Chapter Six: Being The Responsible Adult The Order was very old. They knew that, though others probably didn’t, for their Order held true to the requirement of secrecy and the Order was now only a myth, a thing of legend. In the minds of most it had ceased to exist and had been forgotten long ago. It had been formed thousands of years before, but it had worked silently in the shadows. They had not drawn attention to themselves, like Voldemort had, and that was why they still lived and Voldemort did not.
Time passed and years swept by, but their Order remained. While the members changed, their mission and intent did not. But they crept into minds and lands like snakes, gradually and sinisterly, for their impact would be far more deadly and long-lasting than Voldemort’s had been. They watched the feared wizard’s rise to power silently and thoughtfully, and learned from his mistakes.
They would not fail as he had. They would destroy those that had destroyed him, but for assurance and not for vengeance.
But they needed one more to increase their power. And he was at Hogwarts. They planned patiently, paying strict attention to every minute detail, ensuring that nothing would go wrong. Too much was at stake for them to fail.
While the general meeting-place was in a chamber deep in the ground, the leaders regularly met in a large manor, deep in the countryside. There, they gathered and discussed their future plans and intentions in relative comfort and ease. For one rigid rule was that panic and fear were never to be shown. They were hidden behind calm, impassive faces.
On this particular night, they met once more. The first to arrive, a redhead with feral green-gold eyes, lounged calmly in a couch, making impersonal, meaningless conversation with the owner of the manor, also a leader. She was dangerous, cunning and sly, but she was not the one to fear, no, she was not.
And gradually, they all came, their faces still and set in stone. They sat or stood around the large table, depending on their natures, with the owner of the manor sitting at the top, fingers laced together and amber flecked eyes calm, but still strong. Usually there were several topics to be discussed in depth, but at this time there was only the one that truly concerned them. The One at Hogwarts, the One they needed.
“We will have to infiltrate the school,” the leader with the amber-flecked eyes sighed at last. “One of us will, to get close to him. The more we know and the more harmless we seem to him, the greater the chance we have for succeeding later.” Her eyes were hard and completely serious; she did not jest, ever.
“Which of us will infiltrate, then?” asked the redhead, her eyes scornful of the other, her lack of respect obvious. “And with what excuse?” She was brash, quick to anger and far too hasty for the occupation she was in. While she was a good fighter and was extremely sharp, she had a tendency to make enemies rather than friends and was generally disliked, though she did her best to ignore that fact. It was well-known that she had clear intentions to become the supreme leader of The Order and they would be damned if they would let her intentions become reality.
The other leader sank into thought, running through options. And a smile curled her lips, as her eyes shone with quiet triumph. “I know of a way. I knew one of the professors, by sight at least. He took an active part in the war, playing spy for Dumbledore whilst appearing to still be on Voldemort’s side.” None of them had ever feared the wizard, they had, at most, been mildly alarmed by him, but never afraid and as a result found no reason not to speak his name. “It would seem quite harmless if an innocent journalist came to Hogwarts, wishing to report on all those who had taken an active part in the war?” Her smile broadened and many more answered it.
All but the redhead. “It is too risky,” she argued furiously, her feral eyes burning. “The excuse is too thin!” This was a regular act for her to play, for she always argued.
Amber-flecked eyes turned to ice. “It is none of your concern,” she said, her voice soft but dangerous, “since you have such strong objections to it.” A dismissal if ever there was one, and the redhead did not like it one bit. Her pale face flushed with anger, she sat back in her seat, hurt and angry that she had been so easily cast aside and that everyone seemed against her. She had been a bad choice for a member of the Order, but there was little they could do to change it now, since death was the only escape from this Order and that was a messy, complicated business that none of them liked.
But they had other ways for keeping unwanted members from the affairs, even those who were leaders and this was one of them. Constant exclusion.
“But will it work, all the same?” a dark-skinned man asked, his green eyes cold and cruel. He was one who had no objections to killing or death, and was frequently their choice if any outside torture or murder had to be committed quietly and with as little fuss as possible.
She turned to look at the man and her amber-flecked eyes filled with sudden, disturbing amusement. “Of course it will work,” she answered lightly, but with a steel undertone. “Security is not as tight since the end of the war and our Order is not known world-wide, so we will never be suspected. There is no reason for it not to fail.” The rest of her sentence was not spoken, but it was known and understood anyhow: Unless one of you interfere. Even being a leader in this Order was a shaky, uncertain position. It was simple; those with power and strength ruled, those who possessed none did not.
