A/N:Thank you to the lovely reviewers Millie and Aidis from last chapter! Such lovely words; it makes me squeal like an idiot XD
This is a bit of a wordy chapter - at least at the beginning - and just a precaution both for what even I consider to be a little confusing as well as for what is quite obviously dubious-consent (though nothing explicit, only referenced). Hope you like the chapter!

Chapter 11: A Dangerous Mind

With a soft sigh, Salomé opened her eyes. She hurt all over, but that was hardly something particularly unusual. She'd long since detached herself from any hurts the soft comfort of the mattress failed to alleviate. The bruises in the shape of fingers, the ache of muscles pushed to distress, the strain of limbs stretched into awkward shapes. She knew it all. Those hurts hardly even fazed her anymore.

The bed, while comfortable enough, was never one Salomé would find herself able to sleep in. Not because it was slightly too short – because it wasn't – or the silken sheets were a little worn – because they weren't. It was because of the memories that those sheets held, and because of the other occupant that always shared it with her. It was a fact she tried to overlook to allow for a semblance of sleep, yet often failed at doing quite marvellously. Abandoning awareness was one of many ways to ignore the discomfort of the Dark Lord's presence.

For the umpteenth time over the past two weeks, Salomé found herself contemplating her visit to Grimmauld Place. Niggling at the series of events that exploded in that brief occurrence had become something of a study of interest to her. The memories resurfaced in every instant that she allowed her mind to wander in even slight drifting.

There was too much to consider. The brief – very brief – meeting with those who had once been her friends. The confrontation with familiar yet near-forgotten faces; Sirius, Remus, Mr and Mr Weasley, Fred and George. Then seeing Ron, Hermione and Ginny once more. It had been discomforting to the extreme, a degree to which Salomé had only just managed to maintain her composure throughout. Long-discarded memories had resurfaced from the moment she had stepped through the door into the bare, gloomy room filled only with seats and a fireplace. Memories she'd thought long buried and thrust firmly into the past.

Clearly they had not been quite so firmly discarded.

But it was more than that. More than even the discomforting meeting with the more amicable figures from her past. The darkened memory of her confrontation with her old professors, with Dumbledore, had fought fiercely for precedence in her thoughts over the past weeks. It had been both irksome and comforting to have Cedric's presence alongside her throughout; she disliked relying upon others, especially to fight her battles for her. That was not what Salomé had intended his accompaniment to be for. It irritated her to consider that he saw it as his role in the slightest do so. And yet at the same time… no, comforting wasn't quite the right word. She felt nothing so tender and kind-hearted. Empowering, perhaps? For though Salomé had scolded him into quelling his temper, there had been the very definite knowledge that, had she urged him, Cedric would attack any who thought to threaten her, would be upon them like a hound siccing a fox. Yes, empowering was a very applicable word.

And yet oddly… reassuring?

Then there was mention of the Horcruxes. Salomé had already suspected much of the information Dumbledore had cordially provided her with, but suspicions were far removed from confirmation. It was invigorating, encouraging on an entirely foreign level, to discover that, quite without her direct action, her plans were reaching fruition. A strange excitement, almost giddiness, would suffuse Salomé should she dwell upon such thoughts for too long.

So she didn't dwell upon them. She actively avoided thinking about them, even. Riddle was particularly sensitive to passing thoughts that regarded him, and adept as she was at Occulmency, Salomé hardly felt the desire to bait the snake into action.

Turning her head slightly, she drew her gaze towards where Riddle lay. His own was turned towards the ceiling, affording her the sight of his profile, pale against the darkness of the bedding sheets. His hair was still perfectly curled, not a tussle in sight and far too immaculate considering their situation. The arm he wrapped almost negligibly around Salomé's waist was not tight yet neither was it loose and permitting of movement; he held her exactly where he wanted her to be, no questions asked. History dictated that should she attempt to resist his hold, more bruises would follow. Salomé had enough new smears of discolouration arising from the last hour to want to seek to acquire more. She knew better than that.

Riddle had been talking, was still talking. Salomé registered the flow of his words in a distracted state, barely listening enough to respond in an adequate sense. It was all the same as it always was when they conversed alone; self-righteous indignation, disgust at those who had 'failed so profoundly at the very duty they were appointed', and generally expressing hatred for humanity as a whole. Because that was Riddle. And that was what he used Salomé for, as much as for sex, and as much as to act as the doll that hung off his arm at formal events. She was a sounding board for his complaints, a pair of ears to catch the hissing words that would otherwise manifest into violent curses and disfiguring hexes.

Salomé had worked hard to force those curses into the non-magical variety. She didn't mind being simply a pair of ears for him to grumble into either, so long as he didn't take out his frustrations on her physically as he was want to do much of the time anyway. At times it was even amusing, especially because she knew what she could do with such information.

