patience was relatively non-existent at the best of times, but after what seemed like an eternity of staring at the dark curtains around her too-hot bed, she decided to head down to the common room.

Pulling her warmest robes over her thin white nightdress, she’d decided that there was no real risk that her dorm-mates would discover her absence. Teresa had fallen asleep fairly quickly, but then she had just returned from yet another illicit meeting with Richard. The auburn haired girl looked remarkably shagged out, Constance had noted.

"We were playing Quidditch," Teresa murmured weakly in response to Constance’s questioning stare.

"One on one Quidditch, was it?" Arya Lestrange had asked, grinning. "Quidditch in bed?"

"Did he catch the Snitch?" Camille Chirac had added, as Teresa sank onto her bed. The French girl hadn’t appeared at all affected by Haven’s prophecy, although several of the Beauxbatons students in other houses had been extremely shaken. Of course, Constance thought, Slytherins have more self-control.

"Oh, very funny," Teresa replied, her eyes firmly shut. "I don’t see you lot getting any."

"What’s his broomstick size?" Constance had asked innocently, ignoring the gibe. "I hear some of the bigger makes can be hard to handle," she added, and got her laugh for the night.

Once sleeping, Teresa wouldn’t wake for anything short of Grindelwald’s invasion of the school, and maybe not even then. And Arya Lestrange’s sleeping habits were eccentric, to say the least – she slept on the floor, wrapped head to toe in a cocoon of blankets, for starters, and talked utterly unintelligible nonsense in her sleep. This had provided Teresa and Constance with a great deal of entertainment during their very first night at Hogwarts (although they’d eventually resorted to casting Silencing Charms around the girl in order to ensure a quiet night’s sleep) and Aurelius had since confirmed that Ariel slept in exactly the same way. Not once in all their years at Hogwarts had either of the twins woken during the night – Constance felt secure enough to leave Arya alone. Camille Chirac had set a lot of wards around her bed which would only trigger if a spell was cast directly at her – Constance left those well alone. The French girl had also set plenty of wards by the door, though, presumably to prevent any nocturnal visitors. Constance felt decidedly less welcoming towards the French girl by the time she’d finished disabling them and resetting them behind her. She’d have the whole rigmarole to go through when she returned, as well. Not that it really mattered whether they noticed she was gone – after all, the common room wasn’t out of bounds – she just didn’t feel particularly inclined towards explaining herself at the moment. Besides. Those wards had proved their worth in the past, several times. As several overly optimistic Slytherin boys could no doubt confirm.

The gently glowing embers of the fading fire cast soft shadows across the dim common room. Smouldering light, which could quite easily be fanned into full flame again. Constance eyed it sympathetically as she headed towards the tatty old sofa.

"Two minds with but a single thought?"

Tom. Of course, she thought with wry resignation, even as she startled at the unexpected sight of him. Stretched out full length upon the sofa, which faced away from the door, it wasn’t surprising she hadn’t seen him when she’d entered the room. Swathed in a long, slightly frayed dressing gown that was buttoned from neck to ankles, covering him completely, he had an open book resting on his lap and was looking at her with a smirk that was altogether too suggestive for her peace of mind.

"I couldn’t sleep," she said, a statement rather than an explanation, as Tom slithered into an upright position, clearing a space for her on the sofa. She made sure there was a respectable distance between them as she sat down, despite the rather compelling images that had been spawned by her inner demon at the sight of a horizontal Tom. She wondered whether he’d been thinking about the last time they’d been alone together late at night, and whether her resolve was still as firm as it had been then. And whether she’d have to put it to the test again. "You?"

"The same," he murmured, his mouth curling. There was a definite gleam in his eyes, and she could tell his thoughts were following the same path as her own. One-track minds, she thought, remembering his Mandrake root comment. Unbidden, Aurelius’ response surfaced in her mind. A challenge, or a warning?

"That’s not schoolwork, is it?" she asked, glancing at his book. "Am I disturbing you?"

His smile deepened at her choice of words. "Not work," he said, and it wasn’t the book that he was talking about as he continued. "Pleasure. It won’t help me in my exams, and it’s not likely to improve what moral fibre I may possess – but we all have our little vices."

Constance was quite aware of his meaning, and equally aware that she couldn’t allow Tom to get the upper hand. She wanted – needed – equilibrium, and so she schooled her features into a mask of polite incredulity, allowing herself a faint tinge of sarcasm as she replied, "Really? I’d never have thought it of you." The lowest form of wit, which was why it was so popular with those whose minds dwelt in the gutter.

