Troll: 54. The days roll by... (Patreon)

Chapter 54: The days roll by…

Blaise ZabiniHogwarts, Great Britain

I nodded in silent approval as Theo set aside a plate of bacon for Minerva. She didn’t appear every morning. As the queen of the roost, she had no need to rely on handouts; she was perfectly capable of catching her own prey. 

Still, Theo prepared a plate for her daily. It was easier to do this than to be caught by surprise and robbed of his own breakfast. Such was the natural result of Minerva’s intermittent operant conditioning. She was proof that B. F. Skinner knew his shit, and that humans were just another type of animal in the end.

I enjoyed my breakfast of fresh, pillowy biscuits and a puddle of white, sausage gravy. It was heavy, rich, savory, and I got to appreciate it fully thanks to the better sleep I’d been getting. Slowly but surely, I was regaining some of my time.

I glanced up towards the head table. Again, the headmaster’s seat was empty. His absence stood out to me, if only because my eyes were not assaulted by the frag grenade of color combinations the old man called “style.”

“Dumbledore is missing again,” I said calmly. “Should we be worried?”

“Who cares where he’s gone?” Vincent asked through a mouthful of food. “We’ve still got class.”

“It depends on why he’s gone. He’s the supreme mugwump and chief warlock. I’m wondering if there’s something going on that could be interesting.”

“Oh? Has the mighty seer failed to divine something?” Lyra snorted from across the table.

“It’s possible. I mostly scry things when people ask. I don’t know everything, Malfoy.”

“It’s the new year, Zabini,” Daphne chimed in as she primly picked at a plate of fruit. “Like you said, he’s the chief warlock. He has to preside over all major Wizengamot hearings and the Wizengamot passes its budget for the ministry each year.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Thanks, Greengrass.”

“The ICW also meets from March to May so we can expect him to be gone sporadically all spring.”

I took that in stride. Now that I thought about it, Dumbledore did seem to disappear at plot-convenient moments. In the books, he often got lured away by emergency sessions of this or that organization, leaving Harry to deal with Voldemort’s annual degeneracy.

That didn’t make me feel good. Knowing my luck, he’d probably excuse himself for similar reasons while Quirrell made his gambit for the philosopher’s stone. That wasn’t for a few months yet, but I’d have to see if I could get my hands on a Wizengamot schedule. Every lawmaking body had to have one, right?

I went about the rest of my day with such thoughts on my mind. Charms, and transfiguration passed without incident. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall were having a joint unit on color changing charms and the way they blurred the line between their two disciplines.

The theory was interesting enough, and would probably be important down the line. Unfortunately, the practical was tedious since we practiced the same spell for multiple class periods. The most I’d get out of this would probably be if I ever felt like making Violet cosplay a Slytherin or something.

Then came DADA. Even after a full semester, I wasn’t sure what to feel stepping into this classroom. On one hand, I knew for a fact that this was Quirrellmort. On the other hand, Quirrell did such a good job of pretending to be a stuttering mess that some days, it was genuinely hard to keep my guard up.

Today was not one such day.

“L-Let us sp-speak about-t or-oral fixations,” he said in his usual, awful stutter.

The entire class bolted straight. We looked at each other to make sure we’d all heard the right thing. Dean Thomas, on the Gryffindor side, swallowed his gum and audibly choked on it.

And that was how I learned Voldemort had a sense of humor, one I briefly found funny. I stared at my notes in utter bafflement at this revelation. That I may share a sense of humor with the Dark Lord was not something I expected to learn today. Truly, Hogwarts never ceased to amaze.

More to the point, we were to learn about orally fixated curses, and the creatures that transmitted them. In Europe, the two big ones were, no points for the obvious, vampires and werewolves. The two were common enough that they would come up again and again across our seven year curriculum.

Today, we were learning about vampires and their curses. It was fairly rudimentary, as expected of the first year introduction, but still fascinating to read about. I quickly put aside Quirrell’s blabbering and opened my book to review the material for myself.

Broadly speaking, vampires occupied an unusual niche in magizoology: They counted among the “living dead” alongside zombies in the Americas and inferi here. They were “living,” which was to say, organic and capable of taking action. They were “dead,” because their magical cores never developed naturally from the point of their turning, or their birth. Rather, they required an external source of mana, blood, to grow.

Despite being grouped with literal shambling corpses, they were considered the most intelligent of magical creatures, in the same class as veela. They lived among wizardkind, could own wands, and could even attend a major magical school such as Hogwarts or Beauxbatons should they so choose. Of course, many ministries still considered them second class citizens, also not unlike veela.

