Serendipity

In the dream, she was watching herself sitting beside him again and he was stroking her dream-self's hair and murmuring softly in her ear. But the sweet murmurs turned into harsh hisses and the hand that was touching her other self's hair was changing into something foul and snakelike. She saw the girl that was her look up at him with deadened eyes, and someone very far away was crying.

Her eyes snapped open. The darkness around her felt comforting, as though perhaps she wasn't completely alone. She rolled over, and once again she felt the stabbing pain in her heart as she saw the empty space beside her in bed. Closing her eyes, she thought, for the hundredth time, how easy it would be to just die. Poison was easily found, and it would be so simple to just drink it. It would be quick; probably painless. And oh, how wonderful it would be to finally find peace.

But there was something in her heart that wouldn't let her. Something that was still clinging to hope that someday he would come back, the same tousle-haired, smiling boy she had known so many years ago. Hoping that he would tell her that those decades she had spent alone were nothing more than a nightmare, and now he was back and there was nothing to be afraid of anymore. Because surely he hadn't forgotten her; surely he wouldn't forget how he had held her in the dead of night when everyone was asleep, how he had whispered in her ear that she was the only one he would ever love.

He had been so careful. He had spent so long preparing the Vita potion for her. Surely he wouldn't have bothered if he hadn't loved her. She repeated this to herself over and over. It was the music to which her life played, the only thing that kept her from quietly killing herself. Surely he wouldn't have bothered if he hadn't loved her. Surely he wouldn't have bothered if he hadn't loved her. Surely he loved her.

She closed her eyes and began to dream.

It was powerful Dark magic, the Vita potion. Lost for countless millennia, he had finally unearthed it. It took so long to prepare it, so many endless months, and she grew used to living with the constant dread that something would go wrong and he would end up killing himself. And the ingredients were so dangerous, and often nearly impossible to obtain. And when it was finally ready, there had been only a drop of it in the crystal goblet; only enough for one. He had already taken steps to insure his own immortality, she knew. He looked barely a day older than twenty-five, although he should rightfully have been far older. He had whispered reassuring words in her ear and left her to take the potion alone.

She swallowed it with difficulty. White fire burned through her body and the goblet fell from her hand, shattering upon the stone floor. She fell to her knees, gasping for air, wishing that he was beside her, holding her hand and smoothing her hair. Blackness crept into her vision, and she gratefully welcomed the unconsciousness that accompanied it.

When she had awakened from the spell, she found that someone had carried her back to her own bed. She sat up. Something about her felt different. She felt as though a burden had been removed from her back. She walked over to the mirror, and found, to her delight, that a younger woman stared back at her. It was herself; but the mirror image seemed to be barely more than twenty. The streaks of gray in her dark hair were gone. Her face was fuller and unlined, and she watched her mouth break into a smile. She spent hours walking around the room, reveling in the feeling of lightness she experienced with every step.

He had come in later than usual, and when she had tried to tell him all about how the spell had worked, he seemed distracted and not himself. When they had kissed, he seemed darker and more frightening than ever before, and his touch was rougher and lacked the gentleness she had once known. And he had left abruptly and without explanation, leaving her crying alone, wondering what she had done wrong.

And when he didn't come back, she was not surprised. They had both known that this could happen, and preparations had been made. In the midst of all the confusion, she quietly packed her things and walked out of the Unplottable castle where they had lived to the boat that was waiting in a hidden cove. The second she stepped into it, she heard the castle explode behind her. She turned to see a great fireball consuming the entire structure just as the boat took off.

Again, she heard someone crying as though from somewhere far away. She opened her eyes.

Through the window she could see the sun rising. Another dawn that they should have shared together; but now she had to face it alone. A tear rolled silently down her cheek and she brushed it away angrily. Surely he wouldn't have bothered if he hadn't loved me. She silently mouthed the words.

She went out to retrieve the newspaper from the porch. As she sat down and shook it out, something fell from its pages, fluttering to the ground. Sighing, she bent over and picked it up. And her heart thudded to a stop.

It was a picture of him. She had taken it herself. It was a Muggle photograph; black and white and frozen in time forever. He had fallen asleep on one of the couches in the apartment they had shared for the first few years. There was something so sweet about his face. The lines of worry and anger had fallen away and as he slept he looked so open and innocent, like a little boy who had never seen how treacherous the world really was. His mouth was slightly turned up into a small smile. Not a bitter one, the kind she knew so well, but a smile of genuine delight. She had thought that the picture was destroyed in the fire. How had it gotten into her ordinary Muggle newspaper?

She turned it over and suddenly could not breathe. There, written in his untidy scrawl, was a phrase that made chills run down her back. Venirebo dum tibi.

I will come for you.

***

She fell back into the chair, gripping the picture so tightly her knuckles were turning white. She could not tear her eyes away from the message. Surely he loved her. The familiar phrase echoed through her head.

