False Truths

Almost two weeks had ambled past since the colossal troll incident, but my one-day recovery period seemed like a tea party in comparison to the news that punched me in the gut when I woke up.

Steroid-pumped trolls – and not just a solitary one – were besieging schools, an entirely novel level of dread.

By a stroke of luck(plot), the students were safely tucked away in dorms while the professors grappled with the chaos, yet the incident left an indelible mark in the form of heroic house elves who perished, having thrown themselves in harm's way.

A sorrowful ending, but such is the cruelty of life.

"Still giving me the silent treatment, Zee?" I sighed at Zatanna, who had been resolutely silent ever since our skirmish. "Look, are you still miffed about that troll incident?"

Mercifully, she had chosen discretion over valor, spiriting me away to an abandoned classroom when I slipped into unconsciousness rather than blowing my cover.

"Hmm...fine, have it your way," I grumbled, a hint of resentment creeping into my voice.

I'd rather juggle venomous snakes than beg a fifteen-year-old to keep her trap shut, but it seemed I had little choice. Especially given that there were two troll bodies that were magically transfigured into harmless dolls, of course – stashed away in my suitcase.

"I'm all ears," she finally spoke, folding her arms over her chest with an air of expectancy.

"The truth is... I am not entirely human," I divulged, playing the sacrificial pawn in a larger game of diverting her attention away from my other magical exploits.

"No kidding," she deadpanned, her eyes rolling dramatically. "Half the school's already figured that out."

Her words felt like a gut punch. 'Was my cover really that flimsy?'

Thankfully thought, those were only speculation, they can do nothing to him as nobody has proof... except Zee.

"Ahem... Well, the cat's already out of the bag then," I responded, deftly dodging her gaze. My avoidance, however, was short-lived as her smooth hands pulled my face back towards hers.

"You're still hiding something," she declared, holding my cheeks. Her eyes, like twin probes, bore into mine. "What I really want to know is how you managed to unleash...that black magic... And more importantly, how the hell are you casting spells with a bloody twig!"

I flinched inwardly. The Great Sage had done a commendable job of concealing my wandless magic casting ability, but Zee, having held my wand when I passed out, was quick to realize that it was nothing more than a cleverly disguised stick.

"I told you already," I started, feigning nonchalance, "I'm not completely human. Magical creatures don't need a wand to perform magic. Ever seen a wand-waving-unicorn?"

I could see her chewing on her lips as her face turned a shade of crimson, and I had to suppress a smile. She'd taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Unable to contain herself, she brought her forehead crashing into mine.

"Ach!" Zee cried, clutching her head in agony. "Are you part troll or something? Your skull is as thick as a brick wall!"

Holding back a fit of laughter, I responded with feigned innocence, "Well, I do have a big brain."

Gritting her teeth, Zee finally slumped against my shoulder with a loud sigh.

"What are you do-" My question was cut off as she laid a finger on my lips. Soon, the gentle rhythm of her breathing washed over me, her head resting comfortably on my broad shoulder.

"Tch... So much for my wonderfully crafted, intimidating image." I clicked my tongue as my fellow students started to whisper amongst themselves. The spectacle of Zee casting a silencing charm, clutching my face to get me closer, shouting, and finally using me as a human pillow was undoubtedly fodder for the school's rumor mill.

'Whatever,' I decided, allowing my eyelids to grow heavy. I would let future me deal with the fallout.

***

"What did you find, Quirrell?" A deep, sinister voice echoed in the room as a man stood in front of a mirror, his back turned to the reflection.

"As you surmised, my Lord, the boy is not human, possibly the offspring of a demon," Quirrell reported, recalling the combat spectacle he'd watched from a distance.

"And the girl?" the voice probed further.

"I... I wasn't able to gather much, except that she uses Locomany, a unique form of magic art," Quirrell confessed.

Quirrell's turban slid off, revealing the grotesque face of Voldemort. A pensive look replaced the usual malevolent sneer.

"I've only ever seen one other wielder of Locomany... Fascinating. It would be interesting to see what she would be willing to do to save him... her father," Voldemort mused, already scheming ways to exploit her.

"My Lord..." Quirrell interrupted his thoughts, "Should we inform Lord Luci-" Before he could finish his sentence, a searing pain enveloped his mind. He collapsed onto the ground, writhing in agony.

"Silence!" Voldemort snapped. "Never utter that name. To speak it is to invite those things into our thoughts."

"Forgive me, my Lord," Quirrell groveled, his eyes darting around for a way to assuage Voldemort's wrath. "I merely thought it prudent to seek another favor from him... It could help you regain your body, while simultaneously removing a potential obstacle."

Voldemort remained silent, contemplating the risks. Engaging with 'him' in his current weakened state could spell disaster. However, a demon posing as an obstacle was equally perilous.

"Fine. Send a message to that woman. Let her deal with the wild demon," Voldemort finally conceded, contemplating the potential fallout of this decision.

A chill ran down Quirrell's spine at the thought of interacting with that sadistic demoness. He would much rather face his master's wrath than endure her torturous whims.

"But... Are you certain, my Lord? Mazikeen tends to take her time hunting her prey, meaning she would arrive -... AAAAA!" Quirrell's screams filled the room as an excruciating headache overwhelmed him.

"Do as you're told!" Voldemort spat in rage. "Leave before I find another vessel."

Voldemort closed his eyes, his turban levitating and wrapping itself back around his disfigured head. He had resolved to leave Timothy to the demons; after all, eliminating one was nearly impossible. He had learnt that the hard way when he took 'his' offer.

A mistake he would not repeat.