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Heat. Dry, buzzing heat that sticks to your clothes. Her hair clung to the back of her neck, creating a pocket of awful body odor. She should have tied her hair in a ponytail, having decided against it because of the subtle inky patch of smallpox scar on her otherwise unblemished fair neck.
Malfoy was in the back; the smell of his excessive lavender shampoo hit her in the head, and his chirpy voice made her want to pull his tongue out. Black was by her side, just as irked by the heat, which had done what no teacher ever could and had finally made him shut up for good.
Hogwarts was designed to trap the little heat available in old wintry Britain, but now in the present June, it felt akin to a furnace. You’d think they’d try to charm it to stay cold. That old Dippet thought otherwise—outside air, he announced to the equally annoyed professors, is good for the health.
She had hoped he would snap his neck while going down from the great table. Alas, as with most things in Tom’s life, reality refused to cooperate.
They had been doing test practice for their exams; she had already transfigured the piece of wood into a nice, sleek pencil, which had left her with half an hour to simmer in this hell.
Today Britain’s sweetheart had worn a turquoise robe with a blazing red sash tied tightly enough to outline the shape of her hips, with high heels of gold. It had made Tom want to stand up and ask Alba about her long-held suspicion of her being colorblind. Had she been any other woman, she would have looked hideous—with her clashing colors, her half-moon spectacles that clinked when she looked up to catch Black attempting to sabotage Mudblood Myrtle’s work.
“Fifty points from Slytherin,” Alba’s pretty mouth said. “And meet me after class, Mr. Black.”
This caused a choir of united groans from all Slytherins, excluding her.
“Whore,” Black whispered to himself.
“Insults without merit are no sign of intelligence,” Tom muttered. She found it almost embarrassing—how difficult men found it to insult a woman without reaching for bitch or slut.
“Dyke, then,” Black mocked.
Tom momentarily raised her eyebrows in confusion before going back to her ogling.
Alba’s face was an oval, freckled canvas, unmarked and beautiful due to both parts vanity and luck. The heat and boredom filled Tom’s mind with all kinds of thoughts, mostly regarding her dear old professor. She wanted to bite that pretty, soft, freckled cheek, tear it down with her teeth; she imagined it would feel like marshmallows, the flesh chewy, powdery white from her makeup.
“This type of behavior is unacceptable, Ms. Riddle.” Tom had watched her with strange fascination—her hard-earned trinkets, the ones she had snatched from boys bigger and older than her, the source of her pride, all gone up in flames, the color matching Alba’s hair.
She was the first pleasurable thing she had seen at Wool’s Orphanage. Her hands were what interested her most; they were slender and unbelievably soft, with more jewelry than Tom had ever seen—including a thin gold ring on her right hand, pinky finger, with an almost invisible diamond stud.
“A woman who never had to work a single day in her life,” the matron had sneered when she left.
“I promise I will not repeat such behavior ever again, ma’am.” Tom had wanted to hold her hand; Alba had let her. She had become soft afterwards, although her eyes still watched Tom with suspicion.
A great deal of time she spent thinking of her Transfiguration professor; such was their relationship coming to Hogwarts. Her skills and magic, witnessed by the professors, had ensured she was to be compared to Dumbledore on the simplicity of them both having a working pair of uterus and being competent.
Did she think that she was better than them all? With her bright smile when she gave points to various dimwits, her long, thick red hair that drew attention from boys and girls—hair that Tom wanted to pull fully in both fists and run her fingers across gently in equal parts.
It was the power Tom envied most. The youngest woman to ever hold a position at Hogwarts. The only woman to ever break into the increasingly masculine-dominated field of Transfiguration and outdo them all. Armies of infantry turned into nothing but patches of nothingness in her path. The sole hope against the plague was Grindelwald and her forces.
The chants of “Greater Good” were less frequent in Hogwarts than anywhere else, but Grindelwald’s shadow lingered. If France fell, then Britain was next.
In the next years, they might have to incorporate the Greater Good somewhere into that tone-deaf Hogwarts anthem that only Alba liked to sing.
Tom wanted to do something to her.
Tom’s collar was damp, her shirt stuck to her, trapping her in her own sweat. The heat was making her mad—that was the only possible reason why she wanted to lick the tiny pearly teeth in her professor’s mouth, taste her mouth, the lemon drops she was addicted to and liked to pop every hour or so. And despite, that thin, slim waist, Tom was sure she could wrap her two hands around it. She wanted to break those dainty ankles, hear the crack of bone, and hear her scream. Wanted to strip her naked, reduce her to her womanhood—that Alba Dumbledore, despite all her strength, was a woman before she could be a wizard.
