Being a Greengrass after all should sound pretty serene.
But being a part of "the Emeralds" should not, especially when hearts become entangled with the infamous Regulus Black.
Goodness, lawfulness, or evilness. Which path will they tread in the ti...
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December 7th, 1978
The scent of old parchment and candle wax had begun to cling to Avery's robes. For two weeks, she had haunted the corners of Hogwarts' Restricted Section like a ghost, emerging only for classes and meals when absolutely necessary. The librarians had stopped questioning her presence after the third time she forged a note from Slughorn, claiming a Potions essay on "obscure magical transfigurations of the soul."
But the books yielded little.
Most were obsessed with the idea of immortality, not the method. Ancient Greek manuscripts mused on soul jars, Egyptian scrolls rambled about funerary rites and eternal hearts, and one tattered Albanian text was written entirely in riddle-like verse that translated poorly and gave her a migraine.
She bought books in Diagon Alley too—costly, discreet volumes bound in dragon hide and stitched with secrecy charms. "The Binding Art of Black Magicke." "Ego Divisus: The Soul Torn Asunder." Even one slim journal rumored to be notes from a student expelled decades ago for experimenting with necromancy. Most pages were half-burnt.
Each night she returned to her dormitory empty-handed, bone-tired, her fingertips smudged with ink and dust, her eyes aching from candlelight. Sometimes she dreamed of screaming faces in mirrors. Sometimes of locket chains twisting like vines around her throat.
The more she learned, the less she knew.
Until the second Friday.
She sat cross-legged in front of a map of magical Britain she'd charmed to mark locations associated with known dark magic. Her quill hovered over Little Hangleton again. Something in her gut—more instinct than logic—kept pulling her back there.
Avery looked at the growing stack of unopened books beside her and felt something shift. She didn't need to just understand the Horcrux. She needed to understand him. Tom Riddle. The boy before the monster.
That night, she began over. Gone were the books on destruction. She instead pulled school records, newspaper clippings, Head Boy lists, personal letters from old Hogwarts staff, anything she could trace back to Riddle's time as a student. She found his name in a faded trophy case: "Award for Special Services to the School."
What services?
The name "Riddle" came up in whispers—always brilliant, always alone. Slughorn, when cornered, fumbled through vague praise and changed the subject with forced laughter. Dumbledore? She hadn't dared ask. Every thread of Tom Riddle's past she pulled on led to a deeper mystery. But at least now, it led somewhere.
As the second week ended, Avery stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower, the wind cold and sharp against her face. Her hands curled around the stone railing, knuckles pale, breath curling like smoke in the evening air. The castle below hummed with life, faint and far away. Up here, it was just her and the sky—and her thoughts, loud and endless.
