Begotten

After the incident with the troll, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were much more open to spending time with Moriah, not that they had much time to save for weekends and in between classes considering they weren’t allowed to go into one another’s common rooms.

Still, the small blonde girl was aware that she hadn’t quite broken into their small social circle. She could tell that they didn’t tell her everything and likely weren’t planning on doing so. Often times, the three Gryffindors could be seen roaming the hallways, talking in hushed voices that were cut off completely whenever the Slytherin tried to join them. Moriah wasn’t quite sure what her friends could be talking about that was such a secret—they didn’t seem the type to whisper about bad teachers or cute girls.

Things got fishy during the first Quidditch match of the year when Harry’s broomstick was jinxed. It almost threw him off many times, making Moriah cover her eyes in fear of him falling from fifty feet in the air.

This brought to Moriah’s attention that Harry had a bit of a price on his head. He was the boy who lived, and judging by all of the bad mouthing Draco liked to do in the common room, it was easy to figure out that not everybody at Hogwarts was happy about him attending (mostly the Slytherins and Professor Snape). Actually, Moriah seemed to be the only one in the snake house who didn’t have a problem with him.

Late one morning, close to the winter holidays, Moriah was pulled out of potions. A prefect brought a note from Professor Dumbledore and handed it to Snape who read it quickly before nodding to the first year girl.

She was confused, of course, what does Dumbledore want from me? but followed the older boy without question, letting him lead her through corridor after corridor until they stopped at the end of one where a gargoyle sat.

“Peanut brittle,” the prefect recited, and the gargoyle turned, revealing a narrow staircase.

Moriah stared at it for a second until the boy nudged her. “Go on, then. He’s expecting you.”

Nodding, she stepped onto the first stair, jumping slightly when it began to move like some sort of stone elevator, twisting up, up, up, until she was standing in front of a large doorway.

Raising a shaking hand, she knocked.

“Enter.”

She slowly pushed one heavy door, opening it just widely enough to slip through then stood right in front of it with wide eyes.

Professor Dumbledore looked just like the wizards described in books as he sat behind his desk. His long white hair fell over his shoulders and a pointed hat that matched his robes sat upon his head. Half-moon spectacles sat at the very end of his nose, looking close to falling right off and his blue eyes were shining behind them.

“Miss Priel,” he greeted. “Take a seat.”

She paced over to the chair in front of the desk and sat down, taking just a bit of time to gaze around the room.

It was a circular office, the walls lined with books, and on various tables were little silver gadgets, all of them moving and whirring like strange inventions. Perched on a stand next to the desk was a magnificent bird—red with orange and yellow feathers. It peered at Moriah, tilting its head with almost the same expression of omniscience as Dumbledore himself.

Finally, clearing her throat, Moriah asked, “You wanted to see me, Headmaster?”

He nodded, a small smile on his face. “I did.”

“W-why exactly?” Her fingers twitched in her lap, but the longer she stared at Dumbledore, the calmer she felt.

“I wanted to ask you some questions, actually—about your family.”

Moriah frowned. “Sir, I’m from an orphanage. I don’t know anything about my family. Except…” She thought back to Ollivander’s wand shop.

“Yes?”

“When I got my wand, Mr. Ollivander seemed to know me and my father.”

“Grigorey Priel.”

The blonde nodded. “I never knew him. I was dropped off by a police officer, but…” She couldn’t seem to finish a sentence, mind racing with what she’d learned since she got to Hogwarts, specifically the Sorting Hat. She hadn’t gone a day without thinking of the monologue it had spoken to her. “The hat—“ the pointed to it, sitting on a shelf in the office—“It said something when I was getting sorted.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, very interested, and urged her on.

“It said something about me having dark blood. I think that’s why it put me in Slytherin, but… what did it mean? Dark blood?”

“Ah,” he nodded again but said nothing for a while, gathering his thoughts.

Somewhere inside, Moriah had wanted to ask these questions all along, since the sorting. She still felt so new and inexperienced in the wizarding world, and it didn’t help that she knew next to nothing about herself.

“I believe you come from a line of witches and wizards who were, shall we say, very experienced in the Dark Arts.” Moriah frowned, feeling a pang in her chest. “I am not positive, but after some research, I am getting the distinct impression that your mother was a Gaunt.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“The Gaunts, though not widely known, were a very powerful family. They were also quite mad.” Moriah didn’t like what she was hearing. “However, after several decades, the line seemed to have died out.”

“Seemed to?”

“Yes. The last descendant that I know of was born of Merope Gaunt and a muggle, Tom Riddle. She died after giving birth and I assumed that her son was the last of them. She did have a brother, however, Morfin. I never gave him much thought, especially when it came to parenthood as he was very mentally ill, but alas—“ he gestured to Moriah.

“So you think that this Morfin Gaunt is my, what, great great Grandfather?”

“Just one great, Moriah.”

She sat and stared. This was the first time that she had even an inkling of where she came from, and the more Dumbledore spoke, the more she wished she had stayed in the dark. These Gaunts, he said they were mentally ill and obsessed with the Dark Arts. Did the same fate await her?

“Sir, can I ask, why exactly did you go digging into my supposed family history?”

The Headmaster smiled. “I know every child who attends Hogwarts and, if the student is half-blood or pure-blood, I typically know of their parents. It’s very seldom that I come across a pupil who is a complete mystery.”

“And I was a mystery,” she stated more than inquired.

“Yes. Your sorting was what tipped me off, actually, as the students in Slytherin are all pure-blood with some half-blood wizards sprinkled in.” Dumbledore looked amused as he rubbed his fingers together, small dots of light falling from them in demonstration. “In your case, I only knew your father and felt the need to do a bit of research.”

Moriah sighed and sat back in her chair, feeling overwhelmed and a little defeated. Her head was so full, she thought it might just roll off of her neck.

“You look disappointed.”

The girl let out a humorless laugh, “I don’t quite fancy being from a family of bad wizards.” She could feel her eyes begin to sting and sniffed, looking back up at the Headmaster. “Does this mean that I… I’m gonna be bad?”

“Of course not, my dear!” His voice was suddenly louder and he leaned forward over his desk. “Moriah, you do not have to be anything that you do not want to be. The Gaunts chose to be the dark wizards that they became. Having been separated from them since birth, I think your chances of becoming like any of them are very slim.”

Moriah showed a small smile and breathed a sigh of relief. Everything that came out of Dumbledore’s mouth just sounded so right

“So, am I the last one—the last of the Gaunts?”

The old wizard paused for a second, looking at the girl across from him, then answered, “No. There is one more.”

“And where are they?”

Dumbledore smiled and stood up. “That, I’m afraid, is a story for another time. Now come, let’s get you back to class.”

Moriah got up from the large chair and followed him out of the office, feeling light-hearted and dangerously curious at the same time.