29.A Little Monster

20th of June 1992,

Nurmengard, Cassiopeia

When one mentions prison, one would imagine a cold, dreary place where no sun shined, preferably deep underground. Choking stench of mould and stale air, patrolling guards, sentries, checks, iron shackles and steel bars, traps, and a myriad of security measures to prevent anyone from escaping or getting inside to free the inmates. Torture chambers would be included, of course, because criminals had to be either… plied for some information or made to repent for whatever misdeed.

Cassiopeia Black had seen plenty of those in her family’s properties, especially dungeons choked full of torture and interrogation tools–both muggle and magical.

Then there was the cruelty that was called Azkaban, the ICW underwater prison, and the infamous Egyptian living sand tomb, each more imaginative in their callousness.

Nurmengard, however, was different.

Perched atop a cliff deep in the Austrian Alps, the well-hidden black castle looked like the luxurious winter palace of some duke or prince with its beautiful masonry and warm interior. It was not what one would expect from a prison, especially not one that held the most dangerous wizard of the century.

Despite what one could expect of a famed dark lord, Gellert was a man of class and impeccable manners, both to friends and foes alike. The prison he built reflected that even after Dumbledore had ensured he was the only prisoner here in a fit of amusing irony–trapped in his creation but enjoying a life of solitude in relative comfort.

One would expect the surroundings to be swarmed with guards and wardens, ensuring none would try to break out the dark lord. The weaklings feared being corrupted by Gellert’s voice. Unplottable through multiple layers of charms and enchantments, reaching Nurmengard would be nearly impossible lest one already knew the location. The ironclad anti-apparition and portkey protections stretching for miles ensured you had to use muggle means, like climbing the steep slope through a dangerous winding path below.

Of course, Nurmengard was chock-full of alarms that would summon a squad of elite hit wizards from the ICW if triggered.

There was also an anti-broom curse–something she had never heard of before but found out when she tried to bypass the steep climb. Having your trusty Cleensweep lose all power and drop like a bag of potatoes was not the most pleasant experience, and she had been very close to dying.

Entering was even harder, for the dim hallways, spiralling marble staircases, and countless passages were all cursed and filled with clever traps–again, magical and muggle alike.

And lastly, magic felt murky here. Grindelwald’s grand achievement of turning the ambient power in the air so turbulent that spellcasting was disturbed to a large degree. Using magic was ten times as taxing and thrice as hard, and weaker wizards and witches would fail to cast at all–which was the part that had almost killed Cassiopeia once her Cleansweep had stopped working midair.

If, by some miracle, you reached Gellert’s cell at the topmost tower, you would face unbreakable walls and doors laced with thick sheets of iron and steel–the most magic-resistant materials.

When she succeeded, Gellert doused her dreams.

“Ah, a sight for sore eyes. I should have expected someone as stubborn as you to come here, but I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I can scarcely escape, my dear,” his tone was laced with regret. “It is my magic and life that is bound to this castle, powering all of these protections. After the first thirteen years, my very being has already become part of the stones here. If you remove me from the premises, I’ll die. If you smash it, the outcome will be the same.”

“That should not be possible,” Cassiopeia hissed out. It had taken her two decades to reach her master’s cell. Cursebreaking, subterfuge, learning, and sneaking had not deterred her, for she was loyal. Yes, Gellert’s forces and supporters had been completely dismantled with surprising vigour and nearly no compromise–save for her.

“There is no such thing as impossible with magic, Cass,” he had chuckled hoarsely. “Improbable? Daunting, complicated, mind-boggling, and challenging to the extreme? Yes, but not impossible. Never impossible. Albus has always been a brilliant wizard when he dares to apply himself.”

It was then she realised that Dumbledore was a cruel, cunning man.

“Go now,” Gellert had sent her away. “It is of no use to dwell on what could have been. I’m just a relic of a bygone era.”

Was she any different? It felt like the purpose and devotion she had served with had blown in her face.

Cassiopeia had realised that her master’s defeat at Dumbledore’s hands was far worse than she ever thought. It wasn’t a simple loss of a duel or loss of the war. His fighting spirit had been broken, shattered to a million pieces. That flame that burned brightly in his blue eyes was gone; the unyielding conviction on his face was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the idle amusement of a tired old man.

And so, deeply disappointed, Cassiopeia Black, the shadowy hand of Gellert Grindelwald, had listened to her master’s advice, not returning to see her master in nineteen years. And why would she? There was no longer a grand goal, a worthy plan to follow. There were no obstacles in her path–whatever she wanted to do, wherever she wanted to go, nothing stopped her, for the world was her oyster.

It didn’t make her particularly happy.

