Ten Minutes to Midnight

Chapter One

October 23, 1996

"Hold on, hold on to yourself
For this is gonna hurt like hell."

-Sarah McLachlan, Hold On

Deirdre sat in her rocking chair by the window, watching the rain fall and the lightning crack the sky. Except for the gentle sound of rain on the roof, an occasional clap of thunder, and her son's snoring from down the hall, the night was silent. She rocked faster, and the floorboards creaked. Something was bothering her tonight; something that had been lurking at the back of her mind for the past thirty-seven years was trying to surface. Her secret had been lingering on the tip of her tongue for the longest time, threatening to spill.

She was now sixty-eight years old, still wispy and frail, but now her brown hair was shockingly white, and her face more deeply lined than ever. Any traces of beauty that she had once possessed were erased with age, but some of the fire she had lost from her years of drowning in the Dark Arts had returned. She sat straight-backed with her nose in the air and closed her eyes as she listened to Jack's heavy breathing.

He had a bad case of snoring that magic could only fix with a silencing charm, but the house seemed empty without the noise, so Bridget let him snore. Deirdre didn't mind. She liked knowing that her son - Jack Thetford, the man she had gone through hell and back for - was alive in the quiet uncertainty of night. She wanted to see him sleep tonight, so she stood and walked towards the door, the floorboards still creaking, and left the room.

Her bare feet sank into the lush, dark green carpet as she walked toward Jack and Bridget's room. She passed her favourite painting, a lonely portrait of a castle silhouetted against the stars, and stopped to look at it. It was something she cherished very dearly, and probably the first non-living thing she'd save if the house caught fire. It had been sent to her on the Christmas after she had left London without a letter denoting who had sent it, but she knew it was a gift from Silvius. He had a love for castles and a talent for painting that he shared only with her and Lucius, his son. The picture had a sense of melancholy to it, but it was also the most beautiful thing in the house. She smiled faintly at it and kept walking.

Jack's room was at the end of the hall. Deirdre reached it and carefully pushed the door open, trying very hard indeed to be completely silent. She stood halfway in and halfway out of the room, looking in, and felt a smile play on her lips as her eyes fell on the bed.

Jack, his light brown hair messy and flecked with grey, was sprawled out on top of the sheets, with Bridget's head on his chest and her fingers entwined with his. A shaft of moonlight filtered through the window, spotted from the rain on the glass, and illuminated Bridget's ginger hair and Jack's face. Deirdre hadn't watched her son sleep since he was very young, and only now did she realise how much she had missed it.

He did not look like his father very much, she noticed. Besides his eyes, which were the same bright blue as Tom's, most of his features belonged to Deirdre. The brown hair, the high cheekbones, the wide grin, they were all hers. But he had his father's strong jaw and height; he stood at almost six foot three, and cast a rather impressive shadow. And he was beautiful just like his father, but unlike him, somehow; Tom's had been a cold, monochromatic beauty. Jack's face held a warmth that Deirdre had laboured long to see. She regarded him now, as he slept, as the only thing she had ever done right.

Bridget had a halo of light orange hair, and a face that was not so much freckled as one big freckle with occasional bits of skin showing through. She was leggy and skinny, and fortunately for Jack, tall as well. That made Deirdre the shortest person in the house, a fact she resented very much.

Bridget was Jack's second wife, although Deirdre had it on good authority that she should have been his first. She had never liked Rosaline, the woman he had married when he was twenty-two, but she quite liked the fiery, funny Bridget. Bathed in the darkness of the room they shared, they looked perfect together. Deirdre sighed heavily. This was all going to end soon. The fairytale she had created for Jack, and now Bridget, in this little Irish house, was going to end soon. She would have to tell him.

With another gusty sigh, she turned and walked back down the hall to her room and her rocking chair. She sank back into it and continued her rocking, which had become a nightly routine for the last two weeks. It was one o'clock in the morning, and though she was tired, her body refused to sleep.

Suddenly, a violent cough racked her body and she gasped for air. She put a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the sound, and blinked in shock when she pulled it away and found it stained bright red with blood. She groped for a handkerchief, found one, and continued to cough into it. Each ragged breath ripped her throat raw and she soon found herself on the floor, clutching the leg of the rocking chair desperately for support.

She continued to cough even more violently, until the lack of air made her vision blur and her head ache. And then everything went black.

