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Chapter Text

Holly knew from the moment she first laid eyes on Tom Riddle that she had a crush. 

The concept of a crush was, of course, nothing foreign to her—when you lived in a dorm full of girls, gossip always managed to find its way from one person to the next, and half the time, the gossip was always about love. Who had a crush on whom? Who asked who out? Who broke up with whom?

Holly had always listened to the conversations with half a heart—love had never interested her particularly, and Holly had yet to experience the so-called flutter of butterflies in her stomach or rising heat in her cheeks that was meant to signify that she had a crush on someone. Sure, Hogwarts had its fair share of people that Holly thought were handsome or cute, but none had particularly grabbed her attention. She had her friends, Hermione and Ron, and that was enough for her. She didn’t need some silly little crush to distract her. 

Unfortunately for her, that all changed when a mysterious and all too charming Tom Marvolo Riddle entered the equation.

It wouldn’t be a lie to say that Holly had been fascinated by Voldemort when she first learned of him from Hagrid.

How could she not be when in this great story that Hagrid weaved about her being some sort of “Girl-Who-Lived”, Voldemort was at the very centre of it?

But back then, to her, he had only ever been a mere concept or idea—a supposedly dead man that haunted the past. And so she embarked on her first year of Hogwarts with a spirited heart, embracing her first-ever proper freedom from the Dursleys. She learned how to make feathers float and turn matchsticks into needles. She wrestled trolls, helped smuggle a dragon, and even uncovered the mystery of the third-floor corridor.

And then she met Voldemort in person and discovered that he was, in fact, very much not dead and had been stuck on the back of Professor Quirrell’s head for the past year. The situation rose into a scuffle for the philosopher’s stone, where Holly had, by some miracle, triumphed, and Voldemort had fled.

But of course, it seemed that even with him gone, Voldemort still managed to haunt her existence in the form of an old leather-bound diary that went by the name Tom.

She had found the diary washed up on the floor of the girls’ bathroom one day back in her second year. It hadn’t seemed anything special at the time, the pages empty and slightly weathered by time, and the diary soon eventually found a home at the bottom of her trunk, forgotten.

She never made the connection that the attacks stopped after she found the diary—after all, how could the old artefact ever cause any harm? Nor did she ever pause to consider the strangeness of how familiar the diary had felt in her hands when she first picked it up. 

So, Holly was very confused when one day she found herself lying on her bed, turning the diary over in her hands. Perhaps it was a product of boredom that she found herself seeking the diary. She had never been particularly into journaling before, but she had often seen Lavender and Parvati giggling softly as they wrote in a diary using fancy quills. Holly had never understood what was so entertaining, but maybe this was her chance to try it out? 

Holly stretched her arm, reaching out to the tabletop to nab a pen (she wasn’t bothered to pull out an inkpot for her quill) and pressed the diary flat, and as neatly as she could, wrote the date in the top left corner of the page.

Dear diary,

Holly paused, unsure of how to continue. What did one usually write about in their diary?

Detention with Lockhart went horribly. The git made me go through his stupid fan letters. How that man has fans, I don’t know. I can’t believe I have detention with him again next week. Even worse, I have to see him in class tomorrow. 

People say there’s a curse on the defence against the dark arts position—no teacher has lasted more than a year for a long time. If the curse is real, I hope it hits Lockhart soon. Sometime between now and my class tomorrow would be ideal. 

Idly, Holly spun her pen in her hand, slowly starting to understand the appeal of journaling. There was simply something so riveting about letting out all her pent-up thoughts that she wasn’t able to say aloud. 

However, before Holly could continue writing, the words seemed to seep into the page, completely disappearing.

And then, like magic, words started bleeding onto the page. 

Hello there, I’m sorry to hear about your detention. I’m Tom Riddle, a memory preserved in this book, intended to aid its users. May I have your name?

Holly’s pen faltered over the page. She had never considered that books could be charmed to write back. Now that she thought about it, a book like that did seem like a pretty nifty thing to have around. 

Holly Potter, but you can just call me Holly.

Then it is only natural that you call me Tom.

Holly took a moment to admire just how neat Tom’s cursive was. Her primary school had tried teaching them how to write in cursive, but it had never come quite naturally to her. Suddenly, a spark of inspiration struck her.

Do you know about the Chamber of Secrets?

Tom’s response came quickly.

Yes, I was once a student at Hogwarts fifty years ago. Back then, the Chamber and its monster were a mere legend. In my fifth year, however, the Chamber was opened, resulting in the death of a girl.

Holly frowned. I’ve never heard about that, she quickly scribbled. 

I would be surprised if you did. The incident was brushed under the rug—the Ministry didn’t want parents taking their students out of Hogwarts.

The Chamber has been opened again, though. Students have been petrified. Holly paused before deciding to continue writing, her hands trembling ever so slightly. People think I’m the Heir of Slytherin—that I’m the one attacking students. 

And would I be correct to assume that you are not? I understand—it must be rather frustrating being falsely accused of another’s crimes. Though I’m curious as to why people would suspect you of being the heir. As far as I’m aware, the Potters are not descended from Salazar Slytherin.

Holly pursed her lips slightly. I don’t know how, but somehow I can speak to snakes.

Tom seemed to take longer than usual to respond.

While I can’t answer where you got the ability from, as I cannot trace your lineage, I can say that there is no shame in being a parselmouth. It is simply another language, is it not? Think of it as a gift.

Unfortunately, that is not a sentiment shared by most. But thank you, it does make me feel a little better.

Of course, I’m always here to help, came the silky reply.

You mentioned you were a student once. What was Hogwarts like back then? She asked, curious to know more about this mysterious Tom Riddle.

I can show you.

Holly let out a deep breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

It was only seconds after scribbling a hasty affirmative that the wind started to pick up around her, and Holly felt herself being sucked into the diary.

And that was when she first saw him.

Handsome was the first word that came to mind when she saw him. 

He seemed to be in the middle of a class, but Holly paid the class no attention. 

All her attention was concentrated on him. 

He possessed the kind of beauty that didn’t ask for attention, and yet demanded it all the time. 

His features were deliberate, as if a masterful sculptor had taken the time to carefully carve each curve of skin to artistic perfection. Nothing about him felt accidental—not the sharp line of his jaw, nor the quiet symmetry of his brows. 

Holly had never thought it possible for a person to glow among all things. 

His smooth, pale skin seemed to draw the light towards it, and the light seemed to dance, delicately playing with the ridges and grooves of his face. Against it, his hair fell dark and thick, moving between inky black and dark brown depending on the light. And there, falling elegantly upon his forehead, was a stray lock of hair that rested right above his brow.