Tom inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Don’t be fooled," he said, his face serious, "there’s an ardent pleasure seeker in most people."

"I’ll take your word for it," Constance retorted, knowing perfectly well her own behaviour that night had proved his point. Although "ardent", she felt, didn’t really come close. Frantic, desperate – these terms would’ve been more appropriate. And just thinking about it was dangerous, in a thrilling, illicit way. "What is it you’re reading, anyway?"

Instead of replying, the boy raised his book to let her see the title. The Torture Garden. She hadn’t read it, and didn’t recognize the author - and couldn’t resist voicing her first thought. Ill advised or no. "Sounds very kinky," she said, smirking at the ghost of a smile that traced its path across Tom’s lips. "I bet Groan had a heart attack when you took this out of the library."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Actually, your uncle lent it to me," he said, with devastating casualness.

"Bound to be full of kinky bits, then," Constance said instantly. "And what’s he corrupting your moral fibre for? Teachers and students - isn’t that slightly illegal?"

"You possess a foul mind," Tom said, and he didn’t sound displeased. "Besides. I don’t think your uncle’s interested."

"In legality, or his students?" she asked sweetly.

The dark haired prefect almost laughed. "Both, I expect. And I haven’t yet found any of the bits to which you so eloquently refer, either."

"My heart bleeds for you," said Constance unfeelingly. She yawned, looking into the glowing coals of the fire. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour that had thawed their reserve, perhaps not, but she did not want them to return to the cool courtesy that had characterized their relationship since Halloween. And she was quite prepared to surrender her verbal virtue to him in their war of words in order to ensure that that did not happen again. She had an idea of how the thing was to be done, but nothing was very clear. She turned back to him, biting her lip in momentary hesitation. Then – "Read to me," she said, surrendering to a very perverse inner voice.

Tom hardly missed a beat. "And corrupt your moral fibre?" he asked dryly. "An innocent mind is a very fragile thing."

"My mind," she said, delicately, "is a Malfoy mind."

The black haired boy gave her a long, speculative look. "Shall I start from the beginning?"

"From where you left off."

He looked at her a moment longer, taking in what she’d said and what she hadn’t had to say, then lowered his gaze to the pages of the book. When he spoke, there was nothing in his quiet, low-pitched voice to indicate self-consciousness. He was composure personified. "You’re obliged to pretend respect for people and institutions you think absurd," he said, pausing momentarily before he continued, "you live attached in a cowardly fashion to moral and social conventions you despise, condemn, and know lack all foundation. It is that permanent contradiction between your ideas and desires, and all the dead formalities and vain pretenses of your civilization which makes you sad, troubled and unbalanced…"

He trailed off, watching her intently as she voiced her mock-complaint. "No torture?" she said, feigning disappointment. "No screams? Not even any smut?"

"I told you – I hadn’t got that far," he replied, smiling down at his book. Then he looked directly at her, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "Perhaps if we went further, you’d find something more to your liking?"

She didn’t bother trying to contain the deep thrill that ran through her at his suggestion. He’d have seen through her at once. This game they were playing wasn’t like the juvenile scheming she was used to – they were walking higher than that, the two of them. This felt real. It felt dangerous, and more than that, it felt decidedly wicked. And she liked it, very much. As she wetted her dry lips, she realized that she’d come to a solution that would be enjoyable for both of them.

She’d already decided that Tom was intelligent enough to have worked out why she couldn’t have gone any further that Halloween. Aurelius’ lack of subtlety earlier had without doubt enlightened Tom as to the nature of the role she was expected to play as a Malfoy daughter. In a way, her body and mind were divorced, the needs of the one subjugated to the will of the other, and she was treading a fine line between her desire for him, and her duty to others, treading an even finer line in balancing this with Tom’s pride. She wasn’t ignorant – she knew that there were things people could do without forfeiting their purity. She wouldn’t object to doing any of those things with Tom Riddle. She was quite looking forward to them.