Until a few weeks prior, Cassiopeia faced a tricky conundrum, something she was unsure how to approach, let alone solve. So she turned to the only place of wisdom she knew.

Thus, she made the steep climb to Nurmengard, and after nearly a full day of toiling up the narrow, winding pathways, she reached the castle.

By the time she ascended Gellert’s tower and slinked through the alarms, curses, and muggle traps, it had gone dark, and she was huffing and puffing for breath, her robes damp with sweat.

Even the wand-lighting charm strained her focus.

“Ah, it seems that the vestiges of time have not been as merciful,” Gellert’s amused voice wheezed behind the thick darkness of the bars. “I see you still cling to your vanity in your old age. A neat trick with the dark hair.”

Then, he leaned closer, revealing a sorry sight. His hair had gone as white as snow; his skin had slacked on his face, hanging onto the bones like sagged old leather with a snowy stubble taken to his cleanshaven jaw. His strength and handsome charm were nowhere in sight, even if his robes were still impeccable.

“You look like you could use some of my tricks,” she muttered breathlessly. “You look terrible, Gellert.”

“Perhaps I do,” he allowed with a chuckle. “But what good is appearance to me here? There’s nobody to see, and vanity without a purpose is meaningless. Now, what brings my wayward pupil back?”

“I need some advice.” Cassiopeia paused, trying to get her laboured breathing under control.

A spark of interest danced in his blue eyes for a heartbeat, and her master leaned closer to the thick iron bars.

“You know the rules.”

She slipped a mokeskin pouch through the iron bars, filled with various papers and articles from the muggle and magical world. Even now, Gellert never did anything without a due cause–one had to offer a favour, knowledge, or something interesting in return.

After idly groping around the bag, he said, “Good. How may I aid you, little Cass?”

“I need some advice,” she admitted sourly. “I have a new student and am unsure how to teach her.”

“Fascinating,” he tilted his head. “You’ve always been sharp of mind where magic is concerned. Basics of combat and the foundations of magic shouldn’t be challenging for you to convey.”

Years of solitude in the castle seemed to have not dulled his wits or observation skills. Gellert always had a way of seeing through a person or a problem in seconds, even without magic.

“Indeed, I’ve little left to teach Juno, and herein lies the problem. She’s twelve, Gellert, my grandniece and the next Lady of House Black. I have never seen such a potential before–silent casting, consistently, not some fluke with one spell or another, ahead of her peers by years in theory, and she takes to dark magic like a duckling to water.”

“Oh,” his eyes lit up. “Quite the achievement. I had mastered chantless magic three months after my thirteenth birthday. It seems you’re raising a little monster. Yet I don’t see where the concern is, Cassiopeia. With time and consistent effort, this Juno will bloom into the next titan of magic.”

“I don’t think I have what it takes to guide her down such a path,” her words were laced with doubt. “You’ve told me of the dangers–I do not want Juno to stumble down those terrible pitfalls. And she’s unworthy of being called anything so grand when there’s another little monster in her year, stronger than her despite being eleven months younger.”

Gellert’s snowy eyebrows disappeared within his hairline, blinking at her with confusion as understanding slowly settled in his heavy gaze. “Two titans in the same generation? And, of course, a powerful lass like her has the pride to go with her talent and wants to beat her adversary. Has Albus finally taken an apprentice?”

“No,” she rubbed her brow tiredly. “It’s a self-taught boy who mastered silent magic at eleven and killed two trolls at All Hallow’s Eve with a transfiguration combination, of all things. Though, his name should be somewhat familiar to you. Harry Potter.”

“A descendant of Charlus?”

“No, the grandson of his potion-brewing cousin, Fleamont,” Cassiopeia scoffed. “That pissant Charlus wasted away after his young boy died of Dragon Pox. Pah, my sister shouldn’t have ever married him.”

“Defeated by grief?” The dark lord sighed, sagging down on the floor. “A poor end for a warrior, but alas, death comes for us all. As for your student… I’m willing to assist, of course. But you ought to know there isn’t much I can teach a twelve-year-old girl. If she were fourteen, maybe fifteen. Unless, of course, you’re talking about rituals…”

Gellert had again seen through her, yet Cassiopeia Black’s mouth turned dry. Rituals were an obscure branch of magic for a good reason; the perilous practice could prove fatal with the slightest mistake but quite the boon if done right. There were no manuals, no observations, no one road, and an infinite number of variables to consider.

Even House Black had not delved too deep into rituals beyond the scant few passed through their distant ancestors, but they were of little use beyond ceremonial purposes. Or, well, at least they had stopped after a few lethal accidents–and five members in the 18th century who had ended up in Saint Mungo’s permanent spell damage ward.