Tension rippled quietly along the table, but it came to no conclusion, for the green-eyed man simply nodded and accepted what he had been told. It was something he had been doing since he had entered this organisation, ten years ago, and what he would do in it until he died. It never changed, for he hadn’t power nor strength.
There was always one emotion there, that was never well-hidden but never spoken of either: fear. Even being a member of this Order wasn’t a comfort, for there was none. It was always there, in the very background, restless and uneasy. There was good reason for it to be there, a very good reason.
It was very normal for a member to one day disappear and never be seen again. There one day and gone the next. Completely normal, of course.
It would never be called murder, for it was only a disappearance, never a killing. It happened all the time.
* * *
Evening was sinking into cool twilight when I entered the Quidditch Pitch, my Firebolt in my hand. It had been over three years since I had mounted a broomstick and played a proper game. I had always Apparated to any places I’d needed to go to. It had been so long and part of me feared that I was out of practise, that I had lost my touch. But there was only one way to find out and I had to try.
Standing in the centre of the pitch, I stared; I hadn’t really had a chance to have a proper look the day of the tryouts and now that there was quiet and I was alone, I wanted time just to look around, to cast eyes on the place that had meant so much to me when I had been a student here. Quidditch had been my life and only real concern, as Snape had so helpfully told me after being handed up yet another disgraceful essay.
And yet, I had become a teacher. Talk about irony. Just like Snape... right, that was enough about Snape, who I really didn’t want to think about right now. Our earlier incident was still fresh and painful in my mind. I slowly touched my cheeks, unconsciously tracing the now-gone and dried tear tracks. And then, with a grimace, I pushed Snape temporarily out of my mind. He always came back, in the end.
But I had the chance, I reminded myself grimly, still looking around. I had the chance and I rejected it. The pitch hadn’t really changed at all since I’d been here last. The only real difference was that they’d put in night torches. Hadn’t really changed at all. A chance to play with either the Montrose Magpies or Puddlemore United. Some would have killed for that chance, that kind of offer -- and I refused them both. Now, when I thought about them, I firmly believed that I had been suffering from a temporary madness at the time. What other explanation could there be? Or at least, that was what I said to any who asked, in a joking sort of way. Had to make a joke out of it, had to. Even Ron and Hermione had been told this version of events. The fact that I had lied so easily to my two best friends was alarming.
Joking about it and saying that I had been slightly mad was a humorous excuse, a good excuse to hide the fact that I was as guilty as hell over the entire thing. It had been the guilt that had made me refuse both offers, guilt that had made me lie to everyone. And although it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, now, three years later, I bitterly regretted my choice. It may have been the right thing to do, but it hadn’t ever made me feel any better, any less guilty.
I sighed. No use thinking of that now. I had a steady job (even with the bad pay) and it was too late to reconsider. I knew this very well, but the regret was still there; a dull, gnawing ache in my chest and stomach that wouldn’t go away. I managed to push it to the back of my mind most days and ignore it, but it was always there. It would never go away.
My face adopted an expression of the utmost determination, as I gripped my broom harder and turned to the heavy box that held the Quidditch Balls. Opening it, I took out the Snitch carefully. It glowed softly from the torch-light placed at points along the pitch, due to the increased practises in the evening by the sincere enthusiasts. It made me smile; if they had been introduced when Wood had still been here, he would have dragged us out during late evening as well as the day. With this thought in my mind, I let go of the tiny ball.
The Snitch flitted around my head for a few moments, before shooting up into the air. It was only an extremely small glimmer against the darkening sky and was quite hard to see. Nevertheless, adrenaline started to course through me, a familiar sensation that made me feel like I was a student again, practising for the next big game. Those had been good days. At the time they had seemed unbearable, but now that they were over, I realised how good they had been. True, having my life threatened in some way every year hadn’t been great, but that was beside the point.
I kicked off hard from the ground and shot into the air. The feeling of cool air blasting against my face and my hair being whipped back were so familiar, I almost wanted to shout with glee. After a few minutes and deciding that I was suitably comfortable with flying again, I turned to the task of retrieving the Snitch. I circled the pitch, slowly at first, regaining my old habits, before starting to go faster, gathering my speed until I was flying properly, watching the ground below me intently. Then I saw it: the Snitch. Without even thinking, I zoomed downwards towards the golden sparkle, my hand outstretched.