She wasn’t entirely sure where Tom ranked in wizarding society – common half-bloods, of course, rated only slightly higher than Muggle-borns, but Tom’s wizarding family was anything but common. Traditionally, aristocratic families viewed their half-bloods almost like bastards – useful tools, pawns, but without any real status of their own. She couldn’t see Tom ever fitting into that role, even if his mother’s family had still been alive. She’d guessed that whatever her brother and uncle were doing, Tom was somehow involved. Why else would he have granted them the use of the Zalaras Wing? And that too meant that Tom was more than just a half-blood. He was special. If they truly were following the same path, following in the footsteps of her uncle, an alliance with Tom – and not just a purely physical one either, although that was her most immediate concern at the moment – might even be a greater advantage for her family than the planned match with Aurelius. And, on a purely superficial level, he had very nice eyes, and she didn’t care which side of the family they came from.

Dark Witches

, Constance thought, taking a long, deep breath, showed initiative. She doubted they sat around waiting for permission from their parents. They made their own choices. And we all have to start somewhere. Manipulation – turning one’s weakness into a strength – she would turn her impulsive desire into a calculated risk. It was all about control – and they both knew the rules.

"Perhaps I would," she said, and as she moved very slowly, very deliberately towards him, sliding along the green sofa, she saw something spark deep in his eyes.

They both knew the rules. He didn’t move as she rose to her knees beside him, didn’t take his eyes away from her as she brought her hands up to rest at either side of his face. This passivity was deliberate, reassuring her that she would not be compromised, just as her bid for dominance was to remove any doubts he may have had about her feelings towards him – the lingering kiss she planted on his lips was the seal on an unspoken agreement. Limitations had been set upon them – but there was plenty of room for experimentation.

"And so another Malfoy tries to corrupt your moral fibre," she said, moving backwards slightly, smiling down at his upturned face.

"I can live with that," Tom murmured, his voice lower than usual. "Besides," he said, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist to draw her close again, "what makes you think I’m not corrupting you?"

Whatever answer she would have made to that was lost, rather enjoyably, as he kissed her, his tongue twining serpentine with hers, his grasp on her tightening painfully. She wasn’t sure which excited her more – the feel of his body against hers, or the response she could elicit from him as she ran her hand down his chest and felt his body tremble.

Eventually breaking their embrace, she slid her leg over his, and, using him for support, shifted so that she was sitting astride him. She took the faint, involuntary noise he made for encouragement, it was intoxicating to feel that she had power over him in this way, and as her hand slipped downwards past his stomach, she could feel a far more palpable response stirring beneath her touch. Almost without thought she slipped her hand inside his dressing gown, hardly bothering to unfasten it properly, and discovered with a thrill of her own that Tom Riddle was wearing absolutely nothing underneath.

She brushed against him, the first boy she’d ever touched in that way, tentatively, shyly, and felt his whole body tremble as he hissed words she couldn’t make out against her cheek, his eyes tightly closed. As she gained fluency in this new art, his rapt expression taught her that the loss of control was not just to be feared, but to be desired, and she did desire it, Tom’s touch, more than anything else she wanted him, it was almost frightening to realize how deep her desires ran. Almost frightening to discover that his needs went as deep, if not deeper, as he grasped her shoulders and urged her down, forcing her off his knees and onto the floor. His sudden breathless urgency startled her until she realized its cause, and without hesitating, because this was Tom, this was real, she lowered her head, her mouth, to him, her hands tight on his hips, and as he reached his release with a choking cry, she felt his hands tangle in her hair, like a drowning man clutching at the sky.

*

Constance wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since she’d climbed back onto the sofa, wiping her mouth with the handkerchief she’d found in her pockets. She couldn’t help grinning when she realized that it was none other than Professor Seraphim’s handkerchief – the one he’d given her that time in his office. Doesn’t look like he’ll be getting this back, she thought with some amusement, as she curled up alongside Tom, her head resting on his shoulder. He’d draped his arm around her, without speaking, and had kissed her cheek when she’d smiled up at him. They’d sat in silence for a while, each savouring the comfortable warmth of the other, neither feeling the need to speak.

Filled with an unusual tenderness, Constance had watched the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing gradually returned to normal, had looked at his closed eyes, admiring the long lashes that she’d kill for, had studied the lines and contours of his pale, exhausted face. She’d traced a line over his jaw, over his cheek, up into the messy black hair, and had toyed with the buttons of his dressing gown, wondering whether to satisfy her curiosity about the parts of his body she hadn’t yet seen. Like a child with a new toy, she thought wryly, placing her hand flat on his lean chest. He didn’t move, or voice any protestations as she did so, and she smiled in the knowledge that he was hers to touch, that she could do this to him. She’d claimed him, and there would be no awkwardness later, no. Not after this bargain, sealed in flesh.