* * *

Deirdre woke on the floor, feeling very sick and very sore. Gingerly, and using the rocking chair for support, she pulled herself to her feet and looked in the mirror. Blood was smeared across her cheek and dried on her mouth. Her skin was unnaturally pale, her hair was in frizzy disarray, and the carpet had left a red imprint on her cheek. Feeling rather unnerved, she walked to the bathroom and proceeded to scrub the blood off her face. She noted with disgust that blood was dried between her teeth and on her gums, and brushed her teeth for a good ten minutes to rid the metallic taste from her mouth.

She winced when she saw the blood splattered against the white porcelain of the sink. Her throat ached fiercely, and her hands shook as she put her toothbrush into its holder. The house was freezing, or at the very least, she was - shivers kept running up and down her spine in what felt like a relay race. She drew her robe more tightly around herself and left the chilly bathroom.

The house was unusually quiet, and she realised that it was only seven a.m. on a Saturday, and no one would be up by now save her. She liked the quiet mornings of the house, and decided to sit outside and enjoy it.

She slid open the door and stepped out into the fresh air, which was so cold it cut right through her nightgown to wrap itself around her bones. It would have been wise to step back inside, but she lingered a moment, taking deep breaths to cool her burning throat. A light fell across the yard, and she looked up to see the window of Jack's room illuminated. He was up early.

Deciding that the light was a sign for her to step back inside, she turned around and went back in. She found herself staring at Jack, who was half-naked and yawning as he stood in the hallway.

"What d'you think you're doing, mum? You set off the security system when you opened the door. Scared me near to death."

"Oh." Deirdre bit her lip. "I didn't hear it go off, I'm sorry."

Jack frowned. "You know it takes a minute to go off. The damn thing never works like it should." He shivered and crossed his arms across his bare chest.

"Go put some clothes on. Since everyone's obviously up, I'll start breakfast."

He nodded and turned away to trudge wearily up the stairs. Deirdre stood immobile for a moment as she watched him, then went over to the cupboard and opened it. They were running low on flour, sugar, and baking soda, so that ruled out any kind of pastry for breakfast. She also knew without looking that they didn't have any sausage or cereal. What to make, what to make?

Before she could come up with a solution, the coughing started again. Her body shook and she bent over, gripping the tabletop to keep herself from falling, wincing as she watched the blood stain her hand again. She gasped for breath, and when it would not come, the room began to blur and spin before her eyes.

"Mum! Mum! Mum!"

Jack's voice seemed to be coming from very far away. He came into view, and her eyes could barely focus on his face. She grabbed his shoulder, digging her nails into the bare flesh, and she briefly wished that she could say something to him to wipe away the fear on his face. But then he, and the rest of the world, slipped away.

* * *

"There's nothing you can do for her? How can there be nothing?"

Deirdre opened her eyes and flinched as the light burned them. Her head swam and her throat seemed to be on fire. She could see the blurry outlines of Jack, talking to a man she didn't recognise, and Bridget, leaning against the doorframe, and wished she could speak to them, ask them what had happened. But she couldn't talk.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is a magical disease. There is no cure for it; it's been in her system for years and years and it's just been recently set off. If the signs had shown earlier, there might have been a chance, but now . . ." He trailed off. He could feel Deirdre's eyes on him. "I'll leave you three alone for a moment."

He stepped outside and Jack turned to look at his mother. Bridget remained stationary in the doorway, her arms crossed and her face emotionless. She turned her gaze to the bare white wall, and seemed to be trying very carefully to avoid eye contact with Deirdre or Jack.

Deirdre held up a hand and her son crossed over to her, clearly fighting to keep his face as emotionless as Bridget's. He took the hand offered to him and sat down in the chair by her bed, watching her in silence.

She wanted to speak, but fear of damaging her throat even more than she probably already had kept her from saying anything. Instead she took her free hand and pointed to a pad of paper and pen that sat on the desk behind Jack's chair. Jack, raising an eyebrow, picked them up and handed them to her when she nodded.

What did the doctor say? What's wrong with me? She scrawled in messy, rushed script, then holding it out for him to see.

Jack swallowed. "I don't know if I can explain it. It would be better if you asked him in person. But he said it's something magical that you caught when you were young, probably as a side effect from a dangerous curse, which just recently surfaced. And he said . . . he said . . . it's supposed to be . . ."

Deadly. He nodded. I heard you talking. Don't look at me like that.

"Sorry."