I landed smoothly, the Snitch grasped firmly in my hand.
I simply stood there for the next few minutes, catching my breath and grinning like an idiot. I could still do it! I hadn’t lost my touch after all! I was practically high on elation and so it took me several moments to hear the clapping from nearby. And then I froze.
Turning slowly in the direction of the sound, I saw who I had suspected it to be; Callidus. He didn’t move when I saw him, instead only stopping his clapping gradually. I could feel his unsettling eyes bore into me, although he was several feet away. I watched him intently in retaliation -- and I was supposed to be the adult here. We stayed like that for several minutes, before Callidus apparently decided he’d move first and strolled towards me, completely at his ease. I was still tense, watching him as he came nearer.
“You can relax,” he informed me, when he came up. “I’m not going to kill you or anything.” I half-expected his eyes to be twinkling or be mildly amused at most, but they weren’t. Instead, they were frozen and cold, but there wasn’t any hatred in them for me, or so it seemed. I was quick to doubt everything about this boy, but yet I still wanted to help him.
I raised an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t make jokes like that, not with the situation you’re in.” It was a tactful way of reminding myself that I was the adult here and should at least act like it. If that involved mild scolding, then so be it.
Callidus only laughed dryly, the sound seeming to be anything but a laugh. “You mean the tiny little box everyone’s put me in according to my surname and the label everyone’s slapped on me? I try not to think about it.” He was completely relaxed, unlike me, holding himself comfortably and almost lazily as he stood there, talking to me as if I was any other teacher. I desperately wanted to know how he did it and if he could teach it to me.
I snorted softly. “You should. Trying not to think about it usually means you don’t want to face it. I don’t think you’re the type to be a coward.” He tensed fractionally, his eyes narrowing, but he said nothing. “If anything, you can think about it and realise how narrow-minded all those people are and curse them to hell.” He perked up as I spoke. So much for being the responsible adult.
“Well. You have an interesting way of looking at things,” he remarked, crossing his arms and rocking gently on his heels. “I don’t imagine any of the other teachers would have put it in quite that way.”
“I’m not like the other teachers, in case you haven’t noticed.” I hefted my broom in my hand, the action almost succeeding in comforting me and assuring me that I was saying the right things. “Do you know what Callidus means? Where it comes from?”
He shook his head.
“It’s Latin. It can mean crafty... sly... expert... skilful.... smart.” He grinned at the last one and I couldn’t help smiling myself. Anyone who even heard Callidus utter a sentence could see that the boy had a mind, and an extremely good one at that.
“Guess whoever named me knew exactly how I was going to turn out, then,” Callidus said, almost cheerfully. I realised then that this was the first time I had seen Callidus being this relaxed and friendly since I had met him. If only he could show this side of himself to others. Without thinking, I sighed and was rewarded by Callidus looking at me curiously. I shook my head.
“Do you have parents?” I asked and suddenly realised how stupid the question must seem. In truth, I knew very little about the boy, always putting off my intended visit to Dumbledore for no apparent reason. If I had actually done it earlier, I would know a lot more about him than I did now and wouldn't have asked such a silly question. Of course, seeing that I had been orphaned while I was still a baby, the question didn’t seem so idiotic. That, of course, led me to remembering Voldemort and I flinched before I could help it.
It had been the wrong question to ask, as I soon realised. Callidus’ face darkened as he looked away, and I grimaced, fighting not to groan. I had said the wrong thing, of course. Snape had been right all the times he had told me I regularly put my foot in it. Callidus clenched his hands into fists and opened his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it.
“Forget I said anything,” I muttered uncomfortably, now feeling incredibly awkward. “Just forget it. I had no right asking you anyway.”
“No.” Callidus shook his head, stubborn. “It’s not that hard to tell, I just don’t like telling it because it’s so pitiful and stupid.” He frowned, glaring at the ground beneath us. I didn’t really know what to say, apart from the obvious.
“Don’t tell it then.” But it wasn’t the right thing to say, again, wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. He looked at me and the corners of his mouth jerked upwards for several moments, but then were gone, too quickly. I wondered if I had imagined the grim amusement that had fought to enter his eyes. Callidus was so confusing, so enigmatic it made my head hurt just to think about it.