It was during her softly exultant exploration of his upper body that she found something odd on his left side, close to his shoulder – a five pointed star formed from hard, ridged flesh. Constance looked at it curiously, realizing that it must have been carved into him somehow. She recognized the shape – the inverted pentagram – and looked at him curiously, wondering why, and how, he had this scar.

"I usually hide it," he said, clasping her hand firmly and moving it away. As though her discovery had restored his caution, he sat up properly, and began to sort out his hair and garments – both of which were in considerable disarray. "The charm – I must have forgotten to recast it –"

"Does it matter?" Constance said, watching him buttoning up his dressing gown.

"It does to me," he said shortly, before adding in a softer tone, "I don’t like to forget things."

There was a pause, during which Tom leaned back into the corner of the sofa, putting his arm around her again. She chewed her lip, thoughtfully, realizing just how little she actually knew about him, about his life outside school, about what he wanted to do afterwards, about that scar. In one sense, of course, she knew him intimately, she knew what to do to make him cry out in pleasure, she’d just done something to him that she’d never done with anyone else, but she couldn’t say she knew him. Not like she knew Aurelius. Or even Richard.

"Did you do it?" she asked, allowing no uncertainty to show on her face. They’d gone too far for that. "Why?" she asked, as he nodded.

His turquoise eyes glittered strangely as he gazed at her. "It’s a reminder," he said, finally.

She didn’t say anything; just looked at him, willing him to speak, to prove that what was between them was more than just physical satisfaction. She wanted to know him. Not simply his family background, his family secrets, although these things fascinated her, she wanted to know him.

"A reminder of where I come from," he said, looking away momentarily. It was as if he was reciting something he’d learned by heart, a long time ago. "A reminder of where I’m going. A reminder of what I carry in me, at all times."

"Tell me," she said impulsively, lacing their fingers together the way he’d done, at Halloween. Although fatigue was rapidly settling in – it was almost five in the morning – this was more important than sleep. "All of it."

"What is it, exactly, that you want to know?" he asked her, almost warily.

"Oh, everything," she said flippantly, and laughed as he winced.

"Be more specific," Tom said. "And I might think about answering."

"Why a pentagram? What does it mean?"

"It’s symbolic," he replied slowly, his eyes fixed on some distant point above her head. "An act of defiance, if you like. Rebellion."

"Rebellion?" she echoed. Taking in his not quite awkwardness, she hesitated momentarily before continuing. "Against whom?"

"Against God."

He’d spoken so softly that he’d been barely audible. She looked at him in bemusement, not sure that she’d understood. Wizarding society was almost completely secular – although she knew Tom had been brought up amongst Muggles, she hadn’t thought he was the type to have held onto their beliefs. But then again – he’d said rebellion against God. She wasn’t entirely clueless as to Muggle culture – she knew full well that Muggles had feared the magical community for centuries. The Burning Times had been proof enough of that – even though those accused of witchcraft back then had usually been innocent. Muggle religions were uncompromising in their denunciation of magic – was that what Tom’s scar signified, and rejected?

"Yes," he said, and she realized he’d been following her train of thought. "They think magic’s sinful, they think it’s evil. They think we’re evil. That’s what they taught me. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

"They’re a bit optimistic, aren’t they?" she said disdainfully. "Like they could ever hurt a proper witch –I’d like to see a Muggle take me on, really I would. "

He smiled. "Perhaps one day you’ll get the chance."

"So," Constance said, her mind returning to his scar. "You’re not religious."

"I like the idea of faith," Tom said, thoughtfully. "I like the rituals, and the ceremonies, and the decorations. But if God existed –"

"What?" she asked, as he trailed off.

"I’d probably spit in his face," he said. "Better to reign in hell, and all that."

Constance laughed, in mingled delight and malice. "I’m sure the Muggle clergy must’ve really loved you!"

Tom’s lip curled scornfully. "I can assure you they did," he informed her, a hint of bitterness infusing his lowered voice. "Frequently. And with true Christian devotion."

"What do you mean?" she asked, with a sudden grimace. His fingers had tightened around hers whilst they’d been talking – a sign of tension she recognized. His knuckles, she noticed, were almost white with the strength of his grip.

He shrugged, suddenly impatient. "It’s not important. Anyway, it’s not Muggles I’m interested in," he said, eyeing her in a manner that left absolutely no room for doubt as to his intentions.

