February 28, 1944
Ovidius Parkinson became a mute.
Nobody knew what had happened; just one weekend in Hogsmeade and the student was suddenly and inexplicably rendered incapable of speaking. Deformed or damaged vocal cords didn't typically impact wizards too badly. With a wand in hand, they could use light constructed from the void to form sentences; although it wasn't convenient, it wouldn't cause any obstacles in life.
Ovidius Parkinson became a mute. This sentence wasn't lethal in and of itself, but it meant something completely different when said like this:
Ovi Parkinson not only became a mute, he also became Squib.
For magic to suddenly disappear was uncommon, but it wasn't without precedent. Severe trauma, huge shocks, excessive use of magic, potion poisoning, suppressants due to food allergies, etc., could theoretically siphon away magic, but the probability was so slim it was ignored more often than not.
The staff stationed in the medical wing deliberated for a long while before coming to a conclusion: After eating some unknown red fruit, he ingested the gold and silver grassroots that, by happenstance, did not react well together; the two produced a byproduct, which proved toxic, therefore resulting in his loss use with his vocal cords and magic.
How unfortunate, the professors and students sighed.
But his parents refused to let it go, rigid in their disbelief that the heir they cultivated for more than a decade became a Squib in a blink of an eye. They clamoured and protested, insisting that this wasn't an accident, but a conspiracy; they even reported it to the Auror's office. But the Aurors were of no help - no one grabbed the boy by his throat and forced him to swallow the reactive ingredients.
Having become a Squib, Ovi could no longer stay at Hogwarts, let alone Slytherin. Slytherin's proud pure-blood mantra stated, "The purer the blood, the purer its power." But the appearance of a Squib in a pure-blood family was, for them, a head-on slap in the face.
How could the Slytherins condone the presence of Squibs?
Ovi bowed his head and opened the door to Slytherin's common room, walking through the closet to his bedroom, and silently endured the contemptuous glances cast by Slytherins from all years. It's okay - he's going to leave today anyway.
He knew what all this was about. He also knew very well that it was Riddle's little warning to him; warning him to keep his wagging tongue under control. If he revealed anything more, maybe it wouldn't be just his voice and magic that would be taken away, now would it?
Ovi would never try to reveal anything ever again; he cherished his life very much. Not to mention, why did he have to fall to this point in order to help someone who had nothing to do with him?
Yes, he regretted it. He regretted having to pay with his voice, magic, future and status to help someone who had nothing to do with him.
He wouldn't feel better at Hogwarts; at home, he'd be even more uncomfortable. No matter who you gave your body or dignity to for the benefits of your family, to be a Squib was to be a shame. His best hope of fair treatment was probably to be placed in a small house by the corner of the mansion, to be silent until the death of his old age. Either way, it wouldn't take too long; he lost the support of his magic, so his lifespan would be like a Muggle's.
Ovi felt his eyes sour a little.
When he opened his bedroom door and saw his things thrown casually to the ground, Ovi wasn't surprised. He was even in the mood to laugh at the Slytherins for such a stupid move.
He bent down and picked up his belongings one by one. Without magic, the task that could originally be completed with a wand had to be completed by hand.
In one night, the young man who was deprived of his abilities suddenly grew up.
"Ovi?" There was a knock on the bedroom door, the call making Ovi unable to resist looking. People used to warmly call him 'Ovi'; now a majority would look at him in disdain and call him 'Parkinson'. Someone came in from the doorway and pushed the glasses on the bridge of his nose a little. "Professor Slughorn asked me to send you off."
Harry said it like that, but Ovi understood very clearly. Although Slughorn wasn't a pure-blood theorist, he was a Slytherin who pursued interests and reputation. Helping a Squib dejected by Slytherins at this time? He wouldn't do such a thankless thing.
Ovi looked firmly at Harry, but Harry didn't notice the boy's strange gaze.
Harry looked at the clothes and books all over the floor and roughly understood the current situation. Harry simply took off his cloak, rolled his sleeves up, and began to help Ovi pack his belongings. "You go and tidy your clothes, I'll help you put your books in the suitcase."
Harry, like other Gryffindors, was carefree and informal, and even somewhat careless; but having a big grin didn't mean they weren't careful.
Ovi pursed his lips, followed behind Harry, and bent down.
Two people, like Muggles, put everything in the suitcase by hand.
Harry saw Ovi off of Hogwarts. The two didn't bother speaking as they crossed most of Hogwarts step by step; passing the Black Lake, the Forbidden Forest, the Whomping Willow… But no matter how long the road, there would still be a time for the walk to come to a finish.
The iron fence by the edge of Hogwarts grounds finally appeared in their sight, carved with flowers that were too gentle-looking. Harry stopped; Ovi also stopped.
"Okay, goodbye." Harry's mouth felt heavy, stupid, unable to say anything comforting. He could only pat the teenager on his not-so-strong shoulders.
Ovi looked at him firmly for three or four seconds before suddenly opening his backpack to rummage for something.
"What's wrong?" Harry couldn't understand so, as he watched the boy's actions, he began to get nervous.
Ovi drew a quill and a book from his backpack, the inkless quill leaving mere not-so-obvious scratches on the paper. But the boy scribbled like crazy, the 'huahuahua' noise startling Harry; there was no ink, but the boy abruptly carved a sentence onto the paper with the quill tip.