Will you call the doctor for me? I want to speak to him.

Jack stood up and left the room, brushing past Bridget, who did not seem to notice. She looked after him as he descended down the stairs, then let her gaze sweep over Deirdre. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she swiftly turned and left the room.

The doctor re-entered the room a few moments later, followed by Jack. The doctor had beady black eyes that twitched incessantly and black hair streaked with grey. He wrung his hands repeatedly, avoiding Deirdre's eyes just as Bridget had. He started to speak, and Deirdre motioned to her pen and paper, causing him to nod in understanding and take the empty chair beside her bed.

"You cannot speak, then," he said. Deirdre nodded. "Understandable. Your voice should return in one to three days if you drink lots of tea, eat some chocolate, and regularly take the elixirs I have prescribed for you."

What's wrong with me?

The doctor glanced at the paper and began to wring his hands even more quickly. "I must ask you, Mrs. Thetford: when you were young, perhaps in your late twenties, did you ever experiment with a spell called the Invalescus Curse? It is said to remarkably increase physical strength, and is conjured by the incantation 'Invalesco,' and was also deemed illegal by the Ministry of Magic in 1932."

Yes, she wrote, closing her eyes and leaning back.

"Am I allowed to be blunt, or do you want me to sugar-coat this?"

Give me the truth.

"All right. There was a reason for its prohibition. Studies found that not only did it cause damage to the muscles it was meant to strengthen, but it also left harmful magic in the lining of the lungs. The magic does not cause any damage immediately, but builds up over time until one day, long after the curse is performed, something - and it remains unseen to us what this thing is - sets it off and it begins to deteriorate the lining of the lungs. Eventually it will cause a violent cough, which you just experienced. The cough only lasts a few days, and is accompanied by blood, and then the symptoms disappear for a few days. Later," he swallowed, as though his throat had gone dry, "breathing will be difficult until the point that you begin to get dizzy and black out. Within a few days, I expect you will be dead." He breathed deeply again. "There is no cure, not even anything to prolong life. I am very, very sorry."

He truly sounded sorry, but his tone offered no comfort.

A choked sob from behind the doctor's shoulder made Deirdre open her eyes to see Jack standing rigid, his face in his hands. Once again, she desperately wished she could say something, or at least stand and embrace her son. But she was bound to her bed and her silence as though chained.

She picked up her paper again and paused for a moment, contemplating what to say.

How long exactly do I have to be able to speak?

"Four days at most."

And what do the elixirs do?

"The first is to soothe the pain in your throat and repair your vocal cords. The second will hopefully allow you to sleep more easily. It will not put you to sleep straight away, but when your body signals to it that you should be sleeping, it will help you to fall asleep."

Thank you.

"Please don't thank me. I only wish I could do more." He glanced at Jack. "I suppose I should leave you alone with your son." Awkwardly, he patted her hand and stood up to leave the room.

Jack took the seat he vacated, looking up with a sad smile and wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Sorry." He let his arm drop.

Don't apologise. You can cry if you want to, but you should know that this doesn't matter to me. I'm old. I lived my life. I'm ready to leave, as soon as I tell you what I've been hiding from you. I can't write out everything I want to say, but when I get my voice back, I promise I'll tell you everything.

His eyes widened at the prospect of being told the answers to the questions he'd been dying to know as long as he could remember. He looked very much like a child sitting there, and Deirdre reached up to touch his cheek briefly, then let her hand fall.

"What do you mean by everything?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

Who I am. Where I come from. Who your father is. Why I'm like this. Everything. A pause. Now go get some sleep. The sooner you go to bed, the closer you'll be to the day I can tell you. Oh, wait. I need the tea and the medicine.

"I'll get it for you."

He left again, and once more Deirdre was alone. She closed her eyes and let the realisation sweep over her, trying to breathe normally. Despite her assurance to Jack that she was ready to face death, the first emotion to find her was fear. She shivered, even though the room was unusually warm, and shut her eyes tight to stop tears from falling.

She had to tell him. It would kill him, she knew it, just as it was killing her. He'd find a way to deal with the pain, but eventually someone else would find out the secret, and he'd be the most sought-after man in Britain. And she knew, just as she knew that the sun had risen this morning, someone would kill him for who he was. At least he had lived this long.