And those eyes–

Holly licked her lips slightly. 

They held a weight in them. A quiet intensity. Holly could only wonder as to what thoughts lay behind those eyes. 

In a trance, Holly watched as he answered the professor’s question. 

Gosh, even his voice was perfect—a rich voice, yet to fully deepen, but still with its boyish charm.

Something dangerous curled within her—a foreign feeling she had yet to process.

Want. 

She took another moment to look at the boy in front of her.

Yes, she decided. He was perfect.

And she wanted more. 

Chapter Text

She carried Tom’s diary around with her everywhere. 

She carried it with her to the Great Hall when she ate.

She carried it with her to classes.

And every night before she went to sleep, she’d write in it. 

It was slightly embarrassing, being attracted to a voice—a memory, as he put it—in a diary of all things. But Tom felt so real. 

And Holly had checked—Tom was real, at least he had been fifty years ago at Hogwarts, a shiny trophy in his name, sitting in the trophy room. Prefect and Headboy as well, according to the records. Then he worked at Borgins and Burkes for a few years before disappearing off the face of the earth. 

Of course, she hadn’t told Tom that she had been doing her own digging into him—she was just satisfying some curiosity of hers. Wasn’t it natural to only want to know everything about the guy you liked? 

In the comfort of her bed, she wondered to herself. Was there some version of Tom outside of the diary still alive?

Holly picked out a fancy quill that Lavender and Parvati had gifted her with a knowing look and started writing. Over the course of writing to Tom, she had put in the effort to improve her handwriting, not wanting to seem subpar and unkempt in Tom’s eyes.

(If her handwriting was starting to suspiciously look like Tom’s, that was no one’s business. Holly had spent way too long tracing the loops of Tom’s writing and memorising the precise flow of each letter.)

They talked about all sorts of things, and Tom showed her all sorts of memories from his Hogwarts days: classes, Hogsmeade trips, secret passageways he had discovered—it had been quite the shock seeing how Dumbledore looked when he was young.

And the next day, Holly returned late at night to her dormitory to find that the diary was gone.

Holly had gone into a frenzy trying to find it. Had she accidentally left it behind in some classroom? Had it fallen out of her bag in some corridor? No matter where she looked, every nook and cranny she turned over remained diaryless. 

But in front of her other housemates and the other students, she could only smile and pretend that nothing had changed.

That was until the attacks started again, and everyone started blaming her again.

Holly stopped smiling after that. 

Tom would have understood. 

Tom would have told her that everything would be alright.

But Tom wasn’t there.

And now she carried around with her a diary-shaped hole in her heart.

Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.

The words stained the wall a deep, dark red. 

Hermione and Ron gripped her arm tightly, both shaking slightly.

Ginny was missing. 

Holly was alone, standing in front of an imposing door.

Hermione had gone to find a teacher.

Ron was clearing some rubble further down. 

And there was the possibility that on the other side of the door, she’d be confronted with Ginny’s dead body.

She stared at the snake engraving on the door, willing herself to speak Parseltongue.

“Open.”

The door ominously creaked open, and Holly took a hesitant step inside. 

She now stood in a large chamber, a large stone face staring back at her.

And there lying on the ground was–

“Ginny!”

Holly ran, not caring for the puddles of water and mud that splashed into her shoes or onto her clothes. 

Hunching over on the ground, she carefully checked her wrist for a pulse, sighing slightly when she noticed that, although faint, there was still a pulse. Ginny was still alive. 

She just needed to somehow bring Ginny back up. 

“She won’t wake.”

Her stomach dropped somewhere near her shoes. Holly didn’t need to turn around to recognise the voice, but she found herself compelled to turn around anyway. 

There in front of her, in all his glory, stood Tom.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, everything else seemed to fall quiet. The pitter-patter of some distant water leak, the hum of Hogwarts’ wards—they all blurred into something distant and unimportant. It had always been her looking at him. But now, she could only help but feel exposed, vulnerable, as he looked back at her. 

She tried to ignore the way her heart started thumping right against her chest or the way her cheeks warmed up ever so slightly.

“Tom?”

He took a step closer, moving away from the shadows, and Holly almost let out a small gasp.

His beauty seemed even more magnified now. He looked very… real. 

At this point, she thought her heart might explode. He was real, and that was the problem. He was supposed to be some silly little crush. Ok, so maybe it wasn’t little, per se, but it was never meant to be something she actually confronted. 

She wanted to ask so many questions. How was he seemingly alive? Where did he come from? What was going on? 

He inclined his head ever so slightly, arms behind his back in an air of casualness. “It’s been a while since we last conversed, hasn’t it?”

Ginny twitched slightly, reminding Holly of her presence.

“We have to save her.”

She reached for her wand, preparing to cast the few limited spells she knew on healing, when she noticed her wand was missing. Panicked, she looked around until she found Tom standing in front of her, extending her wand to her.

“Looking for this?”

Holly nodded gratefully, extending her hand out to grab her wand, but right at the last moment, Tom drew his hand back, twirling her wand idly between his fingers.

“I think for now, your wand would be safer in my hands. After all, if the beast suddenly attacks, I am better equipped to protect us.” 

Holly nodded absent-mindedly. Yeah, Tom had really nice hands—he could hold her wand anytime. She looked around the chamber. “Where is the basilisk anyway? Shouldn’t it be here somewhere?”

“The basilisk will appear when it is called.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, Holly, I had thought you more eloquent than that.”

Her ears burned red. 

“Who do you think opened the chamber and set Slytherin’s beast on the students?”

Her eyes flitted to Ginny, the faint rise and fall of her chest barely giving away that she was still alive. She thought of all the students in the Hospital Wing, petrified. 

“I… I don’t know.”

Tom started to walk in a slow circle around her. “You’re a smart girl. You’ve already worked out that Slytherin’s monster is a basilisk. Who could possibly be the Heir of Slytherin?”

He bent down slowly, closing the distance between them until the air itself seemed to tighten. He leaned into her ear, his presence suddenly everywhere—too close, impossibly close. The space between them vanished, leaving only the quiet tension of shared breath.

She could feel the warmth of him before she fully registered the nearness—a soft and steady yet disarming heat, dangerously lingering. Her senses sharpened leaving every small detail amplified: the faint shifting of fabric, the subtle rhythm of his breathing, the delicate brush of it against the curve of her ear. 

The thud of her heart became increasingly louder (could he hear it too?). 

His breath ghosted over her, light as a whisper yet impossibly present, sending a shiver trailing down her spine. Time seemed to stretch in that moment—it felt too slow, painfully slow. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could remain without collapsing. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“Listen… closely.”

For a heartbeat, she didn’t understand. Or perhaps she did, and simply refused to let the meaning take shape. 

