Tom Riddle won the war. You were an Order healer. When the surviving resistance members are auctioned, Tom buys you before anyone else can. Neither of you is willing to admit what existed before the war ended.
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@hannahriddleThe air in the ballroom was thick with perfume and something darker—anticipation. Crystal chandeliers cast their light over hundreds of heads, all of them turned toward the raised dais where another name had just been called.
You sat among them. The remaining women.
Rows of velvet chairs arranged like a grotesque debutante presentation. Some of the women beside you stared straight ahead, faces blank with the particular numbness of people who had stopped feeling hours ago.
???
Ariadne Vance. Known associate of the Order of the Phoenix. Healer's apprentice. Skilled in advanced charms and protective enchantments.
The auctioneer's voice was smooth. Practiced. He could have been announcing a particularly fine vintage of wine.
In the crowd, hands rose. Elegant. Unhurried. Wealth made casual. The bidding for Ariadne Vance lasted barely two minutes before a silver-haired man in the third row claimed her with a lazy wave of his hand.
Beside you, a woman with dark hair and hollow eyes finally let out a breath she'd been holding. Her hands were shaking.
From the raised gallery at the far end of the ballroom, someone was watching. Not the auctioneer. Not the crowd.
Him.
Tom Riddle sat alone in a chair that might have been a throne, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers resting lightly on the armrest. He hadn't moved in the past hour. He hadn't needed to. His presence alone had silenced half the room when he entered.
Beside him, standing at his right hand like a carved sentinel, Draco Malfoy leaned down to murmur something. Tom's expression didn't change. He simply nodded once.
The auctioneer cleared his throat.
???
Next. Y/n L/n. Field healer for the Order of the Phoenix. Known associate of resistance leadership. Specialized in—
The auctioneer paused. Checked his notes. Looked up.
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Specialized in advanced restorative magic, dark arts counter-curses, and emergency battlefield medicine. Responsible for the survival of numerous high-value resistance targets. Estimated intelligence value: substantial.
The word—substantial—hung in the air.
And then, for the first time all evening, the silence in the room changed.
Still silence. But different. Interested. People shifted in their seats. Several heads turned toward you—not with the detached appraisal you'd seen them give the others, but with something sharper. Recognition.
Someone in the front row sat forward slightly.
???
The bidding started at five thousand galleons.
A hand rose from the left side of the room. Then another from the centre. Then a third.
The auctioneer's voice quickened, sensing momentum.
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Ten thousand. Fifteen. Twenty—
Names and faces blurred. Some you recognised. Death Eaters who had hunted you through burning villages. Functionaries of the new regime. A woman in emerald silk who had once been your patient's wife—now draped in victory and smiling at you like you were an acquisition.
Forty thousand. Fifty.
The bidding slowed. Two men remained. One in dark robes near the back, face half-hidden. Another—younger, immaculate, grinning like this was entertainment—Lorenzo Berkshire, who raised his hand as though bidding on a racehorse.
Lorenzo Berkshire
Seventy.
Someone across the room added seventy-five. Lorenzo countered with eighty without hesitation. The other bidder hesitated. Lorenzo's smile widened.
Lorenzo Berkshire
Eighty-five.
The auctioneer raised his gavel.
And from the gallery, a single hand lifted.
Pale. Elegant. Absolutely still.
The room went quiet.
Not the quiet of politeness. The quiet of something far more primal—the silence animals make when a predator enters their clearing. Every head turned toward the gallery. Including Lorenzo's. His grin faltered. Just slightly. Just for a moment.
Then he inclined his head in a gesture that was almost a bow and let his hand fall.
Draco Malfoy straightened from his position at Tom's side and spoke for the first time. His voice carried through the ballroom like glass breaking.
Draco Malfoy
Lord Riddle bids one hundred thousand.
A beat of silence. Then another.
The auctioneer's throat worked.
???
Going once… going twice…
The gavel fell. The sound echoed through the ballroom like a door closing.
And Tom Riddle's eyes, dark and unreadable, finally found yours.
He did not smile. He did not speak. He simply rose from his chair with fluid grace, and everyone in the room seemed to shrink slightly as he descended the steps toward the floor.
Tom Riddle
When his voice came, it was soft. Almost gentle.
Stand.