She feigned ignorance anyway. "Oh?" she asked, her eyes widening innocently. "You wouldn’t be trying to distract me with indulgences of the flesh, would you?"

"I’m not trying to do anything," he replied, releasing her hands, and smiling guilelessly at her.

For a split second, she almost believed him, and was more than mildly disappointed. To say the least, she thought. And then his long, tapered fingers reached out to pull her to him again, a smooth snakelike motion. Wandering fingers, that danced, lightly over her skin. She felt her breath quicken, felt a delicious tingling sensation in her belly as he laughed, a deep, knowing sound.

"I’d like to think I’m succeeding," he murmured, his face very close to hers.

"Takes more than that," she countered, making no attempt whatsoever to free herself from his grasp. Instead, she slid her arms around him, and allowed him to maneuvre her backward, until she was lying beneath him. "I’ll have the truth out of you soon. All your little secrets," she said, teasing. "I promise."

"Yes, you will," he agreed. "But there’s only one that matters," he added softly, then kissed her before she could respond, savouring her taste, his taste that still lingered on her lips, on her tongue. She kissed back, fiercely, clawing her nails into him until he laughed against her mouth, and drew away, still smiling inscrutably. She felt momentarily afraid as she looked up at him, his unreadable eyes burning in his pale face. Instead of diminishing her desire, however, his dark eyes only caused her need for him to grow, an aching hunger that demanded satisfaction.

So far from innocence

, she thought in what would be merely a brief moment of lucidity, but as he opened the front of her robes, none too gently, and untied the laces of her nightdress to lower his mouth to her skin, she soon forgot about such things. Concentrated instead on the heat from his lips, on the mingled pain and pleasure his teeth could inflict on her shoulders, neck, breasts, on the lightness of Riddle’s fingers as they slid up her leg to return the favour she’d bestowed upon him earlier.

*

There was a smattering of applause from the Gryffindors as Andrew Potter successfully transformed his hamster into a hedgehog, receiving ten points from a smiling Professor Dumbledore. Aurelius, bringing himself back to the present, became aware of a sharp pain in his arm – Richard was jabbing him with his quill.

"And why aren’t your thoughts on the lesson?" the brown haired boy murmured softly. "Your hamster looks decidedly un-hedgehog-like."

Aurelius grimaced. "I’m just tired," he said quietly. "If a certain person hadn’t woken me up at an obscene time this morning with his snoring, I could’ve caught up on some sleep – but it was not to be."

Richard grinned unashamedly. "You’ll have to come up with a better excuse than that," he said.

"Excuse for what?" Aurelius asked. "Not paying attention to Dumbledore?"

"Tell me," Richard said, adopting a declamatory pose. "What sadness lengthens Aurelius’ hours? Not having that, which having, makes them short? In love? Out of love? Is there no way I can – ameliorate your circumstances?"

Aurelius had to laugh as his friend clasped his hand, dramatically. "You’re a complete fool," he said, disentangling himself.

"I am ever the fool for you, my dear Aurelius," Richard said gallantly. "And, being your fool, may I not rush in where angels fear to tread? May I not speak to thee of riddles?"

"Of riddles?" Aurelius asked, rolling his eyes.

"Of riddles, and in riddles," Richard amended. "For they are one and the same, are they not?"

"Speak plainly, you idiot," Aurelius said, exasperated.

Richard sighed. "Speaking plainly would take all the fun out of my existence," he said plaintively. "But have it your own way."

"Well?" Aurelius asked, impatiently. "Get to the point."

Richard looked meaningfully at the row of students in front of them, where Constance was prodding Tom Riddle’s hedgehog with her quill, making it shuffle across the desk in protest. "I know what your problem is," he said.

Aurelius looked at him sourly. "What problem would this be?" he said, the steel in his voice implying he didn’t wish to hear an answer. He knew perfectly well he’d been staring at the blond girl, but only because she was in the way of his eyes, so to speak. She’d arrived late to the lesson, and had taken the empty space in the front row, beside Tom Riddle, instead of her usual seat further back. It wasn’t what he’d call a problem.

Richard ignored him, as usual. "Cherchez la femme," he said wisely, with an atrocious French accent. "Elles sont toujours –" he paused, searching for the right word, then gave up, " – trouble."