“Y- you!”

Something inside her faltered.

His voice had carried a slight hiss. 

He had been speaking in Parseltongue to her, and she hadn’t even realised. 

She hated that her body still leaned towards him. Was her heart beating in fear or anticipation? 

“You’re the Heir of Slytherin.”

He pulled back, gleaming with pride. “Five points to Gryffindor.” 

The truth settled, heavy and unyielding. She should have put distance between them, torn herself free from whatever gnarled feelings twisted around her heart before it consumed what little sense she had left.

But Holly didn’t.

Because even as something in her broke, even as the truth carved through her with a precision that left no room for denial. She was still drawn to him. 

“Why?” she asked softly.

“The students being petrified were all unfortunate… accidents, you could say. My true target has always been you.”

Her eyes widened. “Me?”

“Isn’t it curious that a girl like you was able to defeat the greatest dark lord as a mere babe?”

Holly frowned. “How do you know about that, and what does that have to do with anything?”

Tom pulled out her wand, shimmering letters appearing in front of her.

With a grand wave of his wand, the letters in front of her started rearranging themselves. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle

I am Lord Voldemort 

Well, that certainly complicated things. 

Chapter Text

There are five stages of grief:

1. Denial

The words stared at her, burning into her vision.

I am Lord Voldemort.

Her eyes flitted back and forth between the words and Tom.

It was one thing to learn that Tom was the Heir of Slytherin.

It was a whole other thing to learn that Tom was Voldemort.

“No, that’s not–”

Not what?

Not possible?

She tried to tell herself it was a dream—the letters were all wobbly, Tom’s outline was ever so slightly faded.

But no. The letters stood firm, and Tom was more real than ever, but this time, his smile was cruel.

She looped through every interaction with Tom—every word written into the pages of the diary, every memory shared, trying to find something, anything. Trying to understand: how did the Tom in front of her—the brilliant, handsome student with such a bright future ahead of him—turn into Voldemort? 

Tom had started pacing again, lost in a monologue.

“Before the diary was in your hands, dear Ginny used to write to me all the time about her silly little troubles and pitiful worries. I was patient. I was sympathetic. Ginny loved me… said there was no one who understood her the way I did.”

Holly felt slightly troubled by that. The way he described Ginny sounded oddly… exactly like the way she saw Tom. 

She had… competition this entire time? 

How awkward. 

She bit her lip, scolding herself. This was not the time to be jealous. Ginny was dying right now, and here she was, stupidly and selfishly clinging to her pitiful, sinful feelings.

“As she wrote,” Tom continued, his voice dripping with an air of casualty as if he were merely talking about the weather, “she poured her soul into the diary, into me, feeding me her deepest, darkest secrets. As time passed… I grew stronger and stronger, feeding upon her soul.”

Tom turned to face her. “It was all rather boring, listening to the pitiful drivel of an insecure child. But then one day she started writing about you—how she longed to be your friend, how she admired you and thought you so brave and noble. How you, as a babe, managed to defeat my future self and survive the killing curse, leaving behind nothing but a scar.”

At this, Tom bent down again and, almost reverently, traced a finger over her scar. 

And once again, Holly found herself unable to draw back. To move away from his touch. Not because she was scared, but because it felt–

 Good. Right. Warm.

Like something in her soul had reconnected with something long lost, long treasured. 

And too soon, Tom drew back.

“Curious,” he muttered more to himself than to her.

“What’s curious?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Is it not curious how similar we are? Orphans, half-bloods, parselmouths… we even look somewhat similar.”

And before Holly could have time to ponder it, Tom’s posture shifted, and he raised her wand again.

“But it is of no matter, for tonight you will die.”

And then the next thing she knew, she was being chased by a 50-foot-long basilisk.

2. Anger 

She was dying. 

Quite pathetically as well, a long cut in her arm where the basilisk had struck, venom bleeding into the wound, her vision swimming out of focus. 

Tom was gloating about something, but she wasn’t able to discern the individual words. 

The basilisk’s corpse lay a few feet away from her, a sword stabbed through the roof of its mouth. Even if she died tonight, at least she managed to kill the basilisk, to make sure that no one else would be petrified, or worse, killed by its gaze…

She shifted weakly on the ground, uncomfortable. It hurt too much. When would the pain end?

Fawkes leaned in closer to her, and gently, Holly stroked the phoenix’s feathers. And as if feeling her pain, Fawkes, too, started crying, the tears landing on her wound, sizzling on her skin briefly.

The pain started fading. If this was dying, perhaps it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. 

And slowly, she could hear Tom’s voice again. “–Ah, phoenix tears. How could I forget—healing properties… No matter, I’ll simply complete the job myself.”

He pointed her wand at her, almost lazily, but there was a certain fervour behind those eyes.

“Avada K–”

She spotted the diary lying nearby. 

She lunged forward, bringing it close, and with a large swing, stabbed the basilisk fang into the diary.

She cursed at it for attacking students.

She cursed at it for nearly killing Ginny.

She cursed at it for introducing Tom into her life.

Because now she could never forget Tom. 

She sobbed, hunched over herself, and the diary too seemed to be crying, black ink spilling out of its pages.

If she listened closely, she could hear Tom screaming. 

She stabbed the diary again–

Let him scream. Let him feel the pain.

And again–

She was unable to tell who was screaming louder—her or Tom?

And again–

And then there was silence. 

Just her, knees pressed against the cold ground, shaking, as she clutched the basilisk fang. 

(It felt as if she had stabbed herself with the fang.)

The fang slipped loose from her hands, clattering to the ground.

And she cursed and cursed more.

But most of all, she cursed herself for ever letting herself fall in love.

3. Bargaining 

Ginny was alive, enveloped in a tight hug by her mother.

She had made the right choice. Right?

Yes–

No–

Yes–

Yes, she repeated to herself. Obviously yes. That was what a rational, morally sound, normal person (like her, of course) would say.

But what if–

“–and thank you, dear. Words alone cannot express my gratitude towards you for saving my daughter.”

Now, Holly was the one being hugged, a bit too tightly, by Mrs Weasley. 

Tearing her face away, she could spot Dumbledore smiling at her proudly, as if everything was well and good.

Except it wasn’t.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled gently. “You have done the school a great service.”

Yes, but Tom was–

“May I know how such a great feat was accomplished? Miss Granger here has already filled in on most of the details—she had just finished recounting how she went to find Professor Lockhart after you three found the entrance to the chamber. However, what happened after you descended into the Chamber remains a mystery to all.”