She sank back into the pillows and kept her eyes closed. She did not open them when Jack walked in with the tea and medicine, or when she heard Bridget walk slowly by. She kept them squeezed shut, willing herself to get used to the darkness that would be closing in around her in a few days and praying that tears wouldn't escape this way. The last thing she wanted was to have Jack or Bridget see her cry. She hadn't cried in sixty years; now was not the time to start.

* * *

The days without her voice seemed to stretch on forever, mostly because Deirdre could not concentrate on anything except what she would tell Jack. She tried to read, but ended up simply staring at the page without actually reading it. She tried to knit, tried to write, tried to paint, but nothing could occupy her mind for more than a few minutes. So most of her time was spent staring at the bedroom ceiling.

Finally her voice returned to her, three days after she had lost it. Forgetting that she should not speak, she opened her mouth to call Jack as he walked by, and was happy to find that the words actually came out, even if they sounded like a rusty gate swinging in the wind.

Jack blinked. "Your voice is back."

She nodded happily. "I suppose it is." One hand waved lazily to indicate the chair at her bedside. "Come sit down, and close the door behind you. I want to tell you everything I promised I would."

He obliged, looking both afraid and excited. His hands shook as he sat down, and Deirdre smiled before taking a long gulp of water. Thankfully, the pitcher was still full--she'd need the water after all the talking she'd be doing.

"Do you know when I came here?" she asked, her eyes shut.

"1959, wasn't it? The year I was born."

She nodded. "April 12^th, 1959. I left London the night of the eleventh and arrived here, just outside of Limerick, on the twelfth." She took a deep breath. "I don't know how to start this, other than from the very beginning. Do you have anything to do tonight?"

"No."

"Good." She relaxed. "I was born in 1929 in downtown London, you know that. I was the fourth of eight children. My parents were a respectable pair, true intellectuals to the core. My mum owned a magical bookshop, my dad worker for Mr. Ollivander, researching wands and the effects they had on their owners. They were never home, and so involved with their jobs and themselves that they failed to notice me. I tried very hard to impress them, but despite my excellent marks in school, they were never proud of me. My brothers were star Quidditch players, my sisters beautiful and proper. They expected nothing from me, the ugly, awkward one. They asked nothing but for me to be quiet and have good manners and not embarrass them. They were never satisfied with me. But that isn't of consequence.

"What is important is when I turned eleven and received my Hogwarts letter. I was thrilled to go to the same school my parents had, and even more thrilled to be sorted into Slytherin. Back then, the prejudices against Slytherin house were almost nonexistent, although just after I started my first year, they became intensified as Grindelwald rose to power. I was honoured to be accepted into a house known for its ambition, cunning, and power. I wanted more than anything to become more than my parents had expected me to. I was in my element then, and I found myself right away. I started to get prettier, I studied long and hard, not finding time for a social life, and quickly shot to the top of my class.

"The teachers adored me. I had a natural charm, a thirst for knowledge and the ability to get whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it. I excelled at Potions and Charms, but never really found a use for Defence Against the Dark Arts, which was a new class to Hogwarts. The Dark Arts fascinated me. There was so much power out there, so much possibility, why not use it? I did not want to use the Unforgivable Curses on everyone I met, nor did I want to rid the world of Muggles like some of my classmates, but I wanted to know everything. And there was still some malicious part of me that would have loved to see my enemies' deepest secrets spilling out of their mouths after only a wave of my wand.

"I did not get much of a chance to research the Dark Arts, though, since all books about them were in the Restricted Section and I was too young to check them out. Then, in my fourth year, during my first successful attempt to sneak into the Restricted Section, I met Tom Riddle. He was a year older than me, and extremely popular, although he kept to himself and his books. I found him sitting against a bookshelf, reading a Dark Arts book by the light of a lantern, with and invisibility cloak lying beside him. I was smitten immediately.

"Tom was the answer to everything, I thought. He was my ticket into the Restricted Section and then into the Dark Arts. Together we would read, researching anything and everything about the Dark Arts we could find. The more I read, the more I wanted to know, and the more I lost myself in the world of curses, potions, dark societies, vampires, werewolves, dementors, pain, torture, death . . ."

She stopped to take a drink.

"In my fifth year and his sixth, we discovered a little something in the back of a book about Hogwarts called the Chamber of Secrets. Tom confided in me that he was a Parselmouth, and we set off to discover the chamber. He found it, and used it to control the basilisk that killed the girl now known as Moaning Myrtle and got Rubeus Hagrid expelled from school. You know that story, don't you?"

