You may want to read this A/N!

Hey guys. So this is one of my older OCs that I've previously written a one-shot about, called "Rainy Days Are Just Full of Surprises." You don't really need to read that one to understand this one, but I thought I would mention it in case I confuse literally everyone with this story. Just so you know, this character of Rhea has a long, long story with Tom which has romance and danger and adventure, but the story still only lives in my head. I'm writing some of it, but it might get more attention when I'm not pursuing a college degree. However, I'd still love and appreciate some feedback on my OC and my writing. Feel free to leave me some strongly worded critique if you'd like. Thanks. And Happy New Year, I guess!

Albus Dumbledore had been searching for clues on Lord Voldemort's whereabouts for years. Anything that might be of some interest was thoroughly inspected. Yet, Dumbledore found little. The diary, Marvolo Gaunt's ring… but what else was Lord Voldemort hiding?

In Harry Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Professor Dumbledore delved into all the memories of Tom Riddle. But nothing helped. Until the small (but growing more heroic every day) Harry Potter pointed out one tiny detail he had continuously missed.

"Professor, who is that girl? Beside Riddle at Slughorn's party? She's the only girl there and she's smiling at Riddle."

Oh, yes. The girl. How could Dumbledore forget Rhea Philips? What had ever happened to her, anyways? Her relationship with Riddle had always been tumultuous, maybe she had been murdered long ago.

After dismissing the boy, he researched her, where she had gone. Nothing immediately turned up, save for a mansion purchased by Rhea's father in 1946. This was particularly odd for two reasons: the first being that the Philips were a prominent pureblood family who already inherited a large and luxurious mansion in the Irish countryside with no need for an additional home. The other peculiarity was that the mansion was located in Albania, a country for which Dumbledore knew Voldemort had a particular affinity.

It could have been nothing, but something tugged at Dumbledore's beard demanding he visit this Albanian property.

He apparated to the address, just before the mansion's massive outer fence. He called it a 'fence,' but it was really more of a wall. A stone wall, cracking and covered in lichen that had stained its surface. It rose almost ten feet above the ground and pointed metal poles stuck out from the top layer of stone. Very uninviting.

He traveled along the wall's edge, mist encircling the air around him and making the Albanian forest to his right even more menacing. Eventually, he found the front gate. A colossal display of metalwork, old vines looping in and out of the iron, forming a lattice of manmade overtaken by the natural. There was no lock on the gate, and Dumbledore simply heaved one side and pushed through.

The manor was certainly stately, or it had been once. Now, the grounds were unkempt and overruled by weeds and leaves and shrubbery. If he had to guess, Dumbledore would say the mansion was empty, forgotten. But it didn't hurt to check it out.

He walked up to the oak double doors to find them locked. "Alohomora," he stated, his wand drawn from his robes. The lock did not open. "Alohomora Duo," Dumbledore tried.

After a click, the door creaked open, revealing an immaculately pristine home beneath. Marbled floors, intricate chandeliers hanging from vaulted ceilings. It was beautiful, to be sure. And looked lived in, cared for.

Dumbledore lifted his wand and stepped lightly. He was now on guard. On the off chance that Voldemort lurked about this home, Dumbledore would be ready.

He walked about, searching room after room. To his right, he discovered a large ballroom. He imagined ghostly figures dancing gracefully past him. The ballroom must have been splendid once, but it seemed lonely now with its bare dance floor.

What sounded like a ceramic dish crashed to floor in a nearby room. The kitchen perhaps? Dumbledore investigated, wand still at the ready. Entering the kitchen, he saw a small house elf snap her fingers and the plate returned to its original state.

He took a chance. "Excuse me," Dumbledore spoke. The house elf quickly turned to the voice and jumped at its sudden obtrusiveness. "I was hoping you could take me to your master."

"Thief! Thief!" she screamed, pointing at Dumbledore with large, house elf eyes. He nonverbally cast Muffliato so no one else in the home would be alerted.

"No, no. I'm no thief. I'm an old friend of your master's. Could you take me to him?" He spoke calmly and with confidence. This seemed to confuse the house elf.