The risks were too great for someone groping blindly in the dark. Yet, things were different for those who dared explore the esoteric arts and had lived after paying for the cost of their ignorance. Such knowledge was jealously guarded and rarely shared, almost all of it lost in the vestiges of time or locked up in some dark vault or a family grimoire. Cassiopeia could only hope that Gellert would agree because he was her master and teacher.

“Yes,” she whispered. “You said those are best done at the thirteenth birthday, and hers is on September the Third. Nothing dangerous, of course…”

Gellert scoffed.

“All rituals are dangerous, my dear. But I do know what you mean,” he paused, closing his eyes for a few heartbeats. “Ah, such talent! I can’t help but wonder how far she can go… if only she had been born seven, no, six decades earlier. I suppose I can tailor a set of rituals for her specifically, but you must tell me everything.”

22nd of June 1992

Monday, Harry

“Nervous?”

“Slightly,” Harry admitted, his mind focused on the coming event—or Tom Riddle’s diary, to be more precise. As the day of the Malfoy Gala approached, he found his focus on training and studying draining away.

Sirius barked out a laugh, as he always did, then fixed the burgundy red bowtie on his light purple tux. The colours were too bright, but they fitted well on his godfather.

“Well, you look quite dashing,” his voice thickened with amusement as he patted Harry’s shoulder. “Dark dress robes, the best dragonhide boots, and a mop of unruly hair, as a Potter ought to have! It is normal to be nervous, but you ought to ease up and have some fun.”

Truth be told, Harry would be a bundle of nerves and excitement if it were not for the Occlumency exercises, helping him empty his mind and let all of those turbulent emotions flow away… for the most part, anyway.

Ten minutes later, when they were fully prepared and sure nothing had been forgotten, Sirius apparated them to Wiltshire.

Harry managed to land on his feet, barely, and suppressed the queasiness to look around. They were in a narrow lane paved with cobblestones before an intricate iron-wrought gate, surrounded by towering walls of manicured yew hedges. It didn’t look half as eerie as Harry remembered in his last, almost deadly jaunt here–probably because he wasn’t trying to escape, nor was he going to face Voldemort.

Two figures waited for them by the cobbled road in stylish black robes trimmed with silver. Harry’s gaze settled on Juno, who looked somewhat tired but otherwise in good spirits.

“Ah, my wayward grandnephew,” greeted an older witch with an amused smile as her dark eyes inspected Sirius Black. “Are you trying to give Narcissa an aneurysm?”

“Perhaps, Auntie,” the witch’s eye spasmed while Sirius puffed out his chest, “and if you must know, this is Andromeda’s finest make. A true masterpiece of muggle design! But forget about little old me.” He turned to Juno, inspecting her with great interest. “This must be the next Lady of Black. I hope you do a better job than my crotchety grandfather, but that’s not a particularly high bar to clear.”

Juno looked halfway between miffed and confused at the backhanded compliment before her face turned into a well-practiced mask and curtsied smoothly. “Cousin, I’m glad to see you’ve been holding up well.”

“Oh, and far more polite than your mother,” Sirius beamed at her.

“So, this must be the infamous… Harry Potter,” the older witch threw Sirius one final scathing look before finally approaching him warily as if Harry was going to lunge and bite like some rabid dog. “My name’s Cassiopeia Black, young man. I have heard plenty of you.”

Harry hesitantly shook the offered hand, “Harry Potter. It’s a pleasure.” His mind turned blank, no matter how much he tried to remember any Cassiopeia Black from his life. A glance at Sirius’ tense shoulders and paling face told him the older witch was not to be underestimated.

“Anyway,” Juno coughed, ignored the adults, and pulled the still-queasy Harry away from the older Black witch. “We’re perfectly on time to be fashionably late.”

In silent agreement, they moved to the intricate iron gate.

On the right, into the hedge itself, was a door of varnished mahogany that swung open as they approached.

On the other side, a younger and more beautiful Narcissa Malfoy in a resplendent dress with dark blue velvet gloves that went all the way up her elbow greeted them, but her eyes froze at the sight of Sirius.

“Quite… the eccentric clothing, cousin,” she smiled thinly before her gaze lingered on Cassiopeia with caution before settling on Harry. Or, well, his brow where the all-too-faint scar lingered. “And you must be the infamous Harry Potter.”

“A pleasure, Mrs Malfoy,” Harry lightly kissed the gloved knuckles that smelled like lavender, then stilled when he realised he had forgotten what to say. “Erm, Draco has told me plenty about you.”

“Really?” Mrs Malfoy beamed at him for the lie, making Harry shuffle awkwardly from one foot to the other. “How thoughtful of my dear son. Regardless, I’m glad to have you here.”

For some reason, Harry thought Narcissa Malfoy looked a tad less enthusiastic about Cassiopeia and Sirius.