Warmth spread between her legs, irrespective of the heat. Her legs squirmed. Were these the follies of youth Slughorn kept mentioning during their dreadful yearly lessons of physical education—the bloom of their bodies and their unruly impulses? He who had, in her first year, decided to give her a more “feminine” name fitting of her “nature”—Thomasine.
“Not all are fortunate with far-sighted parents, it seems, Ms. Riddle,” he’d say to her, in front of the class.
“I have no parents, professor. I am an orphan,” she’d reply coldly.
He was awfully quiet for the entire lecture after that.
That, however, did not stop every professor except Dumbledore from calling her every derivative of that name—“Tammy,” “Tia,” “Tomsina,”—anything but Tom.
“Ms. Riddle,” Alba’s voice broke.
Quickly, she stood up, back straight, as she demonstrated her work.
Alba’s eyes were the most striking stroke of her canvas—a dark blue that absorbed light. Tom wanted to keep them. Pluck them like marbles or sapphires and store them in a jar.
Alba bent to inspect her Transfiguration. Tom’s eyes, hungrily, witnessed the slight dip of her cleavage, the baby-pink lipstick, and the accompanying smell of vanilla notes—all working together to make Tom impulsive and damp in places she didn’t know were possible.
The professor’s eyes softened. “Excellent work, as always, Tom.”
“Thirty points to Slytherin.”
---
“What was that about?” Tom asked.
Black mindlessly tinkered with his wand. “What about what, Thomasine?” he replied, using that awful name she had been assigned.
“Calling her a dyke. What was that for?”
There was a pause. He smirked widely and slowly put his wand down. “You don’t know.”
Their conversation seemed to interest even Abraxas, who watched her with a gleeful smile.
“Our dear old professor—the Madonna and the Dark Lady Grindelwald,” Black gestured crudely with both his index and middle fingers.
“Shut it, Black. Keep your fantasies to yourself,” Tom said in disgust.
“He’s right,” Abraxas said smoothly, greatly enjoying the gossip. “My father told me she’d never give a lick of attention to any proposals. Head girl, in every professor’s grace. Arrogant and asocial—except for her ‘affectionate’ friendship with Grindelwald.” He laced the word ‘affection’ with suspicion.
“Why do you think Grindelwald never appears to duel her, even when Dumbledore destroys half her forces?” Abraxas’s words were always truthful. Unlike Black, he did not babble without reason.
Tom imagined Alba: unsullied, pure. Up until then, Tom could have at least pretended to defile her through her involvement with male contacts—the antithesis of all that might she held, when she could be some wizard’s wife, a mother, some boy’s girl.
Alba, untouched by any man, above them all, like Mary.
The continued topic boosted Malfoy’s pride more as the minutes passed. “We could always ribbon dear Alba as a prize to Grindelwald if she does conquer Britain,” his white teeth shone as he suggested, “a war bride.”
“Pathetic.” She shot a look at both of them, and quickly, silence gathered around them as they went back to their respective work.
Though the thought of her professor as a war bride—or a bride at all—did give her a good night’s sleep.
---
Penny Parkinson was pregnant.
Penny was the third daughter of the third Parkinson son. Far from the line to gain any wealth, but close enough to bring shame if caught in any scandal. Tom, who had seen girls no older than sixteen with bellies heavy and eyes dry being brought to Wool’s Orphanage, had now become quite the expert at noticing unwanted and hidden pregnancies.
Penny scraped at her food, her face pale, eyes stuck in some kind of trance. A few months, and she’d begin to show, and everyone would know she got herself knocked up by some future deadbeat.
Why? Tom wondered. The nature of these girls—the ones she’d even consider in her good reputation, those who woke up at the crack of dawn to spend hours in excessive mantras of makeup and scrutiny for a boy who’d probably never washed his robes in a month. What compelled a girl to love men? Who’d make her spread her legs, who she’d always be deemed less than, and cry out in pain while giving birth to his brat that he’d name after himself?
It made sense, then, why the most intelligent and powerful witches had no interest in men.
Tom found her in the middle of the night during her patrols as a prefect. The door to Dumbledore’s office was open; bright, warm light peeked through as Penny cried in Dumbledore’s arms, her pitiful face red and stricken.
Parkinson was considered an extremist by the likes of Malfoy and Black, too—the girl who’d refuse to keep her bed near the half-blood Greengrass, causing headaches for Slughorn, and was a proud member of “Father Please Get Dumbledore Sacked Out of Hogwarts.”