Jack nodded, slowly. His face had gone completely white.

"Yes. Dumbledore was the only one to see through him. Dumbledore was the only one he feared. Dumbledore knew when he had killed his father, and somehow I think he knew who Tom would become. He took steps to prevent it, of course, trying to crack Tom's shell and draw him out of the Dark Arts, but it was too late. He was in over his head, dragging me down with him.

"He left school in 1944, and for that whole year I barely saw him at all. I devoted myself to the N.E.W.Ts, throwing myself into them and losing the scattered, feeble friendships that had managed to survive my obsession with Tom. My marks were excellent - the best in my year - but I still felt inferior. My parents paid no attention to the fact that they had a genius on their hands, and Tom never congratulated me.

"After I left Hogwarts, I relentlessly sought Tom. I finally found him in late August, waiting for me in my garden. I had almost forgotten how beautiful he was: black hair, white skin, bright blue eyes, and a mouth that could charm even snakes. He told me that there was much he had found, and said that I was to join him. It was an offer I could not refuse. I left that night without a word to anyone.

"We changed our names. He went by Lord Voldemort." She said this word with no emotion at all, and did not notice that Jack looked as though he might be severely ill any moment. "He had been using this name for years and years among his closest friends, but up until then, he had been simply Tom to everyone else. I named myself Countess Marie Noir, after the French word for 'black.' Together, under our new aliases, we ventured into the darkest parts of England: Knockturn Alley, thieves' guilds, the roughest pubs, abandoned castles used for the sole purpose of practicing dark magic, dungeons, haunted forests, even Azkaban. We sank further into the Dark Arts, trying every new potion and spell on the market. We wanted strength, wisdom, power, immortality. We killed, we tortured, we destroyed, in secret, erasing the memories of any witnesses and killing those who got away.

"He wanted domination; I wanted to stand beside him and be somebody that all feared and many adored. The violence was a release for me, just as being near to him was. I loved the thrill of kissing him as much as I loved painting my soul black and my hands red with blood. I loved breathing him in as much as I loved twisting the knife in the wounds of my enemies, learning how to be an Animagus, consorting with ghosts and vampires, and causing terror among the Muggles who did not even know my name, just a rumour of what I could do.

"When I was nineteen, Tom had already begun to gather a small group of loyal followers. One of them was Silvius Malfoy, a man in my year and house at Hogwarts, who had a rare gift for painting and drawing. He designed a tattoo to brand Voldemort's followers with. It was a snake, silver and green; it started at the temple, wound up alongside the eyebrow, ran down and across the nose and under the eye, and then curled back across the cheekbone. They were painted in such vivid detail that in dim light, they appeared to move. Voldemort called his tattooed servants the Dark Serpents.

"Silvius fell in love with me shortly after that. He was strong, brilliant, and talented, with skills at manipulation that almost won me over. I shall never forget, to this day, his eyes: grey like steel, and just as cold. He was a pureblood wizard and prided himself on it, sympathising with Voldemort's want to kill all Muggles and Mudbloods. Voldemort would leave me alone to control the Dark Serpents, and during those times, Silvius and I carried on something of an affair. He truly loved me, and I knew that I was the only person on earth beside himself he would bend over backwards for.

"But I married Tom anyway. We went to a long abandoned cathedral in the country, his favourite place to go to practise the Dark Arts, and signed the marriage certificate. Somehow, the Daily Prophet got a hold of it, and splashed it all over the front page. No one had heard from him or me since we had left Hogwarts, so this was news--they all had thought us to be dead. They found us in London, celebrated, and then we disappeared again. This time the magic was even more intense, the violence more brutal, and the transformations more scarring. I first experimented with the Invalescus Curse then, when I was twenty. I knew it was illegal, but I have always been so frail, I wanted to increase my strength."

She coughed again, and reached for the glass of water. She downed three glasses before continuing her tale.

"It was also then that I found why Tom had married me. It was not because he loved me, as I had hoped, but because he wanted an heir, a son, to carry on his legacy if his attempts at immortality failed. Part of me wanted to turn back and leave him, but it was too late. He was a part of me, and every time I tried to run away, something pulled me back. I was still obsessed with him; the lies he had told me to make me stay were better than any truths I ever knew. I knew . . ." Her voice cracked, for the first time showing the regret that was swelling within her. She cleared her throat. "I knew what would happen if he succeeded. I knew exactly what it would mean to have another Riddle in the world, and I still stayed. I was too afraid to leave. So for ten years, I let him come to me every night and try . . ."