“W-Wait, how are they ‘living dead’ if they can produce children?” Seamus Finnegan asked. I couldn’t recall if the nineties muggle Britain had “vampire gooner bait waifu” yet, but the look on his face certainly made me assume as much.

“W-Well, Mr. Finnegan, t-that is a question f-for Prof-Professor Ke-Kettleburn. A-All I w-will say on t-the matter i-is th-that l-life always f-finds a way,” Quirrell coughed.

“Then, if they can eat food, and have higher cognitive functions, and can cast magic, wouldn’t it be more appropriate to classify them as something less… demeaning, professor?” Leontes asked. He seemed scandalized by this. Then again, his counterpart had taken up the cause of house elves.

“I can o-only teach t-the s-standards of the ICW, Mr. Gr-Granger.”

“Still, sir, it seems rather unfair to say they’re ‘living dead’ when they’re even allowed to attend Hogwarts.”

“P-Perhaps. You are not a-alone i-in saying s-so. T-There i-is a group known as the S-Society for the To-Tolerance of Va-Vampires a-and paragraph twelve o-of the Gu-Guidelines for the Tr-Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans p-prohibits t-the a-arbitrary killing of v-vampires.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll have to read up on that organization.”

“They’re clowns. No one takes those idiots seriously because everyone knows vampires are monsters,” Lyra cut in with a dismissive snort.

“Of course you’d say that, Malfoy.”

“Yes, me and just about everyone with a brain, Granger. It’s in the name: tolerance. Not coexistence. Not integration. Tolerance. They know they’re on a sinking ship and even they don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Well, maybe if vampires weren’t discriminated against, they could move on from tolerance. It’s the first step!”

“Oh, so would you let one of those bloodsuckers bite you? They need blood regularly, you know. That’s like raising wolves among sheep.”

“Y-Yes, of course!” Leontes said, though he didn’t seem all that confident. “I’m not afraid. People give blood all the time.”

“Are you sure? How can you trust that all they’ll do is take a bit of blood? A vampire’s curse is passed on by choice, you know,” Lyra sneered.

“W-Well, that’s no reason to consider them second class citizens.”

“Sure it is. You’re trusting the goodwill of a vampire with not just your immediate health, but also potentially your future, your family’s future, and your bloodline. You might be a bleeding heart, Granger, but not all of us want to do that.”

“Then don’t. Surely there are enough people willing to give them a chance to let them integrate into society better.”

“You know what makes this worse? It’s that ‘choice’ bit. Every turned vampire was infected by another on purpose. They’re even worse than werewolves in that respect. At least those feral mutts can make the excuse that they didn’t have a choice.”

A loud pop sounded from the end of Quirrell’s wand. “E-Enough, children. F-Five p-points to b-both of you. B-Both o-of you have good p-points. N-Now, I’ll e-end o-on th-this: I-If y-you do not like h-how so-something is done, ch-change it. Become great. A-Alter the per-perceptions of the w-world. Am-Ambition i-is not the dom-domain of Sl-Slytherins alone.”

I walked slowly as we all filed out of the room. It sounded like male-Hermione would pick up a social justice issue sooner than in canon. Admittedly, it was probably a worthier cause than house elf liberation. At least there were vampires who genuinely wanted a champion.

Of more interest to me was Lyra. This was somewhat atypical of her. She was always eager for house points, or anything that could improve her standing, and she certainly wasn’t shy about expressing her opinions.

That said, it was unlike her to provoke an argument with Leontes, certainly not publicly. This was the same Lyra who considered a mudblood like him to be beneath her. In her mind, Leontes wasn’t worth wasting air on, never mind speaking to. Violet, yes. Leontes, no.

She’d changed her approach since last semester. She’d always been a stellar student, but she began going out of her way to prove she was great. She earned quite a few house points for perfect assignments and spellwork and more aggressively picked arguments with others as if to “put them in their place.”

All the while, she’d eye me or Daphne, as if daring us to match her pace. So far, Daphne hadn’t been keen on playing her game, but I had a feeling that’d change soon enough. Everyone knew Daphne’s trigger was her half-blood cousin, Tracey. Lyra was bound to poke that button eventually.

X

The last Saturday of January saw the very first quidditch match of the semester. Slytherin would face off against Ravenclaw in a game that was just as bitter as the one against Gryffindor. And it was all my fault.

Apparently, there had been a great deal of drama amongst the fans of the sport. Thanks to Terence Higgs, everyone feared that I’d assist the Slytherin team. To offset the “unfair advantage” I represented, the three houses had formed something of a coalition against Flint and his team.