Was split personality disorder a symptom of pregnancy? Tom wondered. Knowing the horror that was pregnancy, it would sound reasonable.
“It’s alright, dear,” Alba’s voice was unbearably soft as she let Penny cry, ruining her silk night robe. “It will all be okay.”
There was a shuffle of fabrics, the clink-clank of metal and plastic.
Penny exited, body shaking in hand. She had a thin vial of some red liquid.
“It’s not in good manners to eavesdrop, Ms. Riddle.”
For a moment, she seemed stuck in place, her mouth shut, as she noticed the looming figure that was Dumbledore—metaphorically, Tom must add, because despite Alba being above six feet tall and towering over most men, Tom was still an inch or two taller than Alba now.
Before she could muster an excuse, Alba spoke.
“Let’s keep this a secret between us.”
Her eyes twinkled as she ordered Tom.
“Back to bed.”
Months would pass. Penny’s stomach would remain flat. Color would return to her face. And her bigotry would remain for all except Dumbledore.
Should she get pregnant? Would Dumbledore hug her and let her rest on her chest? Tom wondered mindlessly, receiving more affection than she had ever known.
---
Across every hall, plaza, and headline in big, thick, bold print were written:
GRINDELWALD DEFEATED—DUMBLEDORE WINS, THE WORLD REJOICES.
A burst of color, a surge of joy and euphoria. It seemed, for once, the world’s troubles were away. Half-blood, Muggle-born, and pureblood rejoiced, united. The plague, the she-devil of Europe, was gone. The great heroine had saved them.
Dumbledore had been swarmed. Reporters, journalists, worried acquaintances—all grasped for her. French, German, and English mixed together in a constant buzz. Dumbledore looked like a battered angel. Her hair was undone, red flowing from her scalp to her ankles. Her white pristine robes were splattered with blood, grime, and something wet. They were ripped at the bottom, letting her milky legs be viewed. She looked like some martyr, suffering for the world’s salvation.
A quick photographer shone his camera on her, capturing her—it would later go on to be the most defined photograph of the twentieth century.
It was Newt, her beloved protégé, who came to her rescue. “Stop,” he’d ordered in his usually gentle voice to the crowd, putting his coat over her shoulder in an attempt to preserve her modesty.
Hogwarts was no better. Every student wanted to see her. The anxious Gryffindors were only scattered away by a grim-looking Dippet as he stood in front of the infirmary door. The Ravenclaws had attempted to fly towards the infirmary window to hand up a banner that read “Get Well Soon”; the Hufflepuffs began to sing a choir outside; and the Slytherins tried to bribe the house-elves into letting them see Alba.
She was crying.
Tom had been allowed inside the infirmary to ensure no disturbance occurred, as all the other professors had gone to celebrate the night. Dumbledore had woken up, now sitting straight by the post. Her glasses were gone, and she was wearing a simple white dress, red hair spilled over the white sheets like blood. Tom wondered about their duel, the details as everyone else did, but she wondered something else too: Did Grindelwald kiss her? A parting gesture? Or is it different between two women?
“Professor.”
Dumbledore heeded her no reply. Her eyes were far away, distant, lost in some memory of her and Grindelwald, she imagined.
“Professor,” Tom said now, louder.
Alba snapped her face towards her, quickly wiping away her tears. She looked divine, Tom thought. Grief had given her a serene quality, made her look younger and more exotic.
“You are crying.” Tom sat near the bed. She felt warmth radiating from the professor, a leftover from her intense magic use. An intimate distance was between them. Tom intended to close that. She let her hand be engulfed by Alba’s, her fingers interlaced in some gesture of care. The thin diamond twinkled on her pinky finger—she now wondered if it was a gift from Grindelwald.
“Did she hurt you, Professor?” Tom’s voice was almost childish as her eyes met Alba’s.
More minutes passed. They sat there for a while. From the outside, they must have looked like mother and daughter.
“You are a very good girl,” Alba responded as she hugged Tom. Her arms wrapped around her.
Tom smelled something burnt, something German. Keep your secret, Tom thought.
It was then she realized, with a deep, low gravity, that Grindelwald truly loved Dumbledore. A foolish part of Tom wondered: Had she been selfish, Dumbledore would not have been here in Hogwarts, being embraced by another woman. Younger. Better.
Tom would have taken her wand first, made a cage of luxury for her, tightened with wards and charms so she’d never escape.
Alba cupped her face. Her words came out more as a plea than an order: “Promise me that you will close the Chamber of Secrets.”
Tom smiled, cheeks red, as she let her lips touch her professor’s cheek.
“I promise.”