The courtyard was a sprawling, well-kept garden of hedges, paved sidewalks, fancy benches, statues, and even an elaborate fountain in the middle of a wide, open space full of people. What looked like fairy lights of green, red, yellow, blue, and orange danced above, banishing away the darkness of the night.

“I thought it would have been in some ballroom or somewhere inside,” Harry murmured as they approached the gathering of magnificent pavilions stretched around the fountain.

“Part of it is,” Juno whispered next to him, “But this is a gala, not a ball, so the dancing segment is quite smaller.”

Harry grimaced, “Dancing?”

“Hah, don’t worry. It’s usually for adults. This time, this is mostly for fundraising–Saint Mungo and Hogwarts. I heard even the infamous Hobgoblins were invited to sing around the end.”

Their group gathered plenty of gazes. Half of them had scandalous expressions while looking at Sirius, which widened his godfather’s smile further. Harry had gone largely unnoticed despite what he had expected, and the other half of the attention fell on Cassiopeia Black and Juno, who were met with caution and even disdain.

“Oh, I saw a familiar face. One of those that didn’t have a stick up their arses,” Sirius patted his shoulder, heading over to a table with pastries where an oddly familiar yet ethereal-looking older witch with blonde hair lingered. “Have fun, and if you need anything, I’ll be by the tables, Harry.”

Cassiopeia tutted. “I suppose I’ll leave you youngsters to have fun. I do have some unfinished business with Emeric Avery.”

And just like that, the older witch prowled towards a snobbish-looking group that looked like they wanted to disappear into the ground as they noticed Cassiopeia.

“What’s the deal with your grand-aunt?” Harry asked. “Why is everyone looking at her as if she’s a deranged murderer about to attack?”

“Uh,” Juno looked rather abashed. “Well, aunt fought in the war on the Dark Lord’s side.”

“What, Voldemort?!”

“No, the previous war and the other dark lord,” she murmured. “Rumour is she fought for Gellert Grindelwald and did all sorts of… shady work, but no accusations stuck because she managed to remain unscathed while the ICW was dismantling and hunting down the remnants of his forces.”

Harry grimaced, remembering what Sirius had told him earlier–House Black was an ancient, elitist House of dark wizards, each viler than the last, and all at least a little mad. Hearing that some of them had supported the previous Dark Lord barely surprised him–even though he knew very little about Grindelwald beyond Rita Skeeter’s slander from his past life.

His gaze settled on Juno, who stood at ease, looking very proud, especially in her dark silk robes.

Blue met green, and she tilted her head, “So, what brings you here, really? You don’t strike me as the type to enjoy such social events, let alone volunteer to attend.”

The question caught him flatfooted, and Harry stopped just before they reached the tents and palanquins.

“Err…,” he leaned in to whisper, “I want to uh…”

“Yes?”

He tried to cobble up some explanation, but nothing came to mind, no matter how hard he tried. Sirius had accepted his desire to attend the Gala at face value, but it seemed that Juno knew him far better.

A part of him wished to trust his friend with the truth. But the whole truth was too much.

“I heard that the Malfoys have a cursed diary, and I want it,” Harry wrung his hands nervously, settling on a half-truth. After all, his friend was quite perceptive, and she could be of help.

“Ah,” Juno nodded knowingly, giving him a faint smile. “But that’s definitely not something you would want to discuss publicly. I can help you with such negotiations with Aunt Narcissa and her husband if you wish.”

Harry rubbed the back of his head abashedly, trying to figure out a way to steer the conversation in an entirely different direction.

“Right. Only, I’m afraid that they wouldn’t be willing to part with it…”

“I understand,” she smiled, patting his elbow.

“You do?” He blurted out.

“Yep. My family does this often, and I’ll help you with it. Do you know where the diary is?”

There was little doubt what “this” referred to. It seemed that even theft was not beyond House Black. Yet, at this moment, Harry felt more thankful for the offered help. He was planning to steal… kind of.

“I have a good idea,” he whispered.

“You’d look suspicious if you started snooping around at the very beginning. Get introduced and sample the courses, and by then, the wine and fire whiskey would have loosened the attention of most of the guests. It would be the perfect time to excuse yourself for a walk or the loo.” Juno looped a hand under his elbow and dragged him towards the crowd.

Harry’s heart swelled with relief; it was a far better idea than he had in mind, but it was short-lived as they entered the paved mini-square.

The first one to notice them was a familiar face.

Draco, garbed in a navy blue robe, walked over, looking deathly pale and shaky.

“Potter,” he greeted faintly, his gaze cautiously moving towards Juno as if she would turn into a snake and bite him. “Cousin. Pleased to see you come here.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she smiled coldly, making Draco squirm, much to Harry’s amusement.

