For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

P A R T III - Prologue: Unforgivable

This chapter contains a mature scene not suitable for young children. Reader discretion is advised.

She never understood the pedagogy for categorizing the Unforgivable Curses.

They were tools of the Dark Arts and were first classified as "Unforgivable" in 1717, with the strictest penalties attached to their use. Much like Hogwarts' History of Magic class, Durmstrang had a series of courses devoted solely to the study of the infamous three spells. Gwen had spent much of her fifth year writing a dissertation evaluating the appropriateness of the label "Unforgivable".

After all, could one really discriminate a disemboweling hex from Avada Kedavra when both killed you dead?

At least the latter curse caused instantaneous and painless death. The same couldn't be said about the prior.

Gwen could practically feel either phrase on her tip of her tongue as she sat on the couch nestled in Dumbledore's office. Ten or so minutes had gone by with the professor scribbling on the chalkboard as the girl sunk deeper and deeper into the leather cushions.

She divulged to him the sheer number of supporters her grandfather was believed to have. She told him the spells and curses commonly used in martial magic and often emphasized by him when training acolytes. Grindelwald tended to favor elemental magic and spells that cast illusions on the mind.

"Deconstruct the meaning of balance and reality," he would say.

As she sat there, she kept talking until she was nearly out of breath. The entire process was fatiguing—it felt like Gwen was falling helplessly into a new world, one with an inversed perspective that made her struggle to decipher what was the truth and what was smoke and mirrors.

And she had to hand it to him. It was slow at first, barely noticeable. She thought that perhaps the heaviness was consequence of the Blood Ritual.

But as Dumbledore's blue eyes began to flit toward her more and more frequently, their exchange about different maneuvers for him to try, arcane spells and defensive charms growing more and more drawn out, Gwen began to become suspicious.

When she tried to push herself up to stand and found her legs completely numb and useless, a vengeful scowl fixed itself upon her normally pleasant face.

"What did you do?" Her first words were hollow and numb, but her sentence ended with a seething and arctic snap.

The man's face revealed nothing as he turned his back to their written-out war plans and faced her fully for the first time in over fifteen minutes. His eyes were stoic, and his hands were still, crossed neatly in front of him.

"What was necessary," was all he replied.

"What was necessary?" she hissed after the realization began to sink in and the poison of whatever potion he subjected her to took root. The sensory experience crawling up her legs unnerved her. It was similar to the feeling of jumping into Durmstrang's Ísleikr fjord unprepared.

"You do realize that if he isn't stopped, there is not a soul in the world that stands in his way!"

"I am aware," Dumbledore replied coolly.

Gwen glowered at him, mentally sending daggers straight into his heart. The numbness began to creep up her body and she quickly pulled out her wand to caste a countercharm.

"Finite!"

She gripped her wand tightly as nothing happened. Countercharms often did not work on consumed potions. She'd need the antidote if she wanted to reverse its effects. Her scowl deepened into a wounded look of betrayal tinged in fury. She was a wounded tigress in the cage of a poacher, her pain fueling her aggression but her injury severely limiting her execution.