“Ah, but that’s exactly what I’m not supposed to do,” Callidus told me wryly and I swore that he was struggling not to smile ruefully. “I’m supposed to be able to tell it matter-of-factly and emotionlessly, as if it is merely something I had been told briefly and vaguely, something that doesn’t really matter to me.” He sighed heavily.
I stared at him. I had figured that out when I had been stuck in the middle of a war. Callidus had figured it out at age eleven. How did he do this? He frowned, obviously not liking the way I was staring at him. “What?” I decided not to mention it.
The boy muttered angrily, still glaring at the ground. “My mother’s dead. I never knew my father.” He plunged his hands into the pockets of his robes in an effort to release tension and frustration. I waited patiently for him to continue.
“I can remember her,” he said abruptly, his eyes still on the ground. “Sort of, anyway. I can remember the smell of her perfume. I can see her in my mind. Vaguely, mind you, barely an outline but it’s better than nothing, I suppose.” Callidus continued to frown. “I don’t know anything about my father. I don’t know if I want to either, but since I know nothing I suppose I shouldn’t make judgements. To be honest, I don’t know anything else.”
I was silent for a moment. I didn’t particularly want to tell him that I knew how he felt, that the only real memories I had of my parents was when Voldemort was about to kill them. Even now, I could still hear their pleas and dying screams in my head. They sometimes came in the nightmares as well. Over the years I had begun to remember other small things, with the help of Sirius and Lupin, but their deaths were still the only clear events I truly remembered. It was depressing.
“Where did you live, before you came here, I mean,” I asked, feeling like I shouldn’t be asking and yet feeling that I had to know at the same time. It was cruel and selfish of me, but I had to know.
He looked up at me and now his eyes were simply unreadable, still frozen sapphires. “A Muggle orphanage. I was never adopted.” He scowled then. I wondered if I should tell him that perhaps he had never been adopted because he was a wizard and being adopted by Muggles would have made everything much more difficult. Judging by his face, however, I decided to leave it alone for another time.
“How do you like Hogwarts?” It had to be safe ground, it just had to be. Besides, I was curious as to how Callidus viewed this place.
And finally, he smiled. Really smiled. I hoped the astonishment wasn’t plain on my face, it would be slightly embarrassing for him. “It’s a lot better than the orphanage, that’s for sure,” he told me, the smile still lingering on his lips. “It’s... it’s... I can’t really describe it,” he admitted. I nodded, understanding. Hogwarts had that kind of effect on people, particularly the ones who hadn’t had very stable upbringings, like Callidus and myself. But still... there was the one very important aspect that he hadn’t mentioned yet...
A shadow crept over his face and he frowned. “But I’d like it a lot more if I felt like I belonged,” he continued softly, wrapping his arms around him like he was trying to protect himself. I stiffened. This was what I had been afraid he would bring up. The boy sighed. “I wish I knew why everyone thinks I’m somehow related to Voldemort. I never met him, I never knew him. But if I did know, maybe then I could understand their fear better.” The bitterness and resentment were obvious in his voice.
I was slow to answer him, bringing my words together carefully. “I presume you’ve read about Voldemort already, haven’t you?” He nodded. I wasn’t surprised; Callidus spent so much time in the library I had the impression it was his favourite place in the entire school. Books couldn’t ignore or hate you. “This isn’t mentioned in the books, but Voldemort’s real name was Tom Riddle. Voldemort was the name he had used among his closest friends and the one he had intended to use when he was the greatest wizard in the world.” A grim smile creased my lips as I spoke. I could still hear his voice in my head, telling me the same thing when I had been twelve.
Shock had spread across Callidus’ face as the explanation had been given, shock, horror and perhaps even fear as he clicked it all together. That truly confirmed what I had begun to suspect; Callidus Riddle had truly never known Voldemort, had never had any contact with him. But it still didn’t let everything add up, and from his face, it seemed that Callidus was trying to figure out how exactly he was linked to him, as the rest of us were also wondering.
But he had to make sure. “Was there any other Riddle family to come to Hogwarts?” he asked slowly, and the desperate hope in his eyes that flickered briefly made me feel extremely guilty, for I was about to dash it all away.
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. There was only ever one family to come. I researched it to make sure.” I tried not to think about the guilt that was welling up inside me, when I saw dismay flash across his face, just for a moment and then it was gone. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He gave me a watery jerk of his lips as he shook his head firmly. “It was stupid of me to even try and believe.” His eyes were gradually thawing and sinking into turmoil. “But how can I be related to him? All of his relatives had been killed after the war.” I blinked. God, that boy read even more than Hermione did!