“Ah, quite traditional of you,” Malfoy coughed, his face warmer as he looked at Harry. “I see you’re still wearing black to mourn Professor Quirrell. Let me introduce you to the guests-“

After what felt like an eternity, but according to a glance at his wristwatch was less than an hour, Harry almost regretted agreeing to attend the Gala. At least the food was delicious, which was the event’s sole saving grace, even if the courses were arranged in symmetrical, flower-like patterns, needlessly fancy for something meant to be eaten.

That and Juno’s steady presence, his friend, guided him through the myriad of faces with grace and experience. Draco had nervously excused himself rather hastily, probably because of the young witch.

Harry’s wrist had gone sore from shaking hands, his shoulder was numb from all the patting, and his face was tired from the fake smiles he gave all the wellwishers. All the false pleasantries, pretence, the faux formality and the hidden barbs were beginning to get on his nerves. Harry’s tongue had almost gone numb from explaining that he wasn’t signing autographs, and no, the Potter family did not have a secret magic spell to counter the Unforgivable Curses.

Some were surprised, some were dismissive of his young age, while others looked at him as if he were an exotic beast in the zoo, rankling Harry even further. Bones, Abbott, Burke, Selwyn, Rosier, Rowle, Slynt, Travers, Shafiq, and more he was beginning to forget–many familiar faces from school and their parents. Even Padma, Parvati, and Goldstein were here, along with their parents, but they were all rather reserved–and content to exchange a short greeting. The Carrow twins and their kin were absent, attending some wedding on the continent.

It was exactly the sort of event he loathed, but he swallowed his irritation. Harry couldn’t ditch the Gala before he attempted to get a crack at Tom Riddle’s diary–or confirm that it was not here.

Of course, there was Lucius Malfoy, who was behaving quite oddly.

“Mr Potter,” the Death Eater shook his hand and patted his shoulder as if they were the best friends. Even more oddly, this was the most genuine gesture that Harry had seen from Malfoy Senior. “I’m so glad you decided to attend my humble Gala.”

“Err, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about,” Harry murmured weakly.

“It’s an honour that you chose my venue for it. Besides, charity has a way of uniting people,” Lucius lifted a glass of what looked like wine and took a small sip. “But that’s not what the event is about. Putting aside old differences, turning new pages, making new friends, and, of course, releasing some steam. Know that House Malfoy would always back a promising young man such as yourself.”

Giving an amiable nod, Lucius strolled away, heading towards his wife.

Juno rejoined him then, looking quite amused.

“Any idea what the heck was this about?” Harry asked, feeling quite confused. This was nothing like what he had to endure dealing with the Malfoys before. All of the suspicion and open hostility aimed at him was nowhere to be seen. He knew it was a different life, and the slate had been wiped clean, but it still felt foreign and odd.

“My uncle probably thinks you’re the next dark lord–or Dumbledore, depending on who you ask. So, he wants to hitch a ride on your coattails early.”

“Come again?”

“Slaying two trolls at once at eleven,” she nodded, then her lips gained that familiar twist as if she sucked on something sour. “Top of your year by a large margin, and you still have that mystique around defeating the Dark Lord.”

“That was my mother, damn it,” Harry rubbed his face tiredly, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I thought Malfoy was a Death Eater?”

“He was, but only because it suited him, Harry,” came the equally quiet reply. “Many joined the dark lord not because of what he preached, but the sweet things he offered. Magic, knowledge, power, wealth, connections. Oh, don’t be mistaken–my uncle does believe in the blood purity hogwash. Or, to be more precise, he believes in his superiority, but the only thing he follows is his self-interest. A consummate Slytherin. Anyway, smile–here come the more important ministry officials.”

Harry barely had the time to turn with another strained smile.

“Great meeting you, Mr Potter,” Felix Fawley, a dangerous-looking wizard and the freshly retired head of DMLE, squeezed his hand with almost an iron grip. It took all of Harry’s strength not to get his bones crushed. “I have heard great things about you from Master Flitwick. Should you need any future assistance or advice, owl me anytime!”

“Ah, extraordinary,” Fudge, garbed in the usual emerald green robes and his bowler hat, was next once the former auror excused himself towards the table with dragon whiskey. “Mr Fawley is usually not one to give favours, but he was Charms Master Flitwick’s apprentice. Though, I’m glad to see that such a hardworking young man like you has a heart for charity.”

“All for a good cause,” Harry said, this time sincerely, as he shook the Minister’s hand. Between Sirius and himself, five hundred galleons would go to Saint Mungo’s maternal ward.

“Skilled and humble,” the Minister beamed at him. “You will get far, my boy. If you have any questions about the ministry, just ask me, and I’d be glad to assist you. I’ll be tracking your career with great interest.”

