She'll Come Back As Fire

:02

Julia Riddle makes her way back to the common room, still smiling. "Oculus serpentis," she mutters, and the stretch of bare stone wall that conceals the entryway slides back.

Martius Malfoy is leaning against the doorway, his long, lanky body blocking her way. Mentally, she curses – he’s a fifth-year, a prefect, and not so much a trouble as a bother. "What are you doing out of bed, Riddle?"

"I have my errands," she says coolly. "Step aside."

After a moment, he does, and Julia brushes past him. Martius puts a hand on her arm to halt her. "Nothing’s without a price, dearest."

Of course, she thinks wryly, though her face is as hard as stone. She lifts a hand to his face, then kisses him thoroughly, slowly, and quite without feeling.

"Julia-" he protests, when she pulls away.

She glares at him. "Riddle. Don’t forget that name, Martius, and what became of the last who bore it and attended Hogwarts."

He backs away, and Julia smiles. It heartens her to see him cringe. Martius, who is the last of the Malfoys – Martius, whose father barely had time to wed his mother and bed her before the Ministry tracked him down and placed him in Azkaban alongside his parents – this Martius fears her.

"Voldemort?" he asks her, as she moves past the grand fireplace that is the heart of the cavernous Slytherin common room.

"The cultivated innocence is charming, but it’s also as transparent as a dragonfly’s wing. Of course Tom. Who did you think I meant?" She laughs, and it comes out harsher than she’s expected.

"Your darling forbear, I assume?" Martius lifts an eyebrow.

"You – might say that."

With that she retires to her chambers, but her thoughts keep her awake far into the night. Somehow, the thrill of the duel seems smaller under the pall her name casts over everything it touches.

At last, Julia Riddle decides that her mother will be proud of her, and falls asleep, tangled in her crazy quilt of velvet in Slytherin colors.

:03

The dreams haven’t gone away.

They have returned in full force in the last three years, and only bring their dreamer misery. Severus Snape can no longer remember her face; he awakens aroused and drenched in cold sweat, knowing that he has seen it in his dreams, and forgotten it upon entry to the waking world. This is not an easy thing for a man to bear.

He sees her in the immaculate cursive of Julia Riddle’s hand and in the structured style of Geneva Potter’s prose. He sees her in the way that certain students smile when Minerva McGonagall gives them praise. He sees her in the rain that falls on Albus Dumbledore’s grave, in a quiet hollow near the Forbidden Forest. He sees her in all of these things, and yet her face escapes him, eludes his memory, hides in the deepest recesses of its mind to torment him in his sleep.

He could ask Harry Potter for a picture, but he isn’t that weak. Ron Weasley is dead, an Auror killed in duty ten years ago. And Virginia Potter… simply isn’t feasible.

Severus is a Potions Master; he is very good at what he does. He can make a tincture of hazel wood without the least bit of fuss; he can brew hundreds of potions and philtres without consulting a book for reference. He is not the least bit humble about this expertise.

Yet he cannot bring himself to prepare that deadly mixture of wormwood and asphodel; he cannot bear to so much look at the book that contains the instructions for making that concoction. The Draught of Living Death would free him from his demons, for a few stolen hours at least.

But instead he chooses to sit on the bench near Dumbledore’s grave late at night, not doing anything constructive, but merely allowing himself the luxury of memory.

The curves of her alabaster body; the gentle sloping of her shoulders; her chestnut hair, silky between his fingers; the way she kissed, as if he were a bottomless well from which she could never drink enough.

"Hermione." Severus speaks her name aloud one night; something he hasn’t done for eons.

He hears nothing but the sound of leaves stirring in the late autumn breeze, and the crack of thunder in the distance. A storm is coming.

He wonders if this is an omen, if Dumbledore, or she, perhaps, is sending him some kind of warning.

:04

Everyone else in Gryffindor is going home for Christmas.

Geneva Potter is the only one in her house who does not pack their trunk on the last day of term, anxiously procure their owl from the Owlery, or snitch some food from the kitchens for a snack on the train ride home.

She suffers their pitying and sympathetic looks with patience, not expecting them to understand. After all, their mothers are either quite healthy or dead.

Hers, on the other hand, is neither.

Geneva’s mother stopped being able to leave the house when Geneva’s younger brothers were around three. Seven years ago. Geneva herself was six. It was the beginning of the end. Now her mother merely floats around the house, a thin, white-clad breeze, who talks to a dead man who isn’t there and confuses him with Geneva’s father.

The fact that the dead man shares Julia Riddle’s last name does not exactly endear the girl to Geneva. But she is secretly happy to be Julia’s nemesis, because in the midst of the duel, she loves it. She loves the feel of magic running up her spine and coursing out her fingers, the adrenaline rush of dodging and blocking spells, the feeling of power. She feels pure in these moments, when she doesn’t have to think – just be.

Neither of them have ever won, of course – they always call it a draw – but this is less a frustration than it is a challenge. In those moments when they finally declare it a tie, she feels not defeat, but triumph, an odd sense of exhilaration she can never quite explain.

Sometimes she wonders how it might have been had there never been a Tom Riddle for her mother to fall in love with; sometimes she wonders if Julia might have been her friend.

When she is the last Gryffindor remaining at Hogwarts, and night has fallen, she makes her way to the dungeons, knowing that Julia Riddle will be there, wand in hand.

Geneva feels light and almost carefree.

:05

Plunk, plunk, swirl, stir. Two parts anise seed, two parts mandrake leaf, one part powdered turmeric. Julia mixes these together with care, as Geneva Potter, who has been her laboratory partner in Potions since Snape took to pairing those of opposing houses, dices two cloves of garlic to add in later.

The Potions Master is strangely late for class this January day. Between the combined fear and awe of the Gryffindors and the almost bellicose respect of the Slytherins, the room is silent but for the sounds of the Well-Seasoned Youth Philtre being prepared. The final ingredients have been added to the broiling contents of their cauldrons by the time Snape flings open the door.

"Carry on," he says after a moment, and they do, frightened by his unusually forgiving demeanor. Their teacher throws himself heavily into the chair behind his desk and rubs his eyes, sighing, not looking up until their Well-Seasoned Youth Philtres have begun to become tepid. "Bottle them," he commands, "I will grade them later, though I think that the lot of you getting anything above mediocre marks on even such a simple philtre without my competent direction is quite unlikely. When you are done, I have an announcement."

Julia glances over to her partner to gauge her reaction, only to find that Geneva has done the same. So, she only raises an eyebrow in answer before tending to the fragrant liquid in her cauldron. The two of them finish quickly.

"What do you think it’s about?" Geneva asks her in low tones, which is surprising given her lab partner’s quiet, reserved nature outside dueling.

"About?" Julia repeats. "I’m not precognitive."

"I know, I-"

"I know," she says, cutting Geneva off. "Never mind."

Finally their Professor clears his throat, and the twenty-odd students turn towards him. "I will not coddle you," he tells them. "Last night, Draco and Lucius Malfoy escaped from Azkaban’s fortress. Three hours ago, the Dark Mark was found hanging over the home of Colin and Elizabeth Creevey. All of their family, with the exception of their eldest son, who is a Gryffindor first year, are dead."

One of the Gryffindor girls bursts into tears, and Geneva Potter looks quite distraught. But Julia herself only feels the fire within her, hardening her and strengthening her.

On impulse, she suddenly grabs her lab partner’s hand beneath the table and squeezes it.

"You needn’t worry," whispers Julia Riddle. "I want them dead. And I always get what I want."