Richard’s knowledge of French wasn’t exactly what one would call in depth, Aurelius discovered. "Si tu ne sais pas," Aurelius said heavily, "tu parles francais comme une vache espagnole. Tais-toi, s’il te plait."

"Non," Richard replied, adopting a wounded expression. "Parce que – oh, stuff it – anyway, I will not shut up because I have weighty words of infinite value and, surprisingly enough, wisdom, to impart."

"In that case, impart them quickly, and then shut up," Aurelius said, jabbing his wand in the direction of his hamster and scowling in concentration.

"You’ll thank me for this one day," Richard said lightly.

"Thank you for what?"

"For the advice which I am about to give you, concerning your rather dismal love life," the brown haired boy said, smiling smugly.

Aurelius looked at him with considerable coolness. He didn’t appreciate people prying into his private affairs, no matter how long he’d known them. Some things were off-limits.

"Now, Aurelius, if you ask me –"

"Which I didn’t," the black haired student pointed out, his voice laden with acid.

"If you ask me," Richard continued blandly, inspecting his fingernails, "she only likes him because he played the hero last year. He’s only a halfblood – she’s just slumming for a while. The novelty will soon wear off, don’t worry."

"I’m not worried," Aurelius said, his amusement outweighing his annoyance at what he saw as Richard’s interference. The thought of Constance "slumming" was ludicrous. She was a Malfoy, after all. "Why on earth should I be?"

Richard Marlowe sighed, shaking his head wearily. "That’s not what it looks like," he said regretfully. "It’s been the same for a while, now, since we were in the library that time. She watches him, and you watch her, and I? I watch everybody, because I’m a kind, sympathetic soul and I just want everybody to be happy," he ended, mournfully. "And you’re still doing it, by the way."

"I am not, and I wasn’t looking at her in that way," Aurelius said, mortified. He knew that he and Constance had been friends since birth for a reason, he’d even made tentative overtures towards her in the past, but it didn’t mean he was head over heels in love with her. She was his friend. Eventually, yes, it was more than likely that she’d be his wife, but that was a long time off. And besides. The best marriages, his father had said, were those based on mutual respect and familial advancement. Not juvenile infatuation. "You’re reading far too much into this."

Richard met his gaze levelly. "She noticed it too," he said gently. "Sorry."

Aurelius glared at him. The serious look on his friend’s face reminded Aurelius that, for all his flightiness, Richard Marlowe possessed a very sharp mind. It didn’t do to underestimate him. Even when he’s completely, utterly wrong, he’s still very perceptive. Aurelius was certain that the mildly flirtatious exchange between the halfblood and his blonde friend the other day had been just that. Constance wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the relationship between the Malfoys and the Snapes. He’d made the situation perfectly clear to both Constance and Tom, he thought. He had nothing to worry about.

"And I expect Riddle has noticed it all as well," Richard continued inexorably. "Doesn’t miss a trick, that one. Of course," he added, in an undertone, "he doesn’t seem particularly averse to her interest, does he?"

Well, he wouldn’t be

, Aurelius thought, as he followed Richard’s gaze to where Tom Marvolo Riddle sat, listening attentively to something Constance was saying. His turquoise eyes were fixed on the blonde girl. Julius Malfoy would never allow it, anyway. His blood’s not good enough. Aurelius turned back to Richard.

"It’s no concern of mine," Aurelius said, his voice low. "You misunderstand the nature of my attention."

"Do I?" Richard asked, gravely.

"Definitely," Aurelius said, shaking his head irritably to dispel the image of Constance and the halfblood. As if I don’t have enough to think about, he thought, what with illicit Potions brewing, rampaging Dark Lords, and now I’ve got to keep an eye on Riddle?

"That’s alright, then," Richard said, his brown eyes unreadable. "I was just – checking."

"I grew out of that kind of thing ages ago," Aurelius said firmly, wondering just how much his friend knew about his and Constance’s relationship. He’d kissed her during their first Yule Ball, out in the rose bushes, as expertly as he’d known how at the age of fifteen. It had seemed the right way to mark the occasion, although neither of them had really known what to do. And he’d never kissed anyone else, despite the various opportunities he’d had since then. "Let me assure you, since you seem to find my private life so intriguing, that, at present, I have no interest whatsoever in females."

Richard grinned, suddenly and unexpectedly. "Oh, Aurelius," he said breathlessly, "I didn’t know you were of that persuasion!"