"Master? Master has not been here in many years. Rosie can take you to Mistress if Rosie is allowed."

She accepted his explanation rather easily, he would say. Rosie didn't seem to be the epitome of intelligence, luckily for Dumbledore.

"Yes, Rosie. I would very much like that."

Rosie nodded and wiped her impish hands on the cloth of her dark brown dress. She seemed to be taken care of better than some of the pureblood-owned house elves he had previously seen. She began to walk to a door opposite him, waving him to follow.

"Why hasn't your master returned in a while, Rosie?"

"Rosie doesn't know, she doesn't. Rosie was never told where he went. But Rosie still serves Mistress. Mistress is kind to Rosie." She led him up a small staircase (what he assumed was once a servant's stairwell, barely big enough for him to fit).

"And who is your Mistress, Rosie?"

Rosie stopped dead and looked at him. "Sir doesn't know? Then sir shouldn't be here. Thief! Thief!" she began to scream once again.

With a quick reflex, Dumbledore cast Quiesco. Rosie dropped to the ground, in a deep sleep. She would wake in a few hours, none the wiser. He hoped whoever was in the house had not heard her scream.

Once on the second floor, Dumbledore could hear the faint scratching of pen on paper and pages turning. It must have been Rosie's mistress. He stepped lightly towards the door, a light shining from beneath its frame. His feet padded carefully on the wooden floors, cautious not to step on any of the nails in the boards.

He lightly opened the door, his wand still drawn. Before him sat a woman. He could not see the details of her face, for she sat with her back turned to him, but she was clearly panning through a large book.

"Rosie, was that you making all that noise downstairs? What could possibly have you in such a tizzy?" the woman asked, her hand running through chestnut hair.

Dumbledore had seen that hair before. He lowered his wand.

"I'm afraid it's not Rosie, my dear," the old wizard said. The woman jumped from her seat and turned to face the apparent intruder. She grabbed her wand from the desk she had just been sitting at, and pointed it at Dumbledore.

"P-Professor Dumbledore?" she questioned, a wrinkle forming on her forehead. How could he be here?

"Miss Rhea Philips. I certainly didn't expect this." Her look of confusion was matched by a look of his own. Rhea should have been about seventy-years-old, and yet she stood before him much unchanged from her days at Hogwarts. Her hair was styled differently, and she certainly wore the clothes of a refined adult, but she was only a few years older than the Rhea he had taught in Transfiguration.

"Actually, Professor," she lowered her wand and her countenance. "It's Rhea Riddle now. Or 'my lady,' if you're somehow now a Deatheater."

Dumbledore swallowed hard, and adjusted his half-moon spectacles. Rhea Riddle? Just what had happened to this poor girl? "My dear girl, how is this possible? You look like you've barely aged a day."

Rhea exhaled. "Have a seat, professor. Make yourself comfortable. We'll catch up." She gestured to the sitting area to her left. Dumbledore could just barely glance at her hand. Sure enough, a small band entrapped her ring finger.

He made his way to a leather loveseat as she quickly closed the book on the desk and joined him, though choosing a chair opposite him.

"It's a miracle I passed Potions, you know," she said, seemingly unwarranted. "Well, less of a miracle and more of Tom's influence. As bad as I was at Potions, I also was pretty damn good at charms. Top of my year in the OWLs and NEWTs in Charms class. I'd even started creating my own during my seventh year. It wasn't so difficult; I seemed to be born to it naturally as a Philips." She paused and took a breath. "I taught Tom everything I knew about it. We were trying to create a spell to make him immortal, so he'd get rid of his horrible idea. I knew what his lunatic plans could do—what it did do—to him."

"What idea, Rhea?" Dumbledore interjected.

"I can't say. Tom's had a Tongue-Tying Curse cast on me since he mentioned it. But I can tell you this: he succeeded in what he was doing. He'll stay immortal until someone stops him."

Dumbledore sighed. If she could just tell him what Lord Voldemort had done, everything would be so much simpler.

