Chapter Text
It was the dead of night, and chillingly quiet in the office of Quirinus Quirrell. A single flame sputtered and writhed atop the wick of a dripping candlestick. The shadows watched eagerly, dancing along the walls and across the floors, growing and shrinking with the flickering candlelight. Nothing was said between the two: Hattie, with her lips forced into a grim smile, waiting; and Quirinus Quirrell, doggedly blank-faced.
She would not be the first to speak. No, Hattie would wait.
The silence festered, and around her throat, Keraunos squirmed. Hazily, the snake tasted the air, then settled against her neck once more. The night had only just begun, and morn was a long way away.
Hattie waited, because she knew she would have what she wanted.
“Henrietta… Potter,” spoke a soft, sibilant voice. The wait was over. Quirrell’s face twitched, and his mouth pulled into a grimace, but Hattie payed him no mind.
“Voldemort,” she said, grin reminiscent to a Cheshire cat’s – wide, gleaming, and almost the only thing that could be seen within the darkness that fell upon her.
“Master,” whimpered Quirrell, to which Voldemort snapped a sharp quiet! The man settled, even with the pain growing prominent in his features. Abiding a whispered command, Quirrell turned away from Hattie, reaching behind himself to undo the wrappings of his turban. Each repealed strap of fabric brought the simmering heat closer to the surface, until it was bursting with a searing explosion of fire.
Voldemort’s visage came into view. He was pale, unnaturally so, and had no hair about his face. His nose was flat, with two incisions for nostrils. A cruel smile played along his lips, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. Hattie’s excitement mounted with each passing moment.
“I see we meet again, Potter,” spoke Voldemort, voice never rising above a whisper. It was not something often seen; that is, a man with a face on the back of his head. Hattie pushed away those thoughts.
“Would you believe me if I told you I have wanted to meet you for quite some time?” remarked Hattie, leaning forward. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “You see, I have something of yours.”
“You interest me, Henrietta Potter…” he whispered. “I expected someone different from what you present. That is what you do, is it not? Present, fake, pretend to be what you are not? I know of what you do… I have done it myself, as a young man…” Hattie tilted her head, blinking owlishly.
“You may be correct in one aspect; however, you are wrong in another.”
Voldemort hissed, displeased, then said, “I am not mistaken.”
“Yes, you are,” said Hattie, reverting to her polite smile for but a moment. With her once again wide, unnerving grin, she said, “Hattie. That is where you differ. I would like you to call me Hattie. Surely, you would understand wanting a different name for oneself?” Voldemort’s slit eyes widened minutely. “Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong,” Hattie told him. “I do not know the name which you left behind. I simply recognize ‘Lord Voldemort’ as a chosen name. We are alike in many ways, Lord Voldemort…”
“I grow tired of these games, Potter,” he said, voice darkening. “Why should I not kill you where you stand?”
“Sit, actually,” Hattie corrected offhandedly. “And to answer your question, again, I repeat: I have something of yours.”
“Which is?” he spat. Quirrell’s hands were trembling. Not much longer, then, she supposes. Perhaps it would best to fix that now. Hattie reached into her pocket, setting Voldemort on alert. Before he could further mistake her movements as retaliation, Hattie took out a vial of viscous, silver liquid.
“This is not what I speak of, but it will help your… condition,” she told him. Voldemort studied it warily, crimson, slit eyes roving over the crystal container.
“Unicorn’s blood,” he whispered in shock. Then, eyes narrowed in suspicion, he hissed, “You attempt to fool me! This cannot be Unicorn’s blood.”
“It is,” said Hattie. “You must know of Euclid, yes? Euclid’s Elements?” Voldemort paused, expression going slack. “I am Euclid. This is real Unicorn’s blood, and I assure you it has not been tampered with.” Hattie felt the piercing stare Voldemort pinned her with. She couldn’t help but grin wider, then, when he ordered Quirrell to take the vial from her. Hattie passed it to him, keeping from touching his skin.
