Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

[A/N]: Round 3 of QLFC!

Word Count: 2751-3000

Prompt: Bats

Optional Prompts:

(occasion) first day of school;

(quote) 'All we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us.' – JRR Tolkien.


"Death loves you, Tom Riddle," she whispers into his ear. Her hand slides beneath his shirt, and he fights the urge to flinch away from her icy touch. "Why do you fear her so?"

"I fear nothing," he says, but it sounds weak even to his ears. She laughs, a sound that is both beautiful and chilling.

"All mortals fear something."

He can't even bite his lip to stop the words from spilling out. The truth is pulled from him before he even realises that he is speaking; it slips off his tongue as easily as water rolls off steel, despite his mind screaming its protests. "I am no mortal."

The helplessness washes over him like nausea. Dark spots dance in front of him, as the rising panic in his chest threatens to break free from its feeble constraints.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" she says, and he can hear the condescending smile in her voice. A cold hand grabs hold of his chin with inhuman strength and forces it up.

His wild eyes dart around before settling on her. His heart stutters at the sight of her eyes, a chilling blue filled with cruel amusement he has not seen from her before. Her lips are curved up into a pleased smirk, and her dark curls swept up onto her head elaborately, stray locks framing her face – her face that is bare inches away from his.

He swallows audibly, unable to stop his fear and uncertainty from leaking through.

Her eyes light up, as though she can sense his fear. Like an animal, he thinks spitefully.

Her smile takes on a much more predatory edge and that spite flees him.

Not an animal. A beast.

"Say the rest, Tom Riddle," she says, pressing her cool lips to the corner of his mouth. "One word. I'll even give you a gift, if you do so." She pulls out a small vial filled with dark, swirling liquid.

"Why would I want a gift from you?" he asks, even as he stares at the vial. He doesn't know what potion it is, but he can feel the magic that radiates from it. It prickles across his skin; it's unlike anything he has ever known before.

She smiles, and trails butterfly kisses over the vein that pulses in his throat. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. "It's very simple, Tom Riddle. This is the only potion in the world that requires three whole, live bats." She pulls away to look him in the eye. "Dic Mihi Mors."


"Hello," he said, a ready, polite smile on his lips. "Are you alright? You look lost." The girl in front of him was not one he had seen before. Yet, she looked to be around his age.

She looked up. Absently, Tom thought that she was rather beautiful. She had the aristocratic features of old pureblood families – angular cheekbones and arched eyebrows that lent her a proud and dignified air – though it was not likely she was one; he had made sure he was familiar with all of the Ancient or Noble (or both) European houses. Even so, she looked every bit a pureblood heiress.

"I'm afraid I am lost," she spoke softly. "I have an appointment with Headmaster Dippet in his office. However, he forgot to give me any directions."

Inwardly, Tom sneered at the Headmaster's incompetency. "Ah," he said instead, arranging his features into a look of mild amusement. "Yes, Professor Dippet can be absent-minded at times. I'll take you there."

She gave him a smile. "I am grateful," she said.

"It is my pleasure," said Tom, holding out his elbow, which she took gracefully. Deliberately leading her through a longer route to Dippet's office, he began his subtle interrogation, "My name is Tom Riddle, by the way."

"Tom Riddle. The Head Boy," she said. When his name left her lips, her voice was layered with something indescribable. It sounded dangerously close to fascination, but… softer. He eyes flickered to her, yet her face was smooth as marble, no scruples; only polite interest. "Professor Dippet mentioned you in our correspondence. I believe he referred to you as his 'star pupil'."

Tom chuckled. "Professor Dippet is too kind."

"Oh, but from what I've heard, your reputation is more than deserved. Your, ah, role in the situation with the Chamber of Secrets was admirable."

The air shifted slightly as he tensed. There was something in her voice that made the sentence far less innocent than it seemed to be. Even though her tone was light and conversational, and her posture open and relaxed; her hesitant phrasing instantly set him on alert.

He cleared his throat, loosening his taut muscles slightly, though he was nowhere near as comfortable as he had been before. "I was merely fortunate to have caught the perpetrator with his guard down." He didn't let his contempt for the half-breed oaf seep into his voice.

"I see." For a moment, Tom had an awful, plummeting feeling in his stomach at her words. For a moment, he wondered if she really did see.

Then, the moment passed, and Tom chastised himself for acting like a fool. "Forgive me, but I don't believe I'd gotten your name."

She tilted her face upwards, wearing a look of vague embarrassment. "My apologies, Mr. Riddle." The corner of his lips tightened – such a minute change, a nearly imperceptible breach in his mask for only the barest of seconds – and she paused. "Do you dislike being called Mr. Riddle?"

He fought to push the shock and discomfort down and lock it away for the moment. "Mr. Riddle is fine. I just prefer being called Tom," he said.

"Very well, then, Tom," she said, her blue eyes seeming to pierce through him. To his horror, he almost fidgeted under her gaze. "As for my name, it is Giltine de Rossi. Since you have allowed me the courtesy of calling you by your given name, it is only fair I do the same."