Next was a younger but just as stiff-looking Scrimgeour and, to Harry’s horror–Umbridge, in her iconic pink cardigan, far less stylish than Sirius’ tux.

Juno seemed to have noticed his distress, elbowed him, and intercepted the toady-looking Undersecretary.

“I must excuse myself for a while,” Harry clutched his stomach with a grimace without the need to fake it.

It took him a minute to push down the bout of nausea. Instead of going to the loo for guests set up outside, Harry nonchalantly went around the manor, going into the back entrance Juno had told him about.

Malfoy Manor was just as he remembered it–sumptuously decorated with magnificent carpets, ornate vases, gilded decorations, and fancy paintings, not of the enchanted portrait type.

Thankfully, all the guests had been drawn to the pleasant summer evening outside, leaving the manor empty. Harry drew his wand, its tip leaving mossy green lines flowing through the dimness.

“Recurio Tom Riddle’s Diary!” The complex divination spell did not work this time, but Harry cleared his mind and focused again. “Recurio Tom Riddle’s Diary!“

Once again, nothing and Harry could feel a lump at the back of his throat form as his stomach twisted itself into an anxious knot.

‘It was enchanted against it’, he reassured himself inwardly. It wouldn’t be the first time the Horcruxes had ample protections.

Worse, he had not taken the invisibility cloak–because it would be impolite to do, at least according to Sirius, who had gone on to explain what sorts of mischief could be caused with a wand.

“Yous not supposed to be here,” a familiar squeaky voice sounded behind him, and Harry’s heart almost leapt up in his throat from fright.

Steeling himself, Harry spun around, whipping the yew wand as fast as he could with a silent stunner he had retrained last week.

Dobby dropped to the floor like a sack of rocks, and Harry, suppressing his guilt, dragged the poor elf to a cupboard, apologising in his mind.

“I’ll find a way to free you, Dobby,” he promised himself as he continued searching for the drawing room.

Thankfully, he found it rather quickly. The supposedly secret chamber beneath the drawing room floor he had heard Draco speak about all those years ago was under the carpet, and its lock opened after two piercing curses.

“The dark arts stuff indeed,” Harry cursed as he slipped inside with his wand lighting the way, illuminating dusty rafters and boxes of things that made his skin crawl. Severed hands, eerie-looking jewellery, inhuman limbs, skulls, books with pale leather, and stuff that looked out of a muggle horror film.

Trying not to touch anything, Harry began searching and, ten minutes later, found Tom Riddle’s diary atop an iron-bound chest. He threw a shrinking charm at the Horcrux, but it shrugged off the magic, and Harry groaned.

Time was ticking, and the twist in his stomach only became more painful as the damned diary couldn’t enter the mokeskin pouch, and a Sticking Charm did not work, no matter how hard he tried. The pockets of his robes were not nearly large enough either.

Rivulets of sweat ran down his brow, and his heart was drumming after ten heart-wrenching minutes; he still had no solution and couldn’t exactly walk out with a stolen diary in hand. Or worse, what if someone came inside to check in and caught him in the act now?

Harry shoved it underneath his robes out of desperation and made himself scarce while trying to erase any visible trace of his presence.

?

Being awakened by magic so foul, so tainted by death with the fervent desire to destroy him had rung all of the alarm bells in Tom Riddle’s mind.

Unlike the minds of wizards and witches, it was hard to affect the physical world outside of the pages of his diary, but his essence had grown in strength. Cursed, sentient items such as himself could pull in more and more magic as time passed.

He did not hesitate to use it all to slip away from that omen of destruction that had taken him. Tom did not know who it was that had disturbed his rest, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was after his demise.

While many thought Horcruxes were cursed items, they were intrinsically wrong. You could curse such an item for protection, but the main defence was the sentience of the soul shard inside. A weak wizard’s Horcrux would be nigh defenceless on its own save for the indestructibility and resistance to magic. But for someone as great as the future Lord Voldemort? Such trifles were a mere bonus.

Yet he had resorted to using his work’s basic anti-theft enchantments remaining from the days before the diary had housed his soul. It drained him significantly to use them, but it had slipped him away from the certain doom that was the fiend that had found him.

His new owner was… milder. He had felt soft, dainty hands brushing over his pages, inspecting his being in search of something. Or perhaps idle curiosity. However, his escape had left him too weak to be able to do anything except observe—and so, he was once more abandoned and forgotten. Yet this owner did not lock him away for safekeeping. In that case, Tom would bid his time for a chance and gather his strength. Sooner or later, those soft hands would open his pages again, whether out of curiosity, despair, or his influence.