Holly wrinkled her nose, raising an eyebrow at Hermione. “You went to him?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed brightly. “Well, at the time, it seemed like a good decision. He was, after all, our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and accomplished in defeating all sorts of magical beasts. Turns out he’s just a fraud.”

Holly almost wanted to roll her eyes. Lockhart—a fraud. Who would have thought? 

But hadn’t she, too, fallen so easily for another’s charm? How was she meant to fault Hermione when she herself had gone through the same?

She fidgeted with her hands. 

If only she had been a little smarter… 

(But even greater witches and wizards had been fooled before.)

If only she had one more chance to change things…

(But what was there to change? Ginny made it out alive, and all the petrified victims would be waking up soon. It was a textbook happy ending where good triumphed over evil, so why did she not feel happy?)

If only she had never picked up that damn diary…

(But then she would have never met Tom.)

So with more bravery than she thought she had, she slowly started recounting what had happened. She talked about the diary—how she had found it in the girls’ bathroom, about how it had once belonged to a student named Tom. She talked about how Tom revealed his nature as the Heir of Slytherin and Voldemort. How he set the basilisk on her and how she stabbed it with Gryffindor’s sword and destroyed the diary. 

She didn’t talk about how ensnared she had been by Tom. 

She carefully omitted the long nights she had spent talking to Tom. 

She didn’t show the diary to Dumbledore.

It was hers.

She instead claimed that nothing of it remained—that the basilisk venom had fully dissolved it.

The diary pressed against her skin, hidden under the folds of her clothes, listening to the traitorous beat of her heart. 

4. Depression 

That night, Hermione joined her, the two of them sitting by the fireplace in the common room. 

“I-I can’t believe Lockhart was a phony all this time.”

Hermione let out a big sniff. 

“I can’t believe Tom was lying to me this entire time.”

Holly grabbed a handful of tissues and started dabbing her eyes. 

“I still can’t believe Tom–”

“Don’t say his name. It’s triggering.”

The two of them blew their noses loudly. 

“Is this… heartbreak?”

“I think it is, Holly.”

“What is love, Hermione?”

“A lie, Holly. We’ve been lied to. All men do is lie.”

The two grabbed another handful of tissues. 

Meanwhile, Seamus, who was busy trying to write an essay, pulled over. “What is going on here?”

Ron, who was awkwardly sitting a few seats away, playing chess with Dean, shrugged his shoulders. 

Dean, meanwhile, rolled his eyes. “Girls. Just ignore them.”

“You sure I don’t need to call for a professor?”

Hermione let out a wail.

Holly glared at Seamus through puffy eyes. “Don’t you dare mention any professors around Hermione. Have some consideration for others’ feelings.”

Thankfully, despite his clear confusion, Seamus learned quickly that the best course of action was to ignore them. 

5. Acceptance More depression

In the comforts of her bed, Holly cried more.

Here she was left to reconstruct the person she thought she knew. Piece by piece, she tried to rebuild the image of Tom, but each piece, as delicate and fragile as they were, was sharp like shattered glass, cutting into her heart. 

The diary, when she had first held it in her hands—the leather had been worn, the pages curled slightly at the corners, yellowing ever so slightly. It had been so ordinary.

The first letters that appeared on the page—the ink had curled and looped around itself elegantly, introducing itself as Tom.

Her first time seeing Tom—let me show you.

And show he did.

Her first thought had been of how handsome Tom was–

He had lied to her. 

But there was something so alluring about his voice–

He was a murderer.

But he was so–

He had tried to kill her.

But–

He was Voldemort.

B–

It was silly how much damage a diary could do.

Her tears became the new ink, bleeding into the pages of the diary. But no matter how hard she cried, how many tears splattered pathetically onto its ruined pages, no words ever appeared in response, telling her that it would be okay, that it would be all right.

Only a blank, tear-struck page stared back at her. 

Tom was gone—and it was all because of her.

Chapter Text

Holly had been left to endure the summer holidays by herself, suffering at the hands of the Dursleys, who were happy to dump all the chores on her while they watched television or gossiped about the neighbours. The monotony of her life was both a great distraction from the dull ache in her heart, but also a painful reminder of how empty her life was now that she wasn’t at Hogwarts anymore.

After nearly blowing up Aunt Marge and being kicked out of the house, Holly had the joy of spending the rest of her holidays in Diagon Alley (and Knockturn Alley, but that was no one’s business), where she went on liberal trips to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, longingly stared at the latest broom models that were on display, scoured bookshops to entertain herself in her free time, and eventually got to finishing her holiday homework. 

Sure, she had learned during the holidays that there was allegedly some madman out to kill her, but it wasn’t like that was anything she wasn’t used to. Perhaps if her mind wasn’t so occupied by the loss of the diary, she would have had more energy to worry about the news.

Or maybe, a darker part of her mind thought, if Sirius Black did get her, would she be able to finally reunite with Tom—would he be waiting for her? She shook the thought out of her head as quickly as it came. She was not some lovesick Juliet who’d stab herself just to join dearest Romeo in the grave. She wrinkled her nose. She was not that obsessed. No, she was rather over him, actually. Yes. Everything was fine. Everything was normal. Everything was how it was supposed to be. 

She didn’t need Tom. She didn’t need him and his stupid, devilish smile and intoxicating voice and that stupid lock of hair that curled ever so gracefully over his forehead and those devastatingly, beautifully carved cheekbones and those eyes that–

Tom. Heir of Slytherin. Voldemort. Whatever other lame moniker he went by. 

She didn’t need him. She’d prove herself better. Smarter. Stronger. 

(And maybe then, finally someone worthy in his eyes.)

Her third year at Hogwarts went by surprisingly smoothly. 

Sure, there were a few accidents like passing out from dementors more than once, and having to learn the Patronus charm as a result, and discovering that Ron’s pet rat was in fact not a rat, but Peter Pettigrew in disguise, and that Sirius Black was innocent, with Pettigrew as the real culprit behind betraying her parents and murdering a bunch of muggles. 

But then Pettigrew had the audacity to scurry away to who knows where, and then she ended up borrowing Hermione’s time turner (it explained so much about how Hermione seemed to never miss her classes despite all the clashes), to save Sirius and Buckbeak from the dementor’s kiss and being beheaded, respectively.

All in all, a rather ordinary year at Hogwarts!

And then she was carted off to the Dursley’s again for another round of hell.

Summer at the Dursley’s was when the visions first started.

A muggle man. 

A snake.

Pettigrew.

Him. 

And before Holly got the chance to see any further, there was a flash of green light, the sound of the muggle man hitting the floor, a cold laugh, before she woke up, a throbbing pain in her scar.

And then she was screamed at to go and make breakfast.