Captains spent hours tearing their hair out, trying to come up with “anti-seer” tactics. Chasers emphasized individuality and spontaneous, daring acrobatics over coordinated formations in an attempt to introduce more chaos into the game. Beaters swore to focus their full efforts on Terence to prevent him from taking advantage of my advice.

This was all news to me. Between practicing my mind magics, coursework, and swordplay and plotting for Voldemort, I hadn’t had the bandwidth to even pretend to care. I genuinely hadn’t known about any of this until yesterday, when Padma slipped me a note during our daytime astronomy lecture. It was a commission signed by every single captain, bribing me to keep my mouth shut.

I’d already told everyone, through my friends in other houses, that I wouldn’t help Terence because he pissed me off. And yet, they obviously didn’t take me at my word. They’d concluded that the easiest way to keep me silent was to make a deal, ensuring this was now a matter of professional pride.

I found it all hilarious and only barely avoided bursting into laughter in the middle of class. To their credit, they’d had enough discretion to have Padma act as their middleman. Laughing on the inside, I accepted. If they wanted to pay me to do nothing, who was I to refuse?

I was just about to go to the Room of Requirement after lunch when I felt Violet and Padma take one arm each. They began insistently dragging me towards the quidditch pitch.

“Well, hello to you too,” I drawled. “Not that I mind having a pretty girl on each arm, but what’s the occasion?”

“You cheat, that’s the occasion,” Violet said, eyes rolling. If her face pinked at being called pretty, I chose willful ignorance. “You’re under arrest. Come quietly and say nothing. Speaking now will only harm your defense.”

“You’re sitting with us for the duration of the game,” Padma added with a fond sigh. “This is your fault, you know. They don’t trust you not to sign instructions to the Slytherin team.”

I put on my most innocent puppy face. It utterly failed to move my captors. “Me? How would I do that? Do you really think I’d bother making some secret code just to help those idiots?”

“I don’t know. Whistles? Smoke signals? It’s not like I even care about quidditch. I’m not like Vi.”

“Then why are you–”

“Violet, plus one person from the opposing team’s house, will watch you each game to ensure your compliance. Seeing how I have the misfortune of being friends with both of you, this is the job I’ve been saddled with,” she lamented with an exaggerated sigh.

“Ah, so it’s a two-pronged approach: Bribe me into silence, then assign a chaperone to make sure.”

“Yup. So cooperate, you’ve already been paid.”

“I get it. Although, I distinctly recall telling you that I wouldn’t help Higgs.”

Violet nodded agreeably. “I know that. Padma knows that. Sucks for you, no one else believes that.”

“Fine, fine, so be it. I suppose I can afford to waste a few hours today,” I said as I took a seat between them.

It wasn’t so bad, truth be told. It was nice to just shut off my Sight completely. No precognitive nudges. No schoolwork. No long-term schemes. It was a tranquil change of pace.

As Violet explained to me, the ravens had the best team in the school this year. Individually, there were better players in other houses, like Oliver Wood. But as a collective unit, the house of the wise played at the highest level, with the best coordination and planning.

This was largely because most of their members were in their sixth or seventh years. This was the culmination of their golden generation, a team that had been playing together for the better part of a decade. Maybe none of them were prospective pros, but they were all skilled. It didn’t hurt that they were nineteen to twenty-one years old. At our age, a few extra years counted for a lot.

On the Slytherin side, only Flint was in the same weight class. The other two chasers lost possession of the quaffle a few times from some rough jostling because of it. They tried to make up for this by giving Flint the quaffle as often as possible, but that just meant he got hit by the beaters to the exclusion of everyone else.

“They’re getting killed out there,” Violet observed with not a little vindictiveness. I couldn’t blame her; my housemates had certainly been rough with her.

“They are,” I agreed, yawning lazily. “I’m sure it’ll be different next year when the seventh year ravens graduate.”

“True. I hear they’re already looking for a replacement seeker.”

“Cho Chang. Chinese girl, one year our senior,” Padma said. “She’s really agile on a broom, Vi, maybe as good as you.”

“We’ll see,” she replied with a competitive gleam in her eyes. “What’s your take, Blaise?”

I looked at the score. Ravenclaw was up by seventy, not enough to invalidate the snitch. “Numbers go up. Occasionally, they go up fast. Say, why do they count points in multiples of ten, anyway?”

“Really? That’s what you’re curious about? I was talking about the new seeker.”

“Chang? I’ve seen her around a few times. She’s very pretty.”

“Her flying, you prat.”

“Uh… She’s better than me?”

“Well, duh. You hate flying.”

“Exactly. I’m not qualified to speak on quidditch skills and I don’t know her well enough to say anything else.”

