Drop Dead Fred || Fred Weasley

Prologue

The old, splintered grandfather clock rang out twelve haunting chimes. November 1st, 1981, had arrived, its quiet yet unrelenting presence filling the empty halls of Riddle Manor. The clock's monotonous ticking was something that had always calmed Constance. Its rhythm provided a strange comfort amid the cold, shadowy house where she lived. But tonight, the familiar ticking felt different—like an omen of change.

The cries of a child echoed off the walls, penetrating the stillness. Constance had long stopped expecting anyone to answer her calls, knowing her father, Tom Riddle, had gone away on "business." He was an enigma, always surrounded by dark figures who whispered in the corners of the manor and fell silent whenever Constance entered the room. Now, the darkness crept through the house, unchallenged.

The clock's twelfth chime died away, replaced by another sound—a knock at the door, gentle at first, then more insistent. But Constance, barely three, had no strength to cry out again. Her tiny hands clutched at her blanket as her eyelids grew heavy. Whoever was at the door had given up.

The darkness returned, and Constance fell asleep, unaware of the quiet figure entering her room hours later. Dawn barely peeked over the horizon, casting pale light through the windows. Footsteps echoed softly across the floor as the cloaked figure approached her crib, a shadow of the night itself. The child stirred slightly, her small face serene as the stranger leaned down and wrapped her in a thick, magical cloth that concealed her from sight.

In a precise and reverent motion, the figure lifted the child, making her vanish into the folds of the cloak. Moments later, she was gone from the manor, spirited away in the night to a new, uncertain future.

Wool's Orphanage, a dismal, forgotten place nestled in a forgotten corner of London, became Constance's new home. The old man who left her there vanished as quickly as he had appeared, leaving no trace but an uneasy tension in the air. His identity and reasons were known only to himself, though he had his reasons for choosing this orphanage—ones that perhaps would reveal themselves in time.

At the orphanage, Constance's childhood was a mixture of isolation and sharp observation. The other children, sensing something unnerving in her quiet demeanour, avoided her. Her intelligence set her apart. Her piercing gaze, far too knowing for a child her age, kept even the boldest at arm's length. Only the director, Mrs. Cole, watched her with wary eyes as if the girl carried a weight that no child should bear.

Then, as she neared her eleventh birthday, everything changed again. On an overcast afternoon in April, a man appeared. He was older, with twinkling blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her. He sat beside her on the edge of her bed without speaking, waiting patiently as she finished the last sentence of her book.

"Fascinating book, I must say," he remarked finally, his voice warm but with an air of authority.

Constance sighed, eyes darting up to the older man with a very bored expression. "You're the doctor, aren't you?"

The man's eyes widened as he looked into the same dark brown eyes he had seen fifty years ago. He took a deep breath, hoping that he could change the outcome of this Riddle. "No. I am a professor."

"I don't believe you." Constance placed the tattered book onto her side, her eyes unmoving as they bore into the professor's eyes. "She wants me looked at." She whispered, her eyes wavering and showing a hint of emotion. "They think I'm different."

"Perhaps they're right."

"I'm not mad." Her volume increased, her fear controlling her otherwise kept emotions.

"Hogwarts is not a place for mad people." Constance looked confused, her cautious nature dying down as the man seemed to be more friendly compared to the other doctors who had visited her. "Hogwarts is a school. A school of magic."

There was a tense silence between the pair. A school of magic? Magic isn't real! Constance thought, yet felt as if another presence was listening to her thoughts. But I can do things, can't I? No. That was me hallucinating, I hadn't eaten much that week.

"You can do things other children can't do." He answered her thoughts.

Constance sighed, "I've made things move without touching them." She looked down into her lap, wondering why it felt so easy to talk to the man. "But I know it's because I was tired, or something like that." She then looked up, her stare still penetrating but holding some child-like innocence. A look he hoped he had received many years ago. "But magic isn't real. It's only in storybooks."

The pair sat in silence, Dumbledore wanting Constance to talk. He felt the silence had been too long and uncomfortable and was about to speak, but was interrupted by the little girl before him.

"Who are you?"

"I'm like you, To-" He stopped himself. Cursing himself in his head hoping she didn't catch the slip-up. Not now, not ever. He took a deep breath, "Constance. I'm different."

"Prove it."

The words hung in the air, both absurd and compelling. She watched him pull a long, thin object from his cloak—a wand, though she didn't know it yet—and with a flick, the pens in the cup on her desk transformed into delicate, colourful flowers. Constance's eyes widened, her scepticism melting away as she stared at the bouquet.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore," the man said softly, his eyes now resting on hers, "and I am the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You are special, Constance. And I believe Hogwarts is where you belong."

Her mind raced, struggling to process the idea of magic, of leaving the orphanage behind, of belonging somewhere. Finally, she met Dumbledore's gaze again, her voice uncertain. "Where would I stay?"

"For the school term, you'd live at Hogwarts. During the holidays, you may choose to return here or remain at the school. You would only come back to Wool's Orphanage over the summer. But I believe you will find Hogwarts to be... home."

He handed her a letter, and for the first time in her life, Constance Riddle saw her name written in elegant, swirling ink:

Ms. C. Riddle
The room down the hall on the second floor
Wool's Orphanage
London

This is a republish of a book i had like two chapters written, very poorly, and i kept rewriting them. 

So i hope you like it