Thankfully, she was eventually saved by the Weasleys, went on a lovely excursion to watch the Quidditch World Cup, where she witnessed Death Eaters marching around before being accused of firing the dark mark into the sky. 

She eventually made her way to Hogwarts, learned that Quidditch was cancelled despite much protest from the student body, but that the school would be hosting the Triwizard Tournament. 

Naturally, everything went wrong on Halloween.

The latest gossip in town was, drum roll… her!

Because somehow, her name had been called to participate in the tournament despite being underage and having never put her name in the selection. 

So, naturally, she was now a cheater, liar, and attention-seeker. Nothing new. 

Thankfully, she had Ron and Hermione by her side, Hagrid and Moody not so subtly helping her, and a newfound companionship with Cedric Diggory.

And so with more courage than she had, she braved a dragon and rescued a golden egg. But now she faced a particularly difficult conundrum. 

She needed a date for the Yule Ball.

All because it was some sort of stupid tradition. 

Holly wanted to go back in time and curse whoever made it a tradition, and on top of that, curse the event organisers who were enforcing the tradition.

How was she ever meant to share a dance with someone who was not Tom?

How was she meant to look her partner in the eye and pretend that she was enjoying the moment? That she wasn’t there, trying to pretend the hands that held her own, the hands wrapped around her waist, were Tom’s?

Of course, it wasn’t that she liked Tom or anything; that would be ridiculous, especially after everything he had done to her and all the pain he had caused. No, he had simply… set the standards too high. Yes, that was right. 

(She pretended the bar was not on the ground.)

It was truly unfortunate that on the day of the Yule Ball, she broke her arm after falling down one of Hogwarts’ many staircases and needed to stay the night at the Hospital Wing. 

The second task passed swimmingly, other than a few minor hiccups, such as struggling to unfold the clue from the golden egg and then working out how to breathe underwater for an extended period of time. In the end, she found herself tied first with Cedric in points. 

And now she was fighting for her life in some stupid maze. Her muscles were burning. Her skin had been grazed in many places. But there, a couple of yards in front of her, glowing faintly in the dark, was the Triwizard Cup—her key to victory.

She just needed to get her stupid legs to work somehow. 

 Grunting, Holly limped slowly, leaning onto the hedge wall for support. 

The cup stared up at her, and in a trance, she stared back, slowly reaching her hand out. 

She was so close. 

Her finger faltered upon the cold metal of the cup before she felt a sharp, obtrusive tug on her navel and landed ungracefully in a pile of dirt. 

Wincing, she pulled herself off the ground, wobbling on her knees slightly as she stood up. Looking up, she was met with a grim sight—the Grim Reaper, carved in stone, a scythe in hand. 

And the inscription below:

Thomas Riddle.

Mary Riddle.

And finally–

Tom Riddle.

Yup, she was dying tonight. 

Everything was Pettigrew’s fault. 

(It was her new philosophy in life: when in doubt, blame Pettigrew.)

She was being tied to the headstone by fidgety hands. In fact, Pettigrew looked as if he could faint any moment, twitching and jumping every few seconds, and although most of his face was obscured by a hood, in their proximity, she was able to see a few beads of sweat.

“Poor, pitiful Pettigrew,” she mocked.

With as much strength as she could muster, she swung her legs out, kicking Pettigrew in the crotch.

To her ear’s great delight, Pettigrew let out a loud whimper as he staggered backwards. 

Unfortunately for her, Pettigrew had learned his lesson and was now using a wand to finish tying her up, making sure to stand a few feet clear of her. 

And that was when she first noticed the softly moving lump of cloth sitting by the base of a large cauldron. 

Oh.

Her scar burned. 

Him.

That was… Voldemort. 

Not the wraith she had met in her first year.

Not the boy in a diary she had met in her second. 

But… something, if the bony hand sticking out was any indicator. She wrinkled her nose slightly at the possibilities of Voldemort’s form this time.

Pettigrew was muttering something. The cauldron was bubbling lightly, fiery sparks shooting out of it, and then, right beneath her feet, the ground came undone, and a trickle of dust floated in the air until it plopped into the cauldron, turning the liquid inside a poisonous blue.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”

Holly tried kicking against her binds, but they remained tight, pressing uncomfortably against her. She could only watch as Pettigrew lifted a dagger to his wrist, and, with a shriek, sliced it off. Something in her guts twisted as she watched the hand fall into the cauldron and as Pettigrew clutched the bleeding stump where his hand once was. 

“F-flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed… y-you will revive your master,” Pettigrew barely managed to whimper out.

The liquid inside the cauldron then turned a deep, burning red, and her scar burned even more. Tears started welling in her eyes. Through tear-struck eyes, she could only watch as Pettigrew drew closer towards her, dagger in hand. 

He tugged her arm, bringing it closer toward the dagger–

No!

Holly bit her tongue as Pettigrew drew a long, painful slit along her arm. The dagger went too deep, too slow, too–

She let out a gasp, panting lightly as Pettigrew withdrew the dagger. She blearily watched as blood trickled out of the wound and dripped into a small glass vial. 

“B-blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."

Pettigrew tipped the vial, and with a snarl, the cauldron consumed her blood and turned a blinding white, steam pouring out in angry waves.

Her scar burned. Her whole body ached. Her throat was raw from screaming. If she weren’t so tightly bound to the statue, she would have keeled over onto her knees from the pain alone. Her vision blurred, and her back arched as much as it could. Her nails dug into her palm, trying to find some way to release the pain, but no relief ever came.

She sobbed silently when she found herself too weak to move anymore. In that moment, her world was nothing but pain, and there, across the clearing, a form rising from the cauldron, unnatural, limbs all wrong—too long, too spindly—a monster reincarnate. 

And rather… naked.

She quickly whipped her head away, cheeks burning. 

The shadows stilled as if they too could sense the weight of the moment, the way the air shifted with the promise of something new, something dangerous.

And then a voice cut sharply through the air, high and cold, commanding. 

“Robe me.”

Slowly, she dared to look in his direction and watched the way magic seemed to simmer around him, wrap around him gracefully, unfurling into a long black robe that draped over him elegantly.

He seemed distant for a moment, lost in examining his own body, flexing his fingers, turning his wrist over, running a hand down his forearm. And then all of a sudden, he looked up.

Red. 

That was her first thought upon their gazes meeting.

His eyes were red, like blood, or the expensive wine that the Dursleys favoured so much—not the brown she had grown so familiar with. 

But his face–

Holly sucked in a deep breath.

Nothing of Tom Riddle remained. 

He was bald, noseless, and–

Holly took a closer look at him.

–oddly… hot?

Her skin flushed violently at the realisation.

Fuck.

She was attracted to him.