"… impossible to discern the mindset of such an idiot of a man. He should have his wand snapped and his tongue removed."

Salomé skimmed her thoughts, picking through the last few moments of conversation she'd unconsciously picked up to discern exactly whom Riddle was referring to. "Davak is just a boy. Idiot though he may be, he could not be more than fifteen," she murmured, disregarding the mental reminder that 'fifteen' was but a few years younger than Salomé was herself.

"Such stupidity will only exacerbate with age. He is a Confundus Charm in the working synchrony of the Junior Judiciary Department. A continuation of his position will only wreak chaos in the minds of the young purebloods I attempt to impose the proper manner upon." He paused, the barest touch of a slight frown settling on his smooth forehead. "I should kill him."

Salomé snorted with as much delicacy as she could care to enforce. "No, you shouldn't."

Riddle's eyes shifted towards her, a movement that disregarded the need to turn his head from the pillow. "Are you presuming to tell me what to do, Salomé?" He said, his voice was low and not yet dangerous but still a precursor of such.

Shaking her head and sighing with forced casualness, Salomé stretched, shifted, and pressed herself with further seeming casualness into Riddle's side. The warmth of skin on smooth skin wasn't as appealing as it should have been, but she had long since habituated herself to the discomfort of such contact. "Not at all, my Lord. I merely wished to highlight the dangers of such an approach to this… problem."

"Dangers? What possible danger could present itself to me?"

There was such confidence, such disdainful assurance in Riddle's voice that Salomé had to bite back another sigh. A real one, this time, and tinged with very real disgust. "The fact that Henry Davak is the son of Victoria Davak, and that killing him would likely leave her somewhat… disgruntled."

Riddle continued his quiet, sidelong regard for a moment. He was not an unintelligent man, far from it, and the fact that he had overlooked the very influential parentage of the Davak boy was merely a result of his often overwhelming single-mindedness; he was shaping the next generation of pureblood wizards, and the boy was impeding his work. As such he needed to be removed. Eliminated. That was simply how Riddle saw it.

At Salomé's words, however, a modicum of consideration seemed to settle upon him. He nodded slightly. "This is true. Victoria Davak could very well influence the vote on the new curfews being passed. If she dared."

"She would dare," Salomé interrupted. She rolled slightly, shifting to prop an arm beneath her cheek. Riddle's arm tightened unconsciously around her waist at the movement, uncomfortably tight with fingers digging into her hip sharply, but she ignored it. "Victoria could very well manage to sway the minds of at least half of the Committee without any of them being the wiser."

"And hence leave no trace of her workings," Riddle muttered tightly. His frustration was short-lived, however. "Fine. I won't kill him, but only because to rid myself of both Davaks would cause discontent. A week or so in my dungeons under Bella's hand might do to shake some intelligence into him."

Not likely, Salomé thought, but held her tongue. It would not do to push Riddle too far, to so bluntly dispute his tendency towards violence. Not that he saw it as violence, for that was the thing about Riddle; he lacked empathy and even the ability to feel pity. Salomé doubted he even truly felt pain, and as such simply couldn't fathom the damage such could inflict upon another.

Still, the Davak boy didn't deserve to be tortured into insanity, which was what Bellatrix Lestrange would undoubtedly resort to after a day or two of 'playing'. The woman was arguably even more dangerous than Riddle in that she would not listen to any semblance of reason when her mind was set. Unless by express order of her master, Bellatrix would walk through fire to complete a mission and continue to drag herself burned and bleeding to her goal. No, the boy did not deserve insanity, despite the fact that he was very much an idiot; Salomé had met him and had barely been able to hold an entire conversation with him without twitching herself.

But more than the boy, Victoria didn't deserve that. For whatever reason – call it the unconditional love of a parent or some other unfortunate inclination – Victoria doted upon her stupid son. He'd become the world to her after her husband died, and though Salomé could hardly stand to speak two words to the boy, she respected his mother. Victoria was an artist of politics, a spider spinning her intricate webs. She was a master and she didn't deserve to have her life torn apart because of a passing vexation of the Dark Lord.

"I do believe there is an alternative option to inflicting the boy upon Bellatrix,' Salomé said slowly, considering each word carefully before speaking. "Perhaps something that could be more advantageous."

Riddle had averted his gaze from Salomé to contemplate the ceiling once more at that point, but at her words he slowly drew them towards her once more. He even graced her with a turn of his head. "Oh? And what might that be? I fail to see how the boy could in any way be useful to me."

Allowing a smile to curl her lips, adding just a hint of malice for creep forth, Salomé shrugged one shoulder. "Not intentionally, no. But have you considered… suggesting a marriage for him?"