She was able to breathe now, and she did, in great gasps of air. He was coming back, he was coming back, he was not dead, he still loved her. He still loved her. She stood, grinning dazedly and staring at the picture. He was alive.

The next morning, she awoke to find another surprise. A black rose, sinister in its beauty, lay in her outstretched hand. She lifted it to her face and cried out in surprise as its thorns dug into her palm. Blood, so dark red it was nearly black, spilled from the gash and fell upon the ebony petals of the rose.

She stared at the wound, dark eyes wide. Then, understanding, she slowly raised her head and saw the message that had been scribbled upon the wall.

Go to the meeting place and wait. Your instructions will be sent to you.

She nodded uncertainly, wondering if he could see her. But there was no time to waste. Quickly, she dressed. The wizard's clothing felt foreign and out-of-place as she slipped it over her skin. For eighteen long years it had waited in the back of her closet, stuffed behind the Muggle dresses and shirts and coats. Now, at last, she was back into her own skin. And yet, why did it feel so unnatural?

She pushed such thoughts out of her mind. From the depths of the wardrobe, where it had laid in slumber since that night, she drew out her wand. Memories returned to her, unwanted; memories of fire and tears. And the people dancing in the streets while her life crumbled into darkness.

She waved it experimentally. From its tip slithered a minuscule snake, silver and green. It bared its tiny fangs and vanished in a puff of smoke. Smiling, she stood and whispered the words. With a tiny *pop* she was gone.

She landed roughly, stumbling and nearly falling. Ah, yes, there was the clearing. It looked so different than she had remembered. Untended, it had fallen to disarray. Weeds rose high and the trees were sprawling and untamed.

And in the center of the overgrown circle stood a hooded figure. Her heart flew to her throat. Could it be- no, certainly not- but was it? Was it him? The figure lifted its head and she sighed softly in disappointment. It was not. She had been foolish to even hope. The hooded man looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him. She sighed and stepped forward into the circle.

"You have instructions from the Master," he began in a low, gravelly voice. "You are to go to Hogwarts school and apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship. There you are to wait. The Master will send further instructions when he sees fit."

"Hogwarts," she repeated softly. "And I will wait."

Without a goodbye, he Disapparated. Now alone, she looked around the circle. He had brought her here, so long ago. Was it fifty years? Sixty? Longer? He had whispered, "Come with me." And she had come, because she was so in love with him. If he had asked her to leap from a cliff she would have done it.

That was the first of many nights, so many they blurred together in her mind. His followers had worshipped him, she remembered. They had fawned at his feet and done his bidding. And she understood why. He was a natural leader. He was a gorgeous boy in his own way. But not only was he attractive, he also had a certain charm that made everyone want to do things for him. A certain light in his eyes that made you rush to do whatever he wanted.

It had also been the first night he had kissed her. She walked towards the center of the clearing. There had been a fire, she remembered. Not a magical fire but a real fire, burning and crackling. When everyone had left, he had brought her over to the embers of the fire. "I think I love you," he had said, taking her hand and cocking his head like a hopeful little boy. "Do you love me?"

She had confessed, heart pounding in her chest, that she did. Then, there by the dying fire, he had kissed her. And she had kissed him back, and they stood there, kissing and laughing with intertwined fingers, until the first rays of sunlight had crept over the treetops. Then they had rushed back to the school, sneaking in with his Invisibility cloak.

Oh Tom. Where are you?

*

As she unpacked her things, her thoughts drifted. It was a shock to see them all again, even though none of them recognized her. It had been more than twenty years since she had seen most of them, and she had colored her dark hair blonde as a precautionary method. Still, McGonagall was so terribly old. Snape was greasy as ever, but she avoided him. He of all the teachers had known Tom best. There was a chance that he might remember Tom's small shadow; a dark haired, dark eyed young woman who never left his side.

And Albus Dumbledore. His brown hair had gone completely white and he was old; so terribly old. When she had first been introduced to him, she was worried. He had been her Transfiguration teacher for seven years, and he had fought Tom for many more. Surely she would be discovered! Surely all those years of hiding would be wasted! But no, their meeting went smoothly. There had been a troublesome moment when he had furrowed his brow and stared at her face for a very long time. "I'm sorry, Jenna," he had said at last, using the false name she had applied under. "It's just that you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago."

"Really?" she had asked, nervously biting her tongue.

"Her life was a sad story," he had said, turning slightly and sighing. "She fell in love with the wrong man and it was her downfall. I do not know what became of her in the end."

She pondered his words now as she hung up her clothes in the wardrobe. The wrong man? Who was he to decide who was right and who was wrong? He had not known Tom like she knew him, knew why he did the things he did. And her downfall? His words confused her. He had said them with pity, not with anger. She did not understand what it all meant.