Tom's brow furrowed in confusion. "This may seem rude, but if I may ask – I do not believe Giltine is an Italian name?"

"It isn't," was all she said, before drawing to a stop. With a jolt, Tom realised they had arrived in front of the gargoyle statue that was the entrance to the Headmaster's office. More time had passed than he had thought. "It was a pleasure, Tom. Again, I am most grateful for your assistance."

"Not at all, Giltine," he hesitated over her name. "You were delightful company."

When she smiled this time, it was almost blinding.

"I am glad."

As he walked away, Tom realised, with no small amount of discomfort, that she had somehow managed to deflect all his probes. It seemed he had somehow become the questioned, instead of the questioner.


"SLYTHERIN!"

Tom clapped along politely, a bland smile hiding his curiosity. Giltine walked to their table, her eyes zeroing in on him. "Hello again, Tom Riddle," she said, once she was close enough. All his Slytherins' ears seemed to twitch as they tried to act as nonchalantly as possible, while still listening in on the conversation.

Inwardly, Tom sighed – the House of cunning and subtlety, indeed. They were practically panting for information.

"Giltine de Rossi," he said, smothering his surprise. Her cool eyes danced with unnerving amusement. "You're a student."

"Indeed I am. You sound shocked," she said, arching an eyebrow. He was uncomfortably reminded why yesterday's brief exchange with her set his eye off twitching for an hour afterwards.

"You seem too beautiful to be a mere student," he replied with a light smirk. He glanced at Avery, narrowing his eyes. His housemate quickly shuffled down the bench to make space.

He was surprised again when Giltine laughed, a melodic sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand, and slipped into the recently vacated seat. "Oh, Tom," she said. "You are a charming one, aren't you?"

"I am just voicing my sincerest opinion," said Tom.

She chuckled, and triumph shot through him. She was a mystery, this Giltine, and a potential threat from the ease with which she saw through him. Charming her, as he did so many others, was the first step into unravelling her secrets and finding her weaknesses.

"What brings you to Hogwarts?" he asked, determined not to leave this time without more information.

"A change in scenery," she answered, just as the food magically appeared onto the table in front of her.

"From?" he pressed.

"Italy," she said, buttering her toast deftly.

Tom suppressed his frustration.

"Would you mind terribly if I asked you to escort me to class after breakfast?" asked Giltine. "I would hate to be late on my first day of school. And, well, as you already know, I do not know my way around very well."

He nearly jumped at the opportunity, but restrained himself with a smile. The Slytherins who knew him better seemed to shiver at the glint of teeth in it, but Giltine paid no mind, too busy spooning baked beans onto her plate. "I do not mind at all," he said. "May I see your schedule? Perhaps we have the same classes for some."

"Of course," she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out her timetable. He glanced down at it, and his eyes widened. "Is something wrong?" He wondered if he was the only one who heard the faint note of amusement in her voice. But when he looked at her, all he saw was concern and confusion.

Tom cleared his throat and handed her back her schedule. "No. I was only surprised – your schedule is identical to mine." All around, the Slytherin students turned and stared at the latest addition to their House. It was well-known that Tom took all subjects available, short of Muggle Studies – and he was the only student to do so, because he was the only student whom the teachers believed could survive the workload.

Giltine gave a delighted smile. "But that's wonderful!" she said.

"Indeed," he said, with a forced grin that looked anything but at home on his usually serene face. "We have Potions first. Perhaps you could be my partner for today?"

"It would be my pleasure," she said.

Her smile became edged, but Tom did not notice.


His dark eyes are wide as they stare at the little potion. Settled comfortably on his lap, she merely smirks, wrapping a thick, dark lock of hair around her finger. "You lie," he says flatly.

"It is rude to call a lady a liar, Tom Riddle," she says, a giggle escaping her.

His hands, bound behind his chair, jerk. "I think we have passed rudeness long ago, Giltine." He eyes her coldly. "Is that even your name?"

"Giltine, yes. De Rossi? No."

His jaw clenches as he hears the truth he already knows.

She gives him a sly look and shifts on his lap. The friction pulls a growl from him. "I grow impatient, Tom Riddle. Give me one word. Just one word, and this potion is yours." She presses the cold glass against his lips. "It's real – I swear on my magic; this potion is the one known as Dic Mihi Mors." As she speaks the vow, he stiffens as her hot, intense magic flares and seeps into every corner of the room.

He cannot stop the look of disbelief from showing on his face. It is the genuine potion. It has to be. She swore on her magic.

"One word," she murmurs repeatedly as she runs her cold hands over the length of his body. "One word, Tom Riddle."

He chokes down a gasp when she bites into the side of his neck, sucking gently. He shuts his eyes and tries to fight the heat that coils in his stomach.

She pulls away. His eyes open, and he is greeted her reddened, plump lips and her eyes darkened with something greedy, a consuming fire. Self-loathing thuds through his veins like a poison for his near inability to think.

"Horcrux," he breathes. "Get off of me."