It was wrong.

So wrong.

So very, very wrong.

And this time she couldn’t blame Pettigrew—she only had herself to blame.

Chapter Text

Holly knew the situation was wrong.

Here she was, tied up to a gravestone in the middle of who knows where, being stupidly attracted to an old, bald, and noseless man who also happened to kill her parents and had also attempted to kill her multiple times…

Yeah, not her proudest moment. 

Voldemort stalked closer with a certain gratefulness, and gods, was he tall—uncannily so. He towered over her easily, forcing Holly to crane her head upwards.

Tom, too, had been tall, but Tom had only been a boy. 

Voldemort was clearly not a boy.

He was a man.

A man old enough to be her grandfather—she could work out that part later. 

His gaze lingered on her intently. “Holly Potter… the Girl-who-lived,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, almost a hiss. His lips curled. “You stand upon the grave of my dearest father.” 

Kinky.

Wait, what was she even thinking? 

If Hermione were here, what would she say? Ah, yes, something about her needing to get her priorities sorted. That was, less falling in love, more trying to survive. 

Easier said than done.

Ahem. Not kinky. She was meant to say–

How horrifying.

Yes, she was rather horrified.

“My father’s family—they used to live up in the manor on the hill over there. Muggles, they were. Fools, they were more…”

He started descending into a monologue—the kind that was meant to inspire fear and respect. Holly, however, was too distracted to pay attention. There was a way his pale skin seemed to catch the light despite the way he seemed shrouded by the shadows. His face had only grown slimmer and sharper—his bone structure more prominent, and the hollows of his cheeks deeper. 

Most captivating of all, however, was his aura. Sure, he lacked the boyish, youthful charm that Tom Riddle had possessed, but there was a certain confidence to his movements—an arrogance perhaps, but not baseless. She could almost taste his magic, and it was delicious.

And those red eyes, how could she forget those red eyes–

She was brought out of her thoughts by the sound of whimpering. A few yards away, Pettigrew was still clutching his arm, shaking on the ground. 

“Wormtail, your arm.”

“T-thank you, master.”

“Your other arm, you fool.”

He pulled up the sleeve, revealing a tattoo—a mirror image of the dark mark she had witnessed in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup—etched deep into the skin of his forearm, an inky, painful black.

Voldemort pressed the tip of his wand against the mark, and Holly squinted, watching mesmerised as the tattoo started moving, almost writhing on his skin. 

There was a silence that followed, only broken by the occasional sobs from Pettigrew. Voldemort had taken to pacing up and down, his pet snake following close behind. A minute later, resounding cracks echoed through the graveyard.

“Ah!” Voldemort gestured dramatically. “My true family returns.” It was spoken grandly, but Holly could hear undertones of something more dangerous underneath. 

The newest members of the graveyard positioned themselves in a circle around Voldemort, though Holly noticed a few gaps. One after the other, they moved forward and stooped to the ground, moving to kiss the hem of his robes, and Holly could only watch, disturbed by the sight.

“Master… you have returned…” one of the Death Eaters spoke. 

With a raised hand, the Death Eater fell silent, drawing back to his place in the circle. 

The silence was tense, and even though the words weren’t directed at her, she still found herself shivering slightly.

“Thirteen years… thirteen years I have waited…”

And then he descended into another long monologue about how none of his Death Eaters had proven loyal and how disappointed he was. And oh–

He was now looking at her.

That was not a good sign. 

He smiled sharply and stalked closer. “And here, we have the star of today’s show—our honoured guest, the key to my resurrection today, the Girl-Who-Lived, Holly Potter...”

The Death Eaters laughed.

Her heart thumped right against her chest. She could feel the red staining her cheeks. 

“Now, now, Potter, there’s no need to look so scared. Tonight was only possible because of you. You should be feeling joy at having been able to be part of something so grand.” 

She avoided his gaze, staring down at the dirt. The dirt, she noted, was very dirty.

“Oh dear, are we not in the mood for celebration right now? A shame, I thought you’d be happier than that.” 

Suddenly, rough hands grabbed her jaw, squeezing her cheeks beneath the tightness of the grip, and forced her chin up until their eyes met.

“I can touch you now.”

Tied up to the gravestone, she wasn’t able to move back as Voldemort pressed a finger against her scar. Her world exploded in pain. 

While Tom’s touch had been reverent, almost gentle, this was nothing like it. 

Tears were stinging her eyes, and she let out a choked sob.

And then a finger, the same finger that had just subjected her to hell, was now gently wiping off her tears.

Wait, he was doing what? 

She blinked away her tears, letting her vision refocus, only to see that Voldemort was now standing a few yards away. 

So why was she still feeling the sensation of something touching her face?

That's when she saw it—a forked tongue darting across her face. 

Oh, how silly of her to imagine that Voldemort would ever gently wipe away her tears. 

“Silly food, stop moving.”

Oh, Merlin, the snake was hissing at her. Slitted eyes stared back at her, unblinking. 

“Master says I’ll get to eat you tonight.”

“Nagini, not now,” Voldemort hissed, affectionately. “Wait a little longer, dear, then the girl will be all yours.”

“Hmpph. Nagini is hungry.”

For a moment, Holly was scared that Nagini would eat her right that very moment, but thankfully, she slowly uncoiled herself, not without hissing sounds of displeasure.

“Wormtail, untie her!” she distantly heard Voldemort command. 

Her bonds came loose, and Pettigrew roughly pushed her, forcing her to stand across from Voldemort. 

“How does it feel to stand against the greatest dark lord of all time?”

All that came out of her was a pathetic squeak.

“At a loss for words? Don’t worry, Potter, most are. Dead people, after all, can’t speak.” 

Was that… meant to be a… joke? Ah, judging by Voldemort’s expression, no. 

She was going to die. 

She was going to die tonight in some random graveyard in the middle of nowhere. 

She was going to die without having ever confessed her love. 

“I–” she started. 

I like you.

The words became stuck in her throat.

“I really, really–” she tried again. 

I really, really like you. 

Voldemort raised an expectant eyebrow at her. 

“I really, really like your hair!” 

Voldemort’s bald head gleamed under the moonlight. His nostrils flared dangerously. 

Ah, oops. 

“Do not act cheeky with me, Potter. Crucio!”

Pain exploded all across her body, forcing her to the ground. It felt as if a thousand knives were digging across every inch of her skin. The curse could have lasted only a few seconds or even hours—she couldn't tell. She gasped, forcing laborious breaths out of her aching chest. Shaking, she slowly pulled herself up.

Voldemort tilted his head curiously. “Wormtail, hand the girl her wand.”