How was it wrong to fall in love?

*

Argh. It was far too early in the morning to be out of bed, much less teaching. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she watched as the first class filed in, not looking all together happy about the term starting. A quick glance at her schedule told her that these were the seventh year Slytherins and Gryffindors. As it had always been at Hogwarts, the two Houses kept their distance, throwing each other nasty glares as they took their seats.

She quickly took roll, taking no notice of the open stares most of the boys were aiming in her direction. Her mouth curved up into a private smile as she thought of how they would react if they knew that she was older than their parents.

"You may call me Jenna. I don't hold with formalities, they make me feel old." She grinned to herself; she was old. "The year," she continued briskly, walking behind her desk, "will be divided into three parts." She held up three fingers. "Dark creatures and how to defend yourself against them." Two fingers. "Dark curses and how to defend yourself against them." One finger. "Dark-"

At that moment, the classroom door flew open and in sauntered a most decidedly handsome blonde young man. "Hello, Professor," he drawled out of the corner of his mouth. "Prefects meeting ran late, sorry about that. I'm Draco Malfoy."

Ah. Lucius Malfoy's son. "Well, hurry and find a seat," she said, melting a bit as he smiled at her. There was a flurry of activity from the Slytherin girls, and several empty spaces appeared where there had previously been stacks of books.

"Over here, Draco," called a very beautiful Slytherin girl with the most astounding red-gold hair. Serendipity checked the list. Blaise Zabini. The last name did not seem familiar, she thought to herself, shaking her head to clear her mind and return to the situation at hand. Giving Blaise the full charm of his blinding smile, Draco swaggered over and dropped his books down beside her.

"As I was saying-" Serendipity began, but once again she was interrupted, this time by voices from the hall.

"Yeah, I know, we'll have to discuss it at the next meeting," called someone from outside. The next moment, the speaker had ducked into the classroom.

He was about average height, toned and tanned from hours of Quidditch, fairly handsome in his own right, although far from the classical beauty of the younger Malfoy halfway across the room. His eyes were sparkling green and his black hair was tousled and disorderly.

It was Tom.

No, she scolded herself sharply, don't be stupid. Of course it wasn't really Tom. The green eyes were too warm, unlike Tom's own icy pair. And slashing across this boy's forehead was a lightning-bolt scar.

Harry Potter, of course.

A surge of mixed emotions ran through her. He looked so very identical to Tom, down to the half-smile he was wearing now as he gave her that confused glance. She was vaguely aware that she was staring at him, and snapped out of it. "Sorry," she said, shaking her head. "It's just- you look like someone I used to know."

"Oh?" he said politely. "I'm Harry Potter."

A girl stepped in behind him. "I'm Hermione Granger," she said earnestly. "Sorry we're late, Professor, there was a prefects' meeting and it ran a bit overtime."

"It's quite all right," said Serendipity. She had regained her self-control by now. "You may take your seats."

A boy in the back row with flaming red hair waved them over, and they hurried back to sit next to him. The three began a conversation in low whispers as Serendipity strode to the middle of the room.

"I'll repeat this one more time, now that everyone's here. Please call me Jenna. This year will be divided into three parts. Defense against Dark curses, defense against Dark creatures, and defense against Dark wizards themselves. Our time will be spent mostly on a large scale project which you will work on in teams- which I will select myself." There was a collective groan from the students. Ignoring this, she continued. "Please turn to page 23 in your textbooks and complete the assignment there. It should cover topics you learned as sixth-years. I will collect it at the end of the class period."

The only sound in the room was the quiet scratching of quills. Serendipity, sighing, went to sit behind her desk and collect her thoughts.

This was the boy Tom had wanted dead? She shifted her glance to where Harry sat. Now that she examined him closely, he didn't look quite so much like Tom. His hair was darker and wilder, while Tom had always at least tried to tame his. Tom's eyes, along with being colder, were a much lighter green, and he hadn't worn glasses. But still, there was something very Tom-like about the boy sitting in the back row.

And it wasn't only appearance, either. There was something in the air around Harry that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Something she couldn't quite place. Almost a kind of darkness hovering around him. Yes, that was it.

Tom had had that same darkness.

***

Harry was well aware of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher watching him. Not that he minded. She was flipping gorgeous, for one thing, like a model off the cover of a magazine. She didn't look all that much older than him, maybe twenty or so, with her long blonde hair and such dark eyes they were almost black. She was staring at him, but her dark eyes had gone dreamy, like she wasn't really here at all. Harry wondered who it was that he reminded her of. She seemed to be thinking about that person now.

Hermione nudged him. "If you could tear your eyes away from the teacher, you might want to finish the assignment," she suggested sarcastically.

"Yeah, yeah," said Harry, embarrassed, "I was- er- thinking."