She buried her face in her hands. "You have to forgive me. I had nowhere to go." She began to cry, taking deep, hiccupping breaths and repeatedly wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I'm sorry, Jack . . . I got you away, at least. You've been happy, right? Tell me you've been happy, Jack . . ."

She looked up at him and noticed that he was crying, too.

"I've been happy, mum. You didn't fail."

Deirdre threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder. He let her cry for a few minutes, until the tears ran dry and she pulled away.

"I'm sorry." She dried her eyes and blew her nose, trying to compose herself. "I didn't mean to do that." A deep breath. "Where was I? Oh . . . ten years. Ten years with him, and nothing happened. Every day I could see his frustration with me deepen, and every minute I grew more fearful that he'd leave me for someone who could give him an heir. I spent my days in our manor, wondering if I should leave him now before he gave up on waiting and killed me. But something kept fucking holding me back."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "You swore."

"I did. Sorry. Don't repeat it. Anyway." She took another gulp of water. "Finally he gave up on me, when I was thirty-one, and told me to get out of England and never come back. I left that night, and in a cheap little hotel in downtown London, I found out I was pregnant. With you.

"The first thing I thought was that maybe it wasn't Tom's--Silvius had just been, er, to see me, two months before, and I prayed that it was his. But I ran the tests, the magical ones, and sure enough, it was Tom's. I didn't know what to do. So I kept going. The first place I went was to Ashington, because I thought maybe I could find a secluded part of Northumberland and set up a house. But Silvius and two of the Dark Serpents, ones I didn't know, came to tell me to get the hell out of England. I went to Ireland - here - and Ethne took me in. Silvius sent me letters for a few months, and gave me that painting in the hallway, but he stopped writing after awhile. He had a son to raise and a wife to spoil, after all.

"If you're wondering why no one knows who you are, it's because I made myself your Secret-Keeper. After I told Ethne my story, I gave her a memory charm, so she thinks my past is entirely different." A creak outside the door caused her to turn her head, but when nothing happened, she went on talking. "Silvius still knows, but obviously he's chosen not to divulge. Sometimes I think he's forgotten. Dealing with his son, Lucius, and his daughter, Lavinia, must be hard enough."

She sighed and took Jack's hand, then, holding it to her cheek, closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillows.

"Jack Collton Riddle." She exhaled slowly. "That's who you are. " Deirdre opened her eyes. "When I die, take Bridget and go straight to Hogwarts. Dumbledore will tell you what you must do, now that you know who you are. The secret is out, Jack . . . you are the Heir of Slytherin. What are you going to do?"

He was paler than she'd ever seen him before, and his hand was like ice on her cheek. He shook slightly and then spoke with hesitation.

"Hope no one else finds out?" He gave her a feeble smile. She smiled sadly back.

"The world's in your hands, you know. Don't just sit back and play it safe. You have power . . . use it well. Don't do what I did."

She sat up and kissed his forehead. He pulled away and stood, the legs of the chair screeching as they scratched against the floor. His face was blank, and he avoided his mother's eyes.

"I need to get some air. I'm sorry."

She nodded and watched him leave, letting her hands linger in the air and then fall limply to the sheets. Now he knew, and there was no going back. She only hoped that she hadn't lost him, for the few days she had left.

* * *

Jack stood out in the freezing October air, his cheeks flushed and his eyes watering. The wind cut straight through his thin jumper and made him shiver, but he did not want to go back inside. There was too much to face in the house; he needed to get away from it all and deal with his thoughts. He could hear Deirdre coughing upstairs, and the floorboards creaking as someone walked around. The faint sound of Bridget playing her violin in their bedroom drifted outdoors, calling to him with a sad song that made him shut his eyes tight to fight tears not caused by the wind.

"Jack Collton Riddle."

He said the name under his breath, letting it roll off his tongue. It fit somehow, like a piece in a puzzle. But it was still wrong. He could not be a Riddle. He was a Thetford; he always had been and always would be. He could not be the Heir of Slytherin, the son of Voldemort, any of it. He was Jack. Jack Thetford. He wasn't ready to leave the house, wasn't ready to leave his mother, wasn't ready to fight in the war (on either side), wasn't ready to see Hogwarts, wasn't ready to be the man he'd been pushing away for thirty-seven years.