"Anyways," Rhea continued. "When Tom made me marry him a couple of years out of Hogwarts, he had fiddled around with our Immortality Charm enough to make it work, though he had altered a great deal of it. He created a potion with sand from a time-turner and used a charm to activate it. He made me drink it before our wedding. He said he wanted me around, to torture me as long as possible. Cruel, really. The potion didn't exactly grant me immortality, but my life is now tethered to the caster. I'd be trapped in time, my life now depending on Tom's. And when your caster is immortal…"

"So are you," Dumbledore finished. "You don't age at all then?"

"No. Though Tom admits that effect was unintended. Something about the time-turner sand, I guess."

It was silent in the room for a while. Rhea cast her eyes to the side and glanced at the bookshelf in the room.

Dumbledore couldn't help but pity her, though he knew she had brought some of it upon herself. He remembered an exchange they once had, after Transfiguration. He warned her that Tom was dangerous. With a smirk, she replied, "I can take care of myself, professor. But thank you for the concern, as unfounded as it is." He had seen it in her eyes—rebellion. She had known what she was doing then. Now she simply looked uncertain.

"I know why you're here, professor, but I haven't seen him in almost twenty years. He hasn't come back for his 'queen' in all that time. Aside from what I've already told you, there isn't much else to say." She still hadn't turned back to him. It struck him as suspicious.

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

She shook her head.

"You know he's done horrible things, Miss Philips," he said. She noticed the use of her maiden name.

"I know. But as much as Lord Voldemort haunts my nightmares, Tom Riddle fills my dreams. Somewhere, though it may be buried deep within, is the boy I fell in love with all those years ago."

"You love him, even now?" He asked. She finally raised her eyes to meet his in a look of utter defiance.

"Always, professor."

He would never understand these proclamations of undying love.

"You can't help him, Miss Philips." Dumbledore tilted his head and stroked his beard. It was the first time in decades that she felt as young as she looked. "He has chosen his path."

Rhea twisted the ring on her finger. "Yes, yes, I know. The prophecy. He'll die by that boy's hand. Harry Potter's hand." She at least had ties to the outer world. Knew what was happening even if she couldn't be present for it. Silence filled the room yet again.

"You should go, professor. I really can't help you. And he might figure out you've come if you're here long enough. The whole place is charmed. You wouldn't want to know what he'd do to me if he you knew I had been talking to you."

He could certainly guess.

"Alright, Miss Philips. Are you sure you won't join me? You could leave this place and Tom."

Rhea shook her head. "I can't. I can't leave, I mean. Like I said, the place is charmed. I haven't been outside in thirty years."

He sighed again. She was truly a prisoner to him. His slave. Less freedom than a Deatheater. He wondered if some part of Tom Riddle did really love Rhea, wanted her safe, wanted her to be his forever, but he dismissed the thought. This wasn't love, but obsession and possession.

"I will return for you, Miss Philips. When it is safe." Dumbledore stood to leave. He lifted his wand to apparate.

"Professor," she stopped him just in time. "What do you suppose will happen to me? You know, when Tom dies. What will happen to the curse?" She knew what he would say, but she wanted to hear him say it.

He looked down at her. At those crystal blue eyes and domineering cheekbones. "Well…perhaps the curse will be broken and you'll simply start aging again, able to live a normal life again. Or maybe time will simply catch up with you, and you'll be able to carry out your life as an old woman." He paused, inspecting the way her lower lip trembled. "Or…Or time will take back what was stolen from it, violently. In that case…"

"Yes?"

"You'll die."

Rhea bent her head. "Goodbye, Professor Dumbledore. I'll see you again when this is all over."

"Goodbye, Miss Philips."

Rhea heard the characteristic noises of apparition, and then Dumbledore was gone, leaving Rhea to her lonesome once again. She had no idea it would be the last time she saw the great wizard, and she was simply forgotten yet again. Lord Voldemort's forgotten queen, enshrouded by a prison of her own making.

Thanks for reading. Leave a review if you have time! If there is a ton of people calling for more, then I can hopefully work on Rhea's saga more.