In the days following, a niggling sensation intensified at the core of his being. The main self had been destroyed, which would be an opportunity to become… himself again. Not just a meagre shard, a backup, but a human being in the flesh.

A fresh chance to feel the earth beneath his feet, to feel the wind tickle his skin and bask in the sun’s warmth, to wield a wand again, and to see who had bested Lord Voldemort.

It would be a worthy challenge.

Juno

It was rare to find a more stuck-up and unpleasant woman than her drunken grandmother, but, to Juno’s surprise, she had managed to do it.

Dolores Umbridge was the definition of stuffiness, with her seemingly sweet facade that hid pride and ambition mixed with an inferiority complex.

It was an extremely irksome combination, but as the Lady of Black, Juno was well-versed in dealing with worse individuals and managed to pry herself away after a few minutes of empty pleasantries.

It was interesting not to be the centre of attention for once. Harry had pulled all gazes, and Juno had been invisible for the first time. She still received a greedy–or a wary gaze, but they all had eyes for the Boy Who Lived, and poor Harry seemed to loathe the attention.

Her reason for attending the Malfoy Gala was already fulfilled–her aunt Cassiopeia had shown herself in a public function for the first time in five decades, so by tomorrow, all of Wizarding Britain would know she was alive, so any underhanded attempts to take control of House Black would halt or think thrice.

Now that Juno had come as Harry Potter’s companion and showed her willingness to lean toward a less extreme political standing, doors that would have otherwise been closed for her in the future would open.

Free of Umbridge, her gaze finally roamed across the sprawling courtyard. The Averys had already excused themselves from the event after a short tangle with her grandaunt. Sirius Black, her cousin, seemed content to chat with the Lovegood widow and some dangerous-looking wizard with sun-kissed skin dressed in traditional Egyptian robes.

The Lovegood daughter, almost a carbon copy of her mother, was also nearby, looking absentmindedly at the fairy lights in the air with a chocolate cake in hand. Dressed in a plain, creamy dress with an oddly shaped silver earring, nobody approached her either.

Rosier, Travers, and Gamp argued furiously about Grigori Petrov’s possible whereabouts, while the elderly Selwyn fretted over the true cause of the Wiltshire Explosion with Botley and Montague.

Burke’s wife–Audrey, was throwing Sirius Black some odd looks, filled with equal measure of loathing and longing. Then, there were the young Greengrass twins mingling together with Zabini under the watchful eye of his widowed mother. However, Mrs Zabini quickly turned her gaze to the younger men in the gathering, doubtlessly in search of new prey.

Juno turned her attention to a different target—Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, the daughters of the lords of the Wizengamot and girls her year who were hanging around with Cedric Diggory.

“Greetings,” an ethereal yet childish voice came from behind, almost making Juno leap in surprise. She had not noticed anyone approach and turned to meet the silvery eyes of the girl she had observed earlier. “My name’s Luna. Luna Lovegood.”

“And I’m… Juno Black,” she gathered her bearings and did a light curtsy.

“A fitting name,” Luna tilted her head as if trying to decipher something. “Though, you look lonely without your companion.”

“Perhaps,” Juno allowed begrudgingly, unsure what to make of the odd girl before her. “But I have not seen you approach anyone since I arrived either.”

Luna Lovegood smiled, showing two rows of white, even teeth. “My mother said I should avoid strangers.”

“And am I not one of these strangers? We’ve certainly not met before.”

“But we met and introduced ourselves,” the blonde girl’s smile turned sly. “That makes us acquaintances.”

Juno tuned out the surrounding chatter and sea of feelings and stretched her mind, focusing on the odd girl before her. A wave of unbound curiosity mixed with apprehension and loneliness struck her like an angry hippogryph. So, Luna Lovegood was just a girl looking for friends but probably unsure how to make them.

It took half a heartbeat for Juno to bring the details of the Lovegoods to mind. The father, the publisher of the Quibbler, had perished five years before by a frost giant on an expedition to Sweden in search of some imaginary creatures. The tabloid had died then, for Pandora Lovegood had not bothered with publishing work. Luna’s mother was a capable spell-maker and a skilled enchantress with plentiful connections in the international arithmancers association.

A witch’s time was limited, and Juno couldn’t waste it on meaningless trifles, but this was such a case.

“We can be friends too if you wish,” Juno offered with a slight smile. “You start Hogwarts this September, right?”

Luna’s eyes lit up. “Yes. I’ll be sure to come to you if I have any trouble. Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, though.” Then, she leaned in closer and glanced at Fudge, chatting animatedly with the Rosiers and the Macmillans, “Did you know the Minister secretly likes cooking goblins into pies?”

Juno couldn’t help but chuckle. Luna sure had a great sense of humour, and the next ten minutes were spent chatting pleasantly about inane topics that made almost all of her tension bleed out.