She claps happily, and pushes the vial into his shaking hands. No dancing around this time – she kisses him, hard and passionate, and slips her tongue out to stroke his bottom lip. When he is breathless and dazed, she peels herself off his body and stands.

Her victorious smirk when a grunt of protest escapes him makes him want to Crucio her.


Three months after Giltine came to Hogwarts, Tom found himself in a hidden alcove with her, reading as he idly played with her hair. She leaned against him, her quill scratching as she scribbled down facts about the most impossibly obscure potions he had ever seen.

He peered over her head, trying to ignore the faint but sweet scent that wafted up to his nose, originating from a purple flower she had tucked behind her ear. "It's better to dice the bat wings," he said as his eyes scanned her notes on the brewing of a potion that caused the user's hair to turn into snakes.

She glanced up at him. "Why?"

"Bats have very little inherent magic," he replied, reluctantly surprised she did not know this. "In smaller pieces, more magic seeps from the wings."

Giltine hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps."

She made no move to change her notes. Tom twitched.

She caught it. She never missed anything.

"Oh, my dear," she laughed. "Do not worry." Tom scowled. "I know what I am doing; this potion requires the bats to be whole."

Now, he frowned. He wasn't aware that any such potion existed. He should know – he had read every book in the Hogwarts library. All potions books, dating back to the time of the Founders, agreed that any part of a bat used must be diced finely for it to be of any worth. "Forgive me," he said, dropping a kiss on her temple. "I trust you."

Pale pink dusted Giltine's high cheeks lightly. Her lips twitched into a small smile, as she tipped her head back. "And I, you."

A lie, he knew. But it mattered not; he lied, too, after all.


She pricks his finger gently with a silver blade. A drop of blood slides into the vial of Dic Mihi Mors. The dark liquid bubbles briefly, before stilling.

"Now, we wait," she says, settling back into her chair.

"How long?"

She shrugs. "You have not answered my question, Tom Riddle," she says instead.

He bites back a retort. "What question?"

"Why do you fear Death?" Giltine leans forward. "You, who have gone far beyond what many mortals dare to do. You already have two, don't you? And you plan to have more."

"I only have one," lies Tom.

She gives him a faintly pitying look. "That was not even a good lie, Tom Riddle. Do not worry. I have no intention of stopping your plans. Nor will I interfere after this. I have no interest in your… Horcruxes," her lips curls as she says the word.

"Then why are you here?" he demands.

"To see you," she says simply. "I was interested. Still am. I want to understand why you fear death so much. You cannot avoid it forever, Tom Riddle, yet you will do anything to delay it as best as you can."

"I already am immortal," he sneers.

"Perhaps," says Giltine non-committedly. "Perhaps not."

"There is no 'perhaps' about it. My Horcruxes will sustain me forever."

She turns and looks him straight in the eye. For the first time, Tom sees the stirrings of a horrible, cold fury in her. He swallows nervously. "You taunt Death. Death does not take kindly to being taunted. Have care, Tom Riddle, and know this – none can escape Death forever. Your actions have drawn Death's attention and ire."

"You speak as if Death is a sentient entity," he observes.

Giltine ignores him. "For one so disdainful of Muggles, you lack their wisdom." Again, she ignores his scoffing. "All we have to decide is what to do with the time given to us. You would do well to know this. And so far, your choices have only served to shorten your time further. The clock is ticking, Tom Riddle. The candle of your life burns lower and lower."

Tom lurches forward, his own fury bursting through. "What do you know, you mad bitch!" His cheeks flush with anger. "You fucking – filthy fucking liar!" he screams out a string of obscenities.

Her only response is to roll her eyes, which only sets him off more.

"Oh, look," she cuts across him smoothly. "It's ready."

That silences him.

She holds up the vial in the air. The potion within is clear, with a faint, red tinge. "Are you ready?" she arches an eyebrow at him.

Breathing heavily, he gives her a jerky nod.

She smashes it onto the ground.

He leans forward eagerly. The liquid shifts and stirs and moves across the cold stone floor, arranging itself into dates and letters.

He frowns as they form more than one line. His jaw drops as they continue forming lines after the second, after the third, the fourth… on and on, until it reaches the eighth. The last line, in elegant cursive that says '2 May, 1998', is blood red. In fact, a few of the lines before that one says '2 May, 1998', as well.

"What the fuck does this mean?" he demands, eyes wild.

"It means what it means," she says.

He is transfixed by the dates before him. The gears of his mind turn and turn, before his eyes widen and his horror flashes across his face.

"Death is painless, Tom Riddle." His head jerks up, only to find a wand pointed at his head. "Do not fret."

"You fucking –"

"Obliviate."


When he wakes, Tom remembers the ghost of cool lips on his own.

He glances at the ground. A dim image surfaces in his mind, but it bleeds away before he can grasp it.

He flexes his wrists, wondering why they are sore, why he is sleeping in a chair in an empty classroom. He thinks he has had a dream about poisoned kisses, bats and potions. But he isn't sure.

Only a name remains, a name that sends a shiver down his spine whenever he speaks it.

Giltine.

Death.