He opened his eyes to look at the dying sun. It cast the world around him in bloody light as it sank beneath the horizon. The sun's final hours were upon him . . . just like his mum's . . . He turned around and went back inside.

* * *

Bridget and Jack stood at the train station, both dressed in black Muggle clothing. It was eight o'clock at night, three days after Deirdre's funeral, and they were on their way to catch a ferry to England. Bridget wore a black peacoat, wool hat and leather gloves to keep out the cold. Jack had donned a long leather coat, but his hands and ears were exposed and red.

The train would depart in ten minutes. They did nothing to pass the time more quickly. Not a word of conversation passed between them. Jack stared at the ground while Bridget read the departing times on the screen overhead over and over. She was afraid to say anything about their destination or the place they were leaving. She had seen her husband cry too many times already.

They carried little luggage, and what they did have was shrunken by magic to fit in their pockets. They had only taken the barest necessities, although Bridget had refused to leave without her violin and Jack had felt oddly obliged to save Silvius' painting. They weren't ready to start a new life in England, and it showed. Jack hoped Dumbledore would be able to help them when they reached Hogwarts.

The train pulled in and they boarded, sliding into the seats and still managing to not speak to each other. But Bridget took Jack's cold hand and held it to her lips, breathing warmth onto the frozen skin before she kissed it. He turned to look at her, and a lock of hair fell into his eyes. She brushed it away with her free hand and kissed his cheek, then put her arm around him and brought his head down onto her shoulder.

She stroked his hair like a mother would for her child, still holding his hand and staring out the window. With him by her side, his body pressed up against hers, she was not afraid anymore. The stars in the inky night sky carried a sense of foreboding in their twinkle, but as the train moved further away from Limerick and closer to London, she felt oddly calm.

She had attended Hogwarts, unlike Jack, who had been sent to a private school in Ireland. There was no one in the world besides her husband that she trusted more than Professor Dumbledore, and she knew that once they arrived at Hogwarts, things would sort themselves out. Ever since Jack had walked in on her while she was playing her violin and relayed to her everything Deirdre had told him, she had been desperate to find Dumbledore. Instead she had to stand by and watch her mother-in-law die. A shiver passed through her body, and Jack looked up at her.

"Are you frightened?" he whispered.

"No. I know Dumbledore. He'll keep us safe. There's nothing to be afraid of, love . . . nothing at all. We'll get through this," she said, her voice a low murmur with a strong Irish lilt. Then she laughed.

"What?"

"I just realized something. You're the Heir of Slytherin and you've never set foot in the Slytherin dungeons before in your life. Your father would be ashamed."

"Good."

She grinned and hugged him closer. "He'll already be ashamed that you've married a Hufflepuff. They're not well thought-of at Hogwarts. Neither are the Slytherins, for that matter. But at least Slytherins aren't known as gullible little buggers with heads full of fluff."

He laughed and sat up to kiss her nose. "No, I imagine the Slytherins are much worse."

"You'll see, when we get there."

And she turned her face back to the night sky, letting Jack settle down against her until he eventually fell asleep. The sound of his snoring seemed to be disturbing the rest of the passengers, so she muttered a silencing charm in his general direction before letting herself nod off.

* * *

They reached Hogwarts at four in the afternoon the next day. Jack and Bridget stumbled lazily off the Hogwarts Express and were immediately greeted by Hagrid, which surprised them, as they had not informed Dumbledore of their journey to see him. Perhaps Deirdre had sent an owl without telling them.

"Are yeh Jack and Bridget Thetford? Dumbledore's bin expectin' yeh," Hagrid boomed.

Jack stared at the giant in awe, but Bridget's face spread into a wide grin.

"Hagrid! Do you remember me? Bridget O'Rourke?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then the recognition crossed his face, followed by a smile. "Bridget! How've yeh been? Yeh were in Hufflepuff when you was here, weren't yeh?" He reached out and pulled her into a hug that made her eyes bulge. "Blimey, yeh've changed! Grown at least a foot, tha's for sure. And I didn' know yeh got married!"

She stepped away, grinning. "Yes, this is my husband, Jack Thetford. Jack, this is Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys and Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts. He was here in my years at school."

Jack's eyes widened at the realisation that this was the man his mother had helped to get expelled. He held out a hand and Hagrid shook it.

"N-nice to meet you, Hagrid."