“I have more,” she told him, watching as he downed the blood. A curious sight, that. Voldemort himself was seeming to be a curious man in all. “You must take them three days in-between, or it will destroy your host.” At this admission, Quirrell shivered. “The reason for that is because this is because the blood which I gave you was highly concentrated, and made to suit your needs.”
“Why?” he asked, again facing her directly. “What do you gain from this?” Voldemort grinned widely. “Do you hope to garner favor with Lord Voldemort?” Hattie quirked a brow at his use of third person.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. My reasons are my own,” she said, keeping as vague as possible. Voldemort would not have this.
“Tell me!” he snapped, spitting with anger. Tapping her chin, Hattie crossed her leg over the other at the ankle. She hummed.
“I don’t think so,” she decided. Then, “However, I will warn you not to touch me. The Sacrificial Protection my mother put in place is still in effect, and will kill you. That is a certainty.” Hattie paused. “Again, you do not want to kill me. I am important to you.”
“Henrietta Potter? Important to Lord Voldemort?”
“Yes,” she hissed, standing from her seat, meeting Voldemort’s face. He appeared shocked, then enraged. Hattie grinned maniacally, arm raising. She brought her index finger to her scar, tracing the tip along its jagged, enflamed skin. “I am the container of your soul.”
“You lie!” screamed Voldemort. “That is not possible!”
“Master,” begged Quirrell, arms wrapped around his abdomen. “Please…”
“I am not lying,” Hattie told him, returning to her seat. “Can you not feel it? The sliver of your soul embedded in my scar? I do. I feel it pulse with your rage, and I can feel it calling out to you.”
Anger – raw, hot and all-consuming. Disbelief, a self-imposed deception. This was not true, and could not be. Shock – for despite his want to deny, to make this untrue, he could feel it. Sense it. Wonder… here, a piece of his soul, unknowingly lost, but safe… seeking him out… Hattie felt it all, coursing through her veins, pulsing through her mind. She saw the emotions cross Voldemort’s face in micro-expressions, hidden well but not enough for her.
“My horcrux…” he murmured, gaze landing on her scar with awe. Hattie smiled, waving for his attention. Voldemort’s eyes snapped back to hers.
“I am keeping it,” she said, causing him to bristle. “I can protect it. You realize that, don’t you? It’s not as if you could remove it without harming it, no…” Voldemort appraised her. He was smarter than she expected.
“You can,” he said neutrally. “What is it you want?”
“I am not willing to remove it,” she stated. Voldemort hissed, eyes burning. Hattie smiled, nonetheless, her head falling forward slightly. Dark red strands of hair followed her movement. “It is mine, and will stay mine,” Hattie told him, firm, “and you have no say in the matter.”
Voldemort looked ready to attack her – to bind her and Crucio her into oblivion. Hattie would not have that. No, this would go her way.
“Do you want to know how your soul came to be in my scar?” she asked, foregoing Parseltongue. Quirrell had heard enough. If Voldemort wanted him oblivious, he could make it so himself. “October thirty first, nineteen eighty-one. You made your way to Godric’s Hollow, intent on killing the Potters, for some reason unknown to me.”
Hattie smiled sardonically. “Does the great Lord Voldemort truly need a reason to kill, though?” she asked rhetorically, barking a harsh laugh. “No, he doesn’t. I digress. You attacked my family, killed my father, and then my mother. However, you did not realize something. Something vitally important.” Hattie paused, to build tension.
“You see, my mother was not an ignorant person. She understood the strength behind darker, older magics. Ancient magics. Her choice to save me, her unbreakable will… No matter how many chances she was given to step aside, she refused. There was a magic at work here, a powerful one. You can call it whatever you like: be it Blood magic, Sacrificial Protection, or a mother’s love.”
“However, …however,” said Hattie, eyes wide and imploring, “That is not all. The beneficiary of the counter-charm is not immune to spells. No, they can still be cast on them, they only wear off quicker. This charm most certainly does not cause Killing Curses to bounce off and attack their caster.” Here, Hattie grinned almost madly, her eyes lit with a fervor. She threw her arms up in the air, saying, “It was a miracle! An anomaly! There was no logical reason for any of the events of that night.”