We settled in to watch the rest of the game. Sure enough, the ravens won by a difference that looked even more exaggerated after the snitch points were taken into account. All told, not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

X

That night, I settled into my suite with Minerva. It’d been nearly a month since the winter gala and I had a problem: Lucius Malfoy had yet to get back to me. I’d expected him to have reached out by now, after the business of the Wizengamot sessions at the start of the year.

At first, I figured he was occupied with his lordly duties, as were Sirius, Dumbledore, and anyone else of import. Then, I thought his silence was meant to be some kind of power play, a way to show that “Lord Malfoy” would deal with me at his pleasure, not mine. Now, I wasn’t so sure. His silence was starting to feel like a delaying tactic.

Except, that made zero sense. Lucius didn’t want Voldemort back. He liked the idea of getting rid of the diary as much as I did. Hell, he’d been one hundred percent sold on trading it for a bunch of money, especially as he knew the new Lord Black would be a political rival. He had good reason to want a contract signed as quickly as possible.

While the Chamber of Secrets wouldn’t become an issue until next year, I still had a bad feeling about this. My involvement meant the timeline could change, so I attempted to scry Malfoy Manor. My crystal ball was a little blurry, though whether because of the distance, the manor’s wards, or both, I could not say.

I found Lucius and Narcissa in the back garden, leaning back on a pair of recliners. Between them was a small table with a plate of fruit and two mugs of a gently steaming beverage. The pair were speaking softly with one another as they occasionally threw crumbs to a flock of albino peacocks.

I felt a little awkward, like I was intruding on a private moment. It was strange to think about, but the two did love one another. I urged my crystal ball to turn inward and soon found his office. Dissatisfied, I began scanning the rest of his manor. I wasn’t looking for anything. Or rather, I was looking for nothing.

Certain powerful objects could not be scried. This was true of the philosopher’s stone, and also true of the horcrux. I knew where they were because I’d read the books and seen the movies, not because I checked for myself. Therefore, it stood to reason that an inky void in my perception would be confirmation of the diary’s location.

I saw everything, and that was the problem.

The diary was missing.

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Did I get it wrong? This was an alternate universe. Had the diary been entrusted to another death eater?

No, that wasn’t possible. I replayed the conversation we’d had at the gala. Lucius was the one who confirmed he knew about the Dark Lord’s legacy. To even comment on it implied he had it. He knew about the name on the diary, Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Only three people knew that I wanted the diary: Lucius, Narcissa, and Lyra. Lucius had no reason to give the diary to someone else. Narcissa supported her husband completely; she remembered the dark days of Voldemort’s first rise. Bigot or not, she didn’t want his return, either.

Put that way, it seemed obvious. The dumbest explanation was, as unfortunately common, also the right one: Lyra must have taken the diary. This was probably some idiotic attempt to prove herself “worthy of the Dark Lord’s legacy.” After all, she thought it was some kind of grimoire, not his desperate attempt to cling to life past his expiration date.

Ice gripped my heart as I tried to scry Lyra. Only blackness greeted me. Clearly, I’d been had, not by cunning, but by teenage ego. Once again, I was forced to admit that the only thing that trumped a seer was an idiot.

I leaned forward until my head banged against my desk. “God save me from idiots…”

Author’s Note

The vampire tolerance society is canon. So is their ability to breed naturally. The explanation for why they’re “living dead” then, is made up by me.

Blaise relaxes. Then realizes he shouldn’t relax. There are now two Voldemorts in the castle… yay…?

Note: It took Ginny just one month before she started showing signs of possession. Percy thought she looked ill at the start of October, but it was mistaken for a cold that had been spreading.

Animal Fact: The sperm whale is named for the spermaceti in their heads, a special type of oil. In turn, spermaceti gets its name because whalers mistook the mixture for semen. Inside the whale, it is a clear, oily substance. Once exposed to the air, it solidifies into a cloudy, waxy texture. A whale can have up to 1,900 liters of the stuff.

Unlike other forms of oil, it burns smokelessly, which is why it was the favored oil for lanterns in the Victorian era. It was also used to manufacture lubricants and cosmetics, which means women thought they were slathering whale jizz on their faces and were okay with it.

Interesting, but it’s actually more interesting to talk about what the whales use the stuff for. Scientists are still figuring that out.

One theory says that spermaceti is used to influence buoyancy. The oil solidifies at cooler temperatures, becoming denser and acting as a ballast as the whale dives. This might be why calves do not dive. They might physically be unable to dive as deep as their podmates because they lack large enough spermaceti organs.

A more likely theory says that it enhances the whale’s echolocation. The low density and high compressibility of spermaceti, contrasted with the harder surrounding tissue and water,  gives whales an internal echo they can use to pinpoint prey.