"Good ter meet yeh, too. Well, like I said, Dumbledore's bin expectin' yeh, so if yeh'd follow me, I'll take yeh ter his office."

He led them to a boat docked on the shore of the lake, and climbed into it. Bridget bounded in after him, while Jack was a bit more cautious.

"So what business brings yeh to Hogwarts?"

Jack cast a wary eye towards Bridget. "We wish to discuss that matter with Dumbledore," he said simply.

"I see. We're almost ter the castle, and then I'll take yeh straight up ter his office. He's bin waitin' for yeh all day long. Won' talk to anyone abou' it. Have yeh ever been to Hogwarts, Jack? I don' remember ever seein' yeh here."

"No, I went to a private school in Ireland. My mum didn't want me away from home. This will be my first visit ever." He cast his eyes up to the magnificent castle. "It looks wonderful from here."

"It's even better on the inside," Bridget gushed. "You're going to love it."

Jack gave her a small smile and nodded. They reached the shore a few moments later, and climbed out of the boat. They walked up to the castle and then through the doors and into the Great Hall. Despite his mood, Jack couldn't help but gasp in delight. The ceiling was bright blue like the sky, with a few lazy clouds drifting by, and the sheer vastness of the room made every building he had ever seen before look like a shack.

Bridget grinned at her husband as he stared, wide-eyed, at everything in sight. As they walked through the halls, he stopped to chat with the paintings and interrogate Nearly Headless Nick about his death, then insisted on looking down every corridor they passed. Hagrid chuckled.

"Yeh like it, don't yeh?"

"I wish I could have gone here. I feel like I missed something." He ran his fingers along the stone walls. "This feels like home to me. I can't explain why, but it does."

"Your parents went here," Bridget said softly. "And I'm sure most of the generations before them did as well. Maybe you can . . . feel their presence."

He shrugged. "Whatever it is, I like it."

Bridget reached out and took his hand in hers, gripping it tight as they walked to Dumbledore's office. He squeezed her hand, then brought it to his lips and kissed it. She smiled sadly at him as their hands fell to their sides, and he watched her with apprehension in his eyes.

"It's going to be all right," she whispered so that only Jack could hear. He nodded, but didn't look as though he believed her.

Suddenly Hagrid stopped in front of a gargoyle statue, causing Bridget to nearly run into him.

"Ice mice," Hagrid grunted, and the statue slid aside to reveal a short corridor and an adjacent spiral staircase, which seemed to be moving slowly upward. Hagrid, followed by Bridget and then Jack, stepped into the corridor and the gargoyle slid back into place behind them. They moved onto the staircase and Jack shivered as it took them up.

They reached a polished oak door with a griffin-shaped knocker and stepped off there. Hagrid opened the door and walked in, towering over the awed couple behind him.

Dumbledore's office was a large, beautiful, circular room. Portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses smiled at her from their frames. A huge desk, cluttered with papers, books, quills, and strange miniature machines, sat in the middle of the room. Funny little whirring noises drifted through the warm air. But the best part was the beautiful phoenix on its perch, and the Headmaster stood beside it, absentmindedly stroking its glowing orange and red feathers.

"Good afternoon, Hagrid, Jack, Bridget," he said in a low voice. Hagrid stepped aside to give Dumbledore a better view of the two travellers. "I trust you had a safe trip?"

"Yes, thank you," Bridget said cheerfully.

Dumbledore smiled, then turned to Hagrid. "Hagrid, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak to Jack and Bridget alone."

"All righ', then. It was nice ter meet yeh, Jack." He winked at Bridget. "And good ter see yeh again, Bridget. Come see me sometime." She waved and he turned and walked out the door.

Dumbledore moved to his desk and sat down. "Please, take a seat." Bridget and Jack sank into armchairs facing the desk. "Mr. Thetford, I extend my deepest apologies to you. I knew your mother very well when she was at Hogwarts, and she was a brilliant, charming girl."

"Thank you," Jack said quietly.

"She sent me a letter explaining her disappearance, your existence, and her disease, so I have been expecting you, if you were wondering. I was not prepared for the news, especially since no one has heard from Deirdre for almost fifty years, so forgive me if it takes awhile to decide what exactly I am going to do with you." He paused. "I believe that it would be best for you to go into hiding somewhere nearby, perhaps Hogsmeade, until I can figure things out. But certain measures must be taken first."

"What measures?" Jack asked, slowly.

"You will need a Secret-Keeper."