“What can cause the Killing Curse to deflect? Nothing! And yet, and yet – it did!”
“You’re mad,” snarled Voldemort.
“No,” said Hattie, “I am on the brink of discovery. What can stop Death? The splitting of the soul, an incident unexplained? I must know,” she said, “and I will know. What happened that night? Did my mother do more than just self-sacrifice? Did her love transcend the known limits to magic?”
“Preposterous,” said Voldemort. “Love is a weakness.”
“I cannot say for myself,” said Hattie. “For I cannot feel much beside the most potent emotions. There is a disconnect between my soul, my mind, and my body. I am a Necromancer, a true Necromancer. Look into my eyes – they are as black as Death itself! That is because of my heritage, my legacy.”
“Peverell,” he whispered. “Then –?”
“Yes,” nodded Hattie. “Peverell, the three brothers who bested Death… oh, oh, they thought they did. The eldest was killed by his own wand. The second eldest killed himself in his sorrow. And the youngest… oh, the youngest lived, hidden from Death by Death’s own cloak – but he was not missed. He was cursed. His daughter, born with eyes unnaturally dark, and a beauty otherworldly. Iolanthe Peverell, the first true Necromancer.”
“Where are you going with this?” hissed Voldemort. “You talk of nonsense. There is no ‘true’ Necromancy; it can be done by any powerful enough wizard!”
Hattie blinked, slow. “The curse upon my line affects the bond between body, mind, and soul. A normal human being has each held together so closely that they intertwine. I can see yours,” she said, meeting his eyes. “It’s fascinating – there are two sets of minds and souls inhabiting your host. Your soul, however…” She stopped. “My mind,” continued Hattie, “my body, my soul – they’re all separate. There is but a fine line connecting the three.”
“Perhaps this is what allowed me to live that night,” said Hattie. “When the Killing Curse struck me, it could not destroy all three parts at once, as it would a normal human; no, it had to settle with one. However, this is where I grow confused: it was not my body that was destroyed, but yours! How could that be?”
“Potter…”
“Yes, yes. Thus, your body was destroyed, and your soul was ejected to roam as a Wraith. Through your creation of Horcruxes – yes, I know about the others – you broke the tethers connecting your body, mind, and soul. Your soul and mind were chipped off and placed into the containers for some ungodly reason.”
“That cannot be,” said Voldemort. “I put pieces of my soul into the Horcruxes, not my mind.” Hattie didn’t think that he had realized, and this proved that.
“Humans, as I said, have their bodies, minds, and souls interconnected. The tethers which intertwine these are extremely complex. When you broke off a piece of your soul, you gave it a body – the Horcrux container – and so the body connection was transferred without problem. However, you did not give it a mind – and so when you made the Horcrux, the piece of soul pulled on your mind and broke off a bit of its own to keep. It’s a complicated business, that.”
Voldemort was oddly quiet. Perhaps the news had unsettled him. From the looks of his tattered soul and mind, and current lack of a body of his own, Hattie would say he had made quite a few Horcruxes. He was likely wondering just how much damage he had done to his mind.
“It may not be of any reassurance, but the soul piece which broke off from your murder of my mother – yes, that’s where it came from – had my mind to stabilize it, meaning that your mind was not further broken from its departure.”
“Then by using containers which have minds of their own, I can create Horcruxes without breaking mine?” he asked, seeming excited by the news.
“That is correct,” said Hattie. “However, your previous Horcruxes took off sizeable chunks of your soul. You will not last long at the rate you’re going.” She paused, ponderous. Yes, that was not a bad idea. Not at all. “I can help you,” Hattie told him, catching his attention.
“Why might you do that, Potter? I killed your father, your mother… and I will kill you, too,” he hissed.
“No,” said Hattie. “You won’t. I have a deal for you. I can help you, but only if you agree to my terms. I’ll give you the term to think it over. That is how long your supply will last, after that, you are on your own. Good night, Voldemort. Good night, Professor Quirrell. I shall see you in class – and Voldemort, before the Christmas break, I do hope,” she said, rising from her seat.
Things were becoming interesting.