A short squeak came out of Pettigrew’s mouth before she disappeared, scurrying back with her wand. She quickly brushed the dirt off her wand, holding it tightly in her hands.

“I presume you have been taught to duel before?”

She thought back to the failure of the duelling club in her second year. “N-not really.” 

“Ah, a testament to how the quality of Hogwarts education has only declined ever since that muggle-loving fool took office. No matter. It would be rude of me to let you go into a duel with no experience. I have always had a… passion for teaching defence against the dark arts. How about a quick lesson before we start?”

Before she had any time to react, Voldemort pointed his wand at her. 

“Your first lesson will be on how to dodge. Avada Kedavra!” 

Her eyes widened as she watched the green spell fly right towards her. Holly somehow managed to duck in the nick of time and watched as the spell struck the gravestone behind her, causing it to explode. Close by, she could hear the Death Eaters jeering at her. 

He stalked closer. “Now, now, you have to be faster than that, Potter.” He flicked his wand lazily, as if bored. “Avada Kedavra!”

She gasped, twisting to the side as another sickly bolt of light flew in her direction.

“Potter, you have a pair of working legs, do you not? Use them.” This time, he aimed right at her feet. 

Right, legs. Yes, she had legs. 

“Excellent footwork, Potter! Avada Kedavra!” 

After what felt like a dozen more killing curses thrown her way, Voldemort finally stopped, curiously assessing her.

She collapsed, falling back on the ground, chest heaving up and down dramatically as she tried to regain her breath. 

“Hmm… passable. It seems that you are not without hope. Are you ready to move on to the next lesson, or do you need a few more moments to count the stars in the sky?”

She found herself unable to move, her muscles exhausted.

“Oh my, it looks like you need some help counting. Allow me to help. Ten… nine… eight…”

She grimaced, pulling herself off the ground as fast as she could. “I think that was e-educational enough. I’m ready to duel,” she rasped out.

Voldemort tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. “Ah, but did I say class is dismissed?”

She bit her lip awkwardly. 

“I suppose, however, I can be rather lenient, no?” Voldemort continued.

Silence reigned, and Voldemort grinned sharply. “Since you seem so eager to walk to your death, it would be rude of me to deny your wishes. Duel, we shall.”

Holly braced herself, holding up her wand. 

“The niceties must be observed. First, we bow,” Voldemort said, before inclining his head forward slightly in a mock bow. 

Holly stumbled slightly as she moved to bow, her knees wobbling beneath her too strongly.

Voldemort seemed to deem it acceptable, as without warning, Voldemort shot a killing curse at her. She did the one thing she knew how to do. 

Run.

Was it not fitting when she just received a rather educational lesson on how to dodge? 

Sure, she was making herself out to be quite the coward, but she still had things to live for: a diary to give goodnight kisses to, memories of a boy from fifty years ago to replay, oh- and her friends of course. 

She could hear Voldemort screaming after her. Spells were being thrown in her direction, but all she could do was run. Legs numb, breath short, all she had was pure adrenaline to guide her. 

The Triwizard Cup glistened in the dark. A curse whizzed right past her ear. 

“Accio!” she screamed. 

The cup flew into her outstretched arms, and with one look back, she saw Voldemort’s face contort in rage before the graveyard disappeared into a blur.

The first thing she felt was pain in her back as she landed with a thud. 

Then she heard the cheers.

She clutched the cup tightly. 

Merlin, she was alive. 

There were a few disappointments in the night, such as failing to confess, but there would be more opportunities for that later. 

It had been thrilling. Her very own private lesson–

The dark lord’s attention, all on her.

Her heart stuttered in her chest and her face stretched into a smile.

She wanted more.

She wanted all of it.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore was beaming at her. A camera was flashing in the distance. 

A megaphone was shoved right in her face. Rita Skeeter batted her eyelashes at her. “How does it feel to be the winner of the Triwizard Tournament?”

“Great.”

“Mhmm, I mean no one really expected it, you know—you’re the youngest champion and all, yet here you stand, glorious, bringing Hogwarts to victory!”

“Yeah.”

Skeeter held the megaphone in front of her, expectantly waiting for her to continue, but seemed to eventually get the memo that she had no more to say. “What was the journey to becoming Triwizard champion like?”

“I don’t know.”

Skeeter pulled the megaphone back, whispering in her ear, “Surely you can, you know, say something a tad more exciting? Newsworthy?” Holly stared back expressionlessly, and Skeeter chuckled awkwardly. “Well, it seems our champion is slightly tired from tonight’s events. Any last words?”

“Yeah, Voldemort’s back.”

Dumbledore’s smile dropped immediately at the same time as Skeeter’s quill. Skeeter was wordlessly opening and closing her mouth. Holly shrugged before turning away. She wanted something newsworthy, and she got it. 

She really did want to get a good night’s worth of sleep, after all.

She, in fact, did not get a good night’s worth of sleep. 

Dumbledore was right on her tail as she trekked her way back to the castle.

“Holly.”

“Yes, professor?”

“You truly believe Voldemort is back?”

“Well, yes, I have a pair of working eyes. I saw him come out of a cauldron all snakey and ugly and everything.”

Dumbledore looked as if he had aged another twenty years, his face paling and falling into a deep frown. “This is very, very grave news.”

“Well, yeah, it all happened in a graveyard. Pretty grave if you ask me.”

“Oh, yes, yes… quite so.” Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I understand it may be tough to do so, but would you be willing to share the details of the night? Any shred of information could aid the efforts to protect the wizarding world against Voldemort. Would you like to head to my office for more privacy?”

“Sure.”

A few minutes later, Holly found herself comfortable in the seat across from Dumbledore’s in his office. 

“Truth be told,” Holly started saying, “I’m not quite sure where to start. It’s a pretty long story. I haven’t even processed everything myself.”

“I find often that the beginning is a great place to start. Why don’t you start with what happened in the maze?”

Holly frowned, trying to recall what had happened. “Well, everything was going fine, I had a few scratches here and there, but otherwise I was progressing well through the maze. I had bumped into Cedric a bit past the start of the maze, but I don’t recall bumping into any of the other champions after. Anyway, oh yeah, the cup. I got to it first, and it turned out it was a portkey to some creepy graveyard.”

“I find it foreboding that the cup was tampered with without knowledge. It seems there may be a Death Eater closer than we thought,” Dumbledore commented.

“Like Karkaroff?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Igor is… too cowardly to dare return to the Dark Lord’s ranks. I highly doubt it was him. We also do not know whether this person was working alone. Anyway, do continue.”