The boy tore the paper off, handed it to Harry, and then, with a smile, ran to his parents waiting for him not too far away; away from Hogwarts, away from his classmates and friends- No, he didn't have anything to call a friend. Harry? That was his favourite professor.
Harry stood where he was, holding the crumpled piece of parchment. He slightly pointed the paper to the sun, and if he adjusted just so, he could vaguely recognise the crude scratches spelling something out.
Don't trust T.
February 13, 2001
"Here?" The Devil played with the wand as white as human bone; it seemed casual, but in the next second the tip of the wand could flash green and seize the lives of any rebels.
"Yes, Lord. He's right here," a girl in a Death Eater robe pointed to the room in front of her, replying respectfully.
"Lord, let Parkinson go in and take a look," the young man standing behind Voldemort said, the black hood still unable to cover his platinum-blond hair. Young Malfoy was now twenty-years-old and was capable of replacing his father among the Death Eaters. Young Malfoy's eyes turned distrustfully between the girl and the dilapidated house.
The handsome, young Devil chuckled out loud, preventing the girl's action. "No need; to meet an old classmate, we have to show some sincerity." Just like this, the group of people stepped into the dilapidated house.
"Pansy, how old is your grandfather?" The Devil leisurely strolled in this desolate villa, turning his head in a good mood.
The girl apparently hasn't been with the Death Eaters for too long, as she still held onto the emotions of a young person. "Lord! How could he be my grandfather? He's a Squib! He's just my grandfather's half-brother."
"Parkinson!" Young Malfoy lowered his voice, lightly swallowing as a warning, then turned to the tall figure in front of him. "Lord, he's 75-years old this year. He was previously a mute and had been living in the muggle community; he did surgery to repair his vocal cords in the Muggle world, and was then taken back to the manor by Pansy's father."
75-years old, to a wizard, was a middling, if not early, age. But for Muggles and Squibs, it would already be the age for gray hairs and wrinkles.
"Good morning, Ovi." Voldemort waved back Young Malfoy and Pansy, before laughing and greeting the old man sitting on the recliner.
You could no longer see the young man with a sharp chin and black hair in the 75-year old Ovi Parkinson; the old man in front of him had a rickety back, skin that finally succumbed to seventy years of gravitational torture and slacked downwards to form wrinkles, hair so white it didn't look anything like back then, and his eyes, that were initially not good-looking but cool, had also become cloudy. 75-year old Ovi Parkinson and 75-year old Voldemort stood together, the tracings of time's carvings becoming clearer.
"...Tom Riddle." The old man spat out the words with difficulty, the voice that had been muted by poison uttering again and sounding extraordinarily ugly and hoarse; he was too old to even control his expressions.
Ovi may not have known that Tom Riddle was Voldemort - an isolated life kept him from too much information - but his face, similar to that from that of more than sixty years ago, allowed him to recognise the person in front of him.
Meeting a familiar person only made him feel more of time's cruelty. One was handsome and young, and one was in a dying state.
The Devil laughed a little, his red eyes locked on the old man's half-lidded ones. "If you were to have magic now, you could still be saved."
"...That year, it was you…" His unpleasant voice sounded like sandpaper; although the vocal cord surgery restored his voice, it left a sequela.
Voldemort sat down in front of him, the smile on his face as false as it was back at Hogwarts, his eyes narrowed and voice bewitching, "Let's make a… Very straightforward deal. With a successful transaction, I can give you your magic back."
The old man opened his eyes and struggled to meet those seemingly dripping-red eyes. "Your… Purpose."
Conversations between Slytherins were indeed less troublesome. The Devil chuckled.
"Why did I take away your magic?"
The old man closed his eyes, seemingly also trying to recall. "I… Told a Professor your secret."
"What secret?" The Devil narrowed his eyes, the threat leaking from his pupils making the old man feel a little cold.
The old man shook his head. "I'm old, I can't remember."
"Who was the Professor?" Voldemort asked thoughtfully, his eyes becoming more profound.
After answering so many questions, Ovi also seemed tired; he shook his head, indicating he couldn't remember.
The Devil rose gladly.
"Draco." Voldemort smiled as he summoned his subordinate.
"Yes, Lord." Young Malfoy immediately appeared by the door.
The Devil's handsome facial features were similar to when he was still in Hogwarts; when he smiled courteously it allowed people to feel a breeze of Spring. Voldemort smiled, red eyes more dazzling than the sun on the horizon.
How could he tolerate a man who knows his secret to live on? Even if he forgot, he couldn't allow it. The Devil chuckled low once more.
Ovi's eyes widened. At this moment, in imminent danger, the pair of always-cloudy eyes cleared. The person who just said 'with a successful transaction' had broken the contract so simply!
Sixty years ago he took his magic, future and status; sixty years later, he wanted to take his life!
Even if he died, he wanted the next piece of meat!
With the cold, green light already shot towards him, the dying man finally broke out the most resentful force.
Tom Riddle, I use my life to curse you to never, ever be able to obtain that person!
Before Ovi could think about who that person was, all signs of life had fled him; after his heartbeat stagnated, the green light hit the old man's body.
What took his life wasn't the Killing Curse.
Neither of the two people present noticed.