"Yeah, Hermione, shove off. Harry's obviously busy salivating over Jeeennaaa," Ron added wickedly. "Ouch!" he yelped when Harry's elbow connected with his stomach. "What was that for?"

Hermione turned, cheeks flushed. "Well, you should both probably be thinking about the assignment," she said in an unnaturally high voice, "since the bell's going to ring soon."

Both boys swore colorfully under their breaths and began working hurriedly on the assignment. Harry's thoughts, however, remained on the new professor. And it wasn't just physical attraction either, he decided to himself. There was something very strange- and yet very familiar- about her.

If he didn't know better, he'd have said that she reminded him eerily of someone he had known once.

Tom Riddle.

*

"I don't believe it!" Harry yelled, storming into the Gryffindor common room. He dropped his books into an armchair and threw himself onto a couch. The common room's occupants- a handful of younger students- fled under his glare. He fumed silently by the fire until he heard the portrait swing open and Hermione and Ron ran in.

"Harry!" gasped Hermione, dropping her books by his and settling herself onto the couch next to him. "Come on, don't you think you're overreacting a bit-"

"No!" he growled furiously. "Seventh year's supposed to be the best year at Hogwarts and right off the bat I get stuck with that goddamn sneering sonuvabitch Malfoy for the year-long Defense Against the Dark Arts project."

"And we thought that Jenna was the best thing that ever happened to this school," Ron said disgustedly.

"Well, you've learned your lesson, haven't you," Hermione sniffed, sounding uncannily like Percy Weasley. "Just because a woman's beautiful doesn't mean she's anything else."

Ron glared at her. "You're not helping," he grumbled. The three lapsed into a quiet silence.

Hermione was well aware of just how close she was sitting to Harry. He could probably hear the pounding of her heart. She was doing her best to stay as normal as possible, but it was hard, as she could barely breathe. She wondered if he noticed how his arm, casually slung over the back of the couch, was just barely touching her shoulder.

He was really very good looking, with his unruly black hair and his friendly green eyes. That wasn't the only reason she loved him, though. He was brave and smart and occasionally funny. And he had saved her neck a few times in their years at Hogwarts. Unlike most of the wizarding world, however, she didn't feel indebted to him. She'd done his homework enough times to consider the score settled.

The dream team, that was them. A trio of best friends, with Ginny tagging along sometimes. Nothing more than best friends, any of them. Ginny had that blonde Ravenclaw boy- Hermione always forgot his name. Ron had Lavender Brown, which was interesting and provided quite a bit of entertainment. She was as headstrong as he was, and no week was complete without one of their huge arguments, which usually ended in them snogging in a secluded corner of the common room.

And Harry. He had had the most girlfriends of any guy in the school, Hermione reflected, except maybe Draco Malfoy. Every day, it seemed, a new girl, usually blonder and more ditzy than the last. Privately, she suspected that he was still pining for Cho, who had graduated. She had never told him about her feelings for him, and she had to be one of the only seventh year girls at Hogwarts who had never dated Harry Potter. She supposed it was better that way. If he broke her heart then she doubted their friendship would survive unaffected.

Still, she couldn't suppress a small sigh as she thought of it. "Hermione?" she heard Harry ask. "Is something wrong?"

Yes, she thought bitterly to herself. I'm horribly in love with you.

"No," she heard herself say. "I'm okay."

But it was a lie.

*

Harry stood by the open window, looking out on the school grounds. Moonlight streamed into the room, lighting it up with a cold, silvery light. He could turn on a light; being Head Boy meant he had his own room; but for some reason he preferred the soft moonlight.

Sighing, he turned away from the window. For a moment he couldn't remember which girl was asleep in his bed. He shook his head and sat down on the floor. When you couldn't remember who you were sleeping with, it probably meant it was time to cut back on the girlfriends.

He ran his hands through his hair, closing his eyes. Tonight he had almost been able to pretend that it was Hermione next to him, Hermione who was kissing him. Almost. God, he wanted to tell her exactly how he felt about her, but he was scared. Scared that she didn't love him, scared that he would lose her as a best friend. He watched her constantly, waiting for some hint or some suggestion that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But she was just Hermione, normal everyday Hermione, who wanted him to be nothing more than a best friend.

He didn't realize he was crying until Blaise woke up and came over to sit next to him. She was only wearing her underwear, but he wasn't feeling particularly interested. He was feeling miserable.

"What's wrong, Harry?" she purred, resting her head against his chest, her red hair spilling into his lap. "I could make you feel better," she suggested.

Suddenly, Harry was disgusted with himself. How would the rest of the Gryffindors react if they knew that he was sleeping with a Slytherin? On second thought, if they knew that she was Draco Malfoy's girlfriend... Oh, hell. Hermione was the only person whose opinion mattered to him, and she probably didn't care. He allowed Blaise to lead him back to bed, but his mind was far away.