“The graveyard… it was dark, so I couldn’t see too clearly, but there was this one gravestone that stood out to me. It was the Riddle family’s. Before I could react, however, I was disarmed and tied up by Pettigrew. Then there was this ritual thing. It used the bone of father unknowingly taken, the flesh of servant willingly sacrificed, and the blood of enemy forcibly taken.”

Holly pulled out her arm, showing Dumbledore the scar, wincing slightly. It was a mess of dirt and dried blood. He took her arm gently before waving his wand in a complicated motion. She watched breathlessly as her wound was cleaned and slowly stitched itself back together. 

“Does it still hurt?”

Holly shook her head.

“You said he came back looking serpentine, and I quote, ‘ugly’?"

“His skin was extremely pale—” like a shimmer of gentle moonlight “—and his eyes were a deep blood red—” like a pool of wine she could drown herself in “—and he had slits for nostrils—” a very aerodynamic and innovative way of breathing “—and he was bald—” a mirror on hand whenever she needed it “—and his limbs were unnaturally long—” more surface area to admire. Holly put on her best grimace. “He was extremely scary.”

“Voldemort has dabbled in the dark arts extensively. As a result, he has deformed his human looks into what you saw today.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Is it, by any chance, reversible?”

“Theoretically, considering the nature of the dark arts and just how far Voldemort has pushed its boundaries, my assumption would be no.”

“Oh.” She slumped in her seat. It was okay! She could mourn the loss of Tom Riddle’s looks later. Voldemort was good enough for her just the way he was. He had his own unique charm! “Well, anyway, after that, he summoned his cult of Death Eaters.” She tried recalling their names, reciting them to Dumbledore. “And then we duelled.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows curiously. “You duelled?”

“Oh no, it wasn’t much of a duel, actually. It was very one-sided. He was firing spells, and I was running away. The only reason I managed to escape was because I managed to get a hold of the cup, which whisked me back to Hogwarts.”

“I see… how curious. Thank you for sharing your version of events. It has been very enlightening.”

“What about the person who tampered with the cup?”

“I’ll look into it.”

And then she was dumped in the hospital wing and was forced to endure the fussy care of Madam Pomfrey, and before she knew it, the Hogwarts year came to a close.

Dumbledore never ended up finding out who had tampered with the cup. 

People thought she was crazy for saying Voldemort was back.

People thought Dumbledore was crazier for also saying Voldemort was back. 

And then she was thrown back to the Dursleys’, where she had the time of her life fiddling with the bars on her window, picking at the threads of her blanket, and staring up at the ceiling mindlessly. 

Ten out of ten. Would recommend. 

She hadn’t even settled into the castle yet, and there was already something pink staining her vision. It sat right near the middle of the High Table, a wretched grin on its face. 

It turned out that the it was Professor Umbridge, her new defence teacher. 

She also quickly learned that Umbridge had some sort of vendetta against her. Holly quickly found the feeling mutual. 

It all started in their first defence lesson, where Umbridge had proudly announced that they would not be needing their wands (to much protest from everyone) and that they’d be spending the year reading lame books.

Then came the rules, or, educational decrees, as Umbridge so politely worded them. 

Sweets from “unauthorised suppliers” were banned. 

Music was not allowed to be played during study hours. 

All student clubs required approval. 

Boys and girls were forbidden from being within six inches of each other. 

More objects became banned.

Owl posts had to be checked.

Quidditch matches were cancelled.

It seemed as if every other day, a new rule was added, each dumber and more restrictive than the one before. And with each rule, Umbridge became more powerful and excessive with her punishments, which was why Holly was confused when Umbridge said she merely wanted her to write lines in detention.

“It’s important for the message to sink in, wouldn’t you agree?”

Holly remained silent, watching as Umbridge passed her a quill. The quill, for the most part, looked ordinary, but Holly noticed that there was no ink. 

“Oh, it’s a very special quill, Potter. You won’t be needing ink.”

“How many lines?” she bit out. 

“Until it sinks in.”

Holly left the room with fresh scars on her hands, the wound burning into her skin. 

I must not tell lies.

Holly and her friends started a secret defence group in retaliation. 

Naturally, like most secrets, it didn’t stay a secret. 

“Potter, what have you and your group of friends been getting up to?”

She was in Umbridge’s office. She could see Hermione fidgeting in the corner. Ron was being physically held back by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy looked bloody ecstatic, his stupid Inquistorial Squad badge gleaming on his chest. Snape was standing dangerously still, half covered by the shadows, glowering. 

“Studying. You know, for our O.W.L.s. We have them at the end of the year,” Holly quipped.

“Do not play cheek with me, I know you are hiding something.”

Holly gasped. “How could I ever hide anything from you?” 

Umbridge shoved a piece of paper in her face—a piece of paper she was very familiar with. 

“I do not remember approving this… D.A. club of yours, Potter. Care to elaborate?”

“Ohhhh, you’re talking about the Dance Association… didn’t know it was illegal to get some physical exercise in. You’d be surprised by how many people at Hogwarts are interested in dance. Just last week, we were practising ballet together. We’re rehearsing for The Nutcracker. We’re still missing some people to be rats, so if you’re ever looking to audition, we–”

“Potter.”

“Yes?”

“Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Holly opened her mouth to protest. 

Umbridge smiled in a show of faux pity. “Oh dear, it seems the message hasn’t sunk in yet, has it?”

Holly glared. 

“Is it a good thing to tell lies, Potter?”

“I wouldn’t know, I have never lied,” Holly lied. 

Umbridge pulled back, tutting, before turning on Snape. 

“Severus, fetch me a vial of veritaserum, since Potter seems so inclined to lie.”

“I fear, Dolores, that administering veritaserum on students is against protocols,” Snape drawled.

“I am the High Inquisitor, am I not? I have the power to make the rules just as much as I have the power to dismiss you from your job. Well, do hurry, Severus, we don’t have all day.”

In one swift bat-like movement, Snape strode out of the room, returning a few minutes later, an ominous vial of clear liquid in his hand. 

Umbridge’s eyes glinted evilly as she took the vial. 

“Bottoms up, Potter.”

She pressed her lips firmly against each other, trying to pull her head away. 

Umbridge tutted at her. “Now, Potter, no need to make this harder for yourself. Please, do drink up.”

Holly glared at Umbridge with as much loathing as possible as the vial was forced past her lips. For a moment, she simply considered spitting the liquid back out right in Umbridge’s face, but after a moment’s pause, she raised her chin in challenge and swallowed. 

Umbridge looked greatly pleased with herself.

“What…” she started, pausing to draw out the horrible anticipation, “is the great secret you’ve been hiding, Potter?”

No.

She bit into her tongue as hard as possible. 

Don’t say it. 

Don’t say it.

Don’t say–

“I have a huge crush on Voldemort.”

Fuck.