I couldn’t lie to him, I just couldn’t. “I don’t know.” I shrugged helplessly. Callidus was right; it didn’t make any sense at all, not one bit. All of the Riddle family and those linked to them by marriage and those way out in the line that they could hardly be called relatives at all, had been killed at the end of the war, when the trials had begun. The deaths had shocked many, despite the amount of people that had been killed during the actual war. Perhaps it had even shocked me, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe this was because of the mental walls I had put up to protect myself. Maybe I just didn’t care anymore. Either way, it wasn’t something I liked to think about that much.
And Voldemort wasn’t his father; that was just impossible. I had done the math -- Callidus had been born in my first year at Hogwarts. Voldemort had been a shadow then, a presence that had dwelt in the back of Quirrell’s head, to be blunt about it. No, Voldemort definitely wasn’t his father... I hoped. One thing I had learned over the years was that Voldemort had had the nasty ability to overstep mere barriers such as physical form.
But it still didn’t make any sense; how the hell was Callidus a Riddle, then? The surname hadn’t just been slapped on him by accident.
And in the back of my mind, there was the constant, nagging suspicion that perhaps there was the chance that one member had been missed, that maybe all the Riddles hadn’t been killed... but if Callidus had spent most of his life in the orphanage, then it didn’t matter because he’d never known any of them. So it wouldn’t matter then. Of course, this meant actually asking Callidus and judging by his last reaction, that didn’t seem a very smart thing to do right now. So I kept quiet and vowed that I’d ask the question later.
Besides, trying to figure it out was making my head spin and hurt like hell. I just realised then that night was deepening rather quickly. This talk had to end.
“It’s late,” I sighed quietly, unconsciously tightening my grip on my broom for comfort, “and you should be in bed by now.” He was still only eleven, no matter what he was going to be accused of. He was still only a kid and I couldn’t forget that. “I’d hate to have to explain to Snape why I kept you up far passed curfew.” How on earth did that man manage to prop up in everything I said and thought all the time, no matter how much I tried to forget him? Bah. In an effort to lighten the dark, uneasy mood that had descended upon us, I gave Callidus an encouraging smile.
He returned the smile, albeit not as strongly as I had hoped he would and I had the distinct impression that he would have liked to have continued our conversation. I, however, felt differently, as the talk was stirring rather uncomfortable memories inside me, memories that I’d have liked to forget, but now had the feeling that I never would. Perhaps I should have taken up one of the Quidditch offers or even have become an Auror. Returning to Hogwarts had been like openly begging the memories to return and taunt me continuously.
“Goodnight, Professor,” he said quietly, his eyes now frozen and emotionless once more, much to my frustration. It seemed that Callidus had as many emotional walls as I had, and he would be damned if he was going to let any of them down. To my knowledge, it seemed that the few hints he had given when he had been telling me about his lack of a family life had been his way of acting normal, of showing real emotion. His eyes were the key. Before I had fully realised it, he gave me a ghost of a smile that meant nothing and added, “Thank you for the conversation. I’ve learned much from you.”
I had only returned the goodbye, when he turned and walked back up towards the school. He had no invisibility cloak like I’d had when I was at school, but I had the impression that he wouldn’t be caught anyway. He was smart enough not to attract attention to himself. I could only watch him as he walked back, my eyes narrowed as I tried to find the meaning of his cryptic answer and couldn’t. What the hell had he meant about learning much? I’d taught him nothing!
I shook my head irritably, squeezing my eyes shut in exasperation. A headache was beginning to form in my temples; I could feel the dull, annoying throbs pound in my head already. It was going to be a long night now that I had a headache. It usually meant that I didn’t get to sleep for all hours. Of course... it also meant that there would be less chance for nightmares tonight. And that was definitely a good thing. But if only things made sense! Even with a conversation under our belts, I still couldn’t really figure out the boy! Maybe I wasn’t supposed to. That could be the answer I was searching for.
I sighed, turning to place the Snitch back into the box. The sooner I put everything away, the sooner I could get back inside. I could think in bed, for I had become adapt at ignoring headaches, despite the fact they usually kept me awake. I should definitely have chosen a different career. Definitely.