The Hobgoblins appeared on the wooden stage with a loud bang; the crowd’s chatter was choked by their fast-paced opening ballad. An enthralled Luna returned to her bench, happily clapping along to the rhythm.

Juno spent the next quarter of an hour going around her classmates, including the annoyingly giggly Hufflepuffs. Finally, she settled down by the Patils, whose father looked at her warily but said nothing.

“My parents plan to return to India tomorrow,” Padma whispered aside while her twin was animatedly gossiping with Lavender Brown to the side. “It was hard to get invited to this Gala as a new family in Wizarding Britain. Anyway, forget about me; how are you holding out with your grandfather’s passing?”

“Great granduncle, actually,” Juno corrected. “And the mourning period has yet to end officially.”

“I heard he passed away from the Pox,” the Indian girl grimaced. “Nasty way to go, my mom claims.”

But a fitting one. “Indeed. Have you seen Morag?”

“I think I saw her by the strawberry desserts earlier.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

With an amiable wave, Juno headed to look for her other friend, but she spotted a tired-looking Harry walking out of the loo, trying to look nonchalant and mostly succeeding. Thankfully, most guests seemed focused on the Hobgoblins and their infamously cheesy hit “Simply Enchanting!”

“That took you a while,” she greeted quietly. “Did you succeed?”

“Yeah,” he patted his chest and froze before erratically started inspecting his dress robes. “It’s gone.”

“What do you mean it’s gone?” Juno tilted her head in confusion.

His frantic search continued as he checked every inch of his garments, only for his shoulders to slump.

“I… I fastened it to the insides of my robe because it wouldn’t shrink, stick with a charm, or go into my mokeskin pouch, and my robe’s inner pockets were too small,” Harry despaired. “It must have fallen on the way…”

Juno turned pensive; she had never seen her friend so… worried.

“But you didn’t hear or feel it fall?”

Harry angrily tugged on his messy mop of hair, looking around the grass. “No. I couldn’t even feel it inside my robes for some reason.”

“I’ll help. But we must not attract any attention,” she reassured. “Grab my elbow so it looks like we’re going on a stroll to digest the generous fare.” The boy skittishly did as she did, still seemingly nervous. “Relax, Harry, it only makes you look more suspicious. Tell me more about that diary. Why is it so important?”

“Well,” After a moment of hesitation, his green eyes hardened. “It’s something I must destroy.”

“Theft and vandalism, Harry?” She chuckled lightly. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

After a year in school, she knew her friend was one of the rare few wizards with integrity, and if something was forcing his hand at theft and destruction, it had to be important.

The boy ducked his head, flushing red.

“It’s not that…”

“Then what have the Malfoys done to earn such ire from you?”

“It’s not a diary belonging to them, but one Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he muttered, face dark. “You would know him as Lord Voldemort.”

All her previous amusement drained away, and Juno took a deep breath to centre his mind. Harry Potter was dead serious, and she couldn’t hide her curiosity. She looked around, ensuring nobody was trailing them or eavesdropping on their talk.

“And why would you need to destroy a cursed diary, of all things?”

Harry looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes as their stroll continued.

A secret, then. But Juno loved secrets. Of course, she did not waste her time on inanities, but a dark lord’s diary awoke fierce curiosity within her heart.

“Come now,” she cajoled. “I promise not to tell anyone. On my magic.”

Harry halted then, his eyes still stubbornly roaming over the dark ground. But Juno could see him torn in hesitation. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Absolutely. I am already helping you this much. What is a little more?”

Juno caught his gaze, conveying her intent and honesty as best as he could.

A tired sigh rolled off his tongue as Harry ran a shaky hand through his unruly raven mop of hair. “You promise not to tell anyone?”

“I have already given my word,” she smiled at him. “It is not something I do in vain–once is more than enough.”

After a painfully long pause, which made Harry more nervous, he gritted his teeth as if he had come to a very important decision.

“It’s a Horcrux-“

“Harry!” Draco’s yell gathered quite a lot of attention and froze Harry and Juno in their stride. Under Narcissa Malfoy’s stern glare, the blonde-haired Slytherin rushed their way as if they were his salvation, giving Juno a strangled smile. “I thought you got lost! I’ve been looking for you for ages. My cousin failed to introduce you to everyone properly, which will just not do for your first Gala. Come, come, don’t be shy-“

Harry looked like he had swallowed a lemon as Draco dragged him towards the group of first and second-year Slytherins, while Juno Bellatrix Black never wanted to wring her cousin’s neck more than now. By the time the event ended and they had to return home, neither Harry nor Juno had found a trace of Voldemort’s diary.

Her friend looked more distraught than she had ever seen him, which begged the question: what was a Horcrux?