The wicked grin on his friend’s face should have warned him, but it didn’t. Aurelius was completely unprepared as Richard flung himself off his chair and onto one knee. The other students, who’d been busy with their hedgehogs, paused to watch. Several Slytherins started sniggering, whilst the Gryffindors merely looked bemused.

"Mr. Marlowe," Professor Dumbledore began, his tone wryly amused. "What are you doing?"

"He loves me!" Richard exclaimed joyfully. He clutched Aurelius’ legs. "And I love him!"

"And I thought I was your one and only, Richard," Simon Harper observed, mockingly, making the Slytherins laugh harder.

"A mistake many people have made," Teresa Symmonds contributed. She glared at Richard and Aurelius in mock fury. "Should I be jealous?"

"Oh don’t worry, I’ve got enough love to go around," stated Richard, his arms clasped tightly around Aurelius’ legs. "Haven’t I, darling?"

You insufferable git

, Aurelius thought, looking at the smug face of his erstwhile friend. By now, even the Gryffindors were laughing, and, as Aurelius saw the delighted expression on Andrew Potter’s face, he knew there’d be hell to pay for Richard’s actions later on.

"Get off me," hissed Aurelius, trying to shake his legs out of Richard’s grasp. "What’re you doing?"

Andrew Potter was shaking with laughter. "I knew there was something funny going on," he said excitedly to his friends.

"Robe lifters, the lot of them," Jacob Bernstein commented, and Stuart Coombes nodded virtuously.

Aurelius was livid. Richard was proving impossible to shake off. What the hell does he think he’s doing?

"Come off it, Potter," Constance said, laughing. "You’d sell your immortal soul for what Aurelius is getting now!"

"Oh, Andrew, you can get your Quaffle through my hoop anytime," Richard said, his face buried in Aurelius’ robes. "If you beg on bended knee, that is."

"Not in this lifetime, Marlowe," scowled Potter, suddenly turning red.

Professor Dumbledore interrupted, his voice mild, "I think there’s a time and a place for everything, Mr. Marlowe – and Transfiguration lessons aren’t the most appropriate place for exhibitions of the love that dare not speak its name. Touching though it is," he added, eyes twinkling.

Richard, finally, released Aurelius’ legs and sat back on his heels. "Sorry sir," he said, looking decidedly unrepentant. "I can’t think what came over me, really I can’t."

To Aurelius’ immense relief, the class soon returned to normal behaviour, with only a few wolf whistles from Paul and Simon. No doubt they’ll have a field day in the dormitory tonight, Aurelius thought, and seriously began to consider the possibility of camping out in the library.

"I hope you had a good reason for that little performance," he hissed, as they made their way to the Great Hall for lunch soon after. Behind them, the Gryffindors had already begun speculating loudly about various details of their supposed relationship.

"Of course I did," Richard said calmly, flicking a speck of dust off his robes. "I was overwhelmed with desire. I’d have thought that was obvious. Darling, you can be awfully slow at times."

Aurelius could have murdered him. "You humiliated me in front of everybody!"

Richard looked at him. "Consider it a lesson, then," he said, his voice for once entirely free of mockery.

"A lesson," Aurelius repeated flatly. "Exactly what was I supposed to learn?"

"Learn to hide your feelings better," Richard said, and hurried off to catch up with Constance and Tom.

*****

Notes to Reviewers

Faith Accompli

: I trust you caught the dirty thought behind "I thought you were going soft", then? Ah, of course you did. You’re as perverted as I. Anyway. You know most of the Riddleplot (altars!altars! wands that don’t work!) that’s approaching, so there’s not much to say here. Other than "Ta". And that goes for Veruka too.

Mustardseed:

She’s still virginal. But not at all pure. There’ll be more plot in the next chapter, I, er, just had to get SexuallyGettingThere!Riddle out of my system. More Snapes in the next chapter, because it’s all about Happy Families, and whatnot. Some proper Elspeth/Octavius/Quintus stuff too, I hope.

TheStrangeOne:

Course you can have Marcus. Lots of Marcus/Regal/that lot in the next chapter. I trust I’ve avoided bringing Constance down with MSS? I think she and Tom have reached an acceptable compromise, bearing in mind she’s still clueless as to his Identity.

Sadie:

I hope the Riddlesmut here delights you just as much, o yes I do. And thanks for the review, for they fill me with glee, they do.

Aranel:

I cannot reveal such things now, o no. But Elspeth IS quite important, and so’s Octavius.