Raising an eyebrow, Riddle pinched sharply at Salomé's hip. He did that sometimes, seeming to forget that her skin was sensitive enough to feel pain, even if it was only an echo of the real thing after such familiarity. Not that he would have cared or regretted his actions had he realised. Quite the opposite, there had been a time when the only thing Riddle had shown Salomé was pain. "Marry off the fool? Any family left with him would end in disaster. It is an inconceivable notion, Salomé."

"Unless…" Salomé continued, averting her eyes across the wide, shadowed room towards the distant fireplace in an attempt to appear thoughtful. As though his words caused her to reconsider the situation. "Unless it was to a family that would struggle under his burdensome relatedness. Struggle in an advantageous sense to you, of course."

She didn't need to glance towards Riddle to know he was smiling. A moment later her suspicions were confirmed by his soft chuckle. It was terrifying, that humour, and after so many years it still managed to send shivers down Salomé's spine. "What a remarkably devious little bird I've in my possession," he sighed, and with a single tug of his arm managed to draw her from her position alongside him until she was atop of him instead.

Salomé urged her expression into smiling into a mirror of his own as she folded her arms across his chest, dropping her chin onto her forearms. The jut of hipbones, of hard muscle beneath her, was nearly discomforting enough to urge her physical withdrawal. "I have learnt from an apt Master."

"Yes," Riddle hummed. "And you are certainly my most adept pupil." He cupped a hand to the back of Salomé's head and drew her towards him. Not to kiss, however. Salomé knew as soon as he abruptly closed his eyes that it wouldn't be to kiss. Instead he set his nose towards her forehead, inhaling sharply as though partaking of the scent of a flower. It was a fairly customary motion, but one she nonetheless still found unnerving. It reminded her too much of an overly assertive dog. "And did you perhaps have in mind a victim of such a disastrous union?"

"I did," Salomé replied. "But I will cede that your own opinions would certainly be more reasonable than my own."

It was a dangled carrot, Salomé knew. She'd played the game so many times she could almost do so in her sleep with nothing but her unconscious mind to direct her tongue. To tempt Riddle to seek her opinion with flattery and degrading of her own intelligence, for even subtle flattery, not quite compliments, worked a treat. And just as she'd intended, Riddle fell for her suggestion. He drew away from her forehead until they were staring at one another but an inch away. "A pathetic union, and one that would benefit me… the boy would suit the Margo girl or her cousin perfectly. Or perhaps Yallis? But come, my dear, share your thoughts."

Salomé fought the urge to draw back from his intent gaze. It had always unnerved her, staring into the dark flatness of his eyes that held no more life and expression than the coldly chiselled stone of a statue. It was a constant battle, and she usually avoided it at all costs, and not only for the heightened exposure to Legilimancy that she was afflicted with. To know that such a one so devoid of humanity existed – and more than that, effectively ruled Wizarding Britain – was horrifying to be reminded of time and time again.

Salomé didn't draw away. Instead, she settled for letting her smile widen further, tilting her head slightly. "What of the Orlandos?"

"The Orlandos? Their daughter…"

"Far too intelligent for her own good," Salomé continued, hooding her eyes as she adopted an expression of Riddle's so-called 'deviousness'. "And saddling her with the weight of an incompetent husband will impinge upon her movements in a significant number of pureblood circles."

"And would remove Davak from the Junior Judiciary," Riddle murmured, a smile curling his own lips.

Salomé nodded in agreement. It was simple; should one of the young members of the newfound department marry, they were immediately forced to resign their seat in favour or an alternative prospective member. As Salomé considered it, the situation was prefect: Davak would be removed from the department as Riddle desired with aggressive intensity in what he perceived as being a convenient wedding of two irritants.

That was how Salomé knew Riddle saw it. To her it was something much different. The Davak boy was stupid, it was true. He took after his doddering father in that regard. His mother Victoria, however, was not. And though she loved her son as she had loved her husband, stupidity included, Salomé knew she was hardly blind to the glaring flaw in his character.

To Riddle, Henry Davak would be removed from the Junior Judiciary Department, his place directly in the front lines of the next generation of lawyers, politicians and orators removed and a slight inflicted upon the Davaks for Victoria's behind-the-scenes puppeteering act. And better than that, Yvonne Orlando – a remarkably bright young girl of barely seventeen – would be weighed down by the constraints of an incompetent husband. Riddle disliked the Orlando's for the simple reason that they were too headstrong, too intelligent and far too independent. Subordinates though they were, it was a commonly known fact that they very much played there own game. Yvonne's marriage would certainly ruin them in.

That, however, was not how Salomé saw it. Yes, the Orlando's would be disgruntled and objectionable before they finally bowed in acceptance. Yes, Victoria would put up a fight, would dig her heels in and toss her head, declare how 'her boy would not be sold off like a cheap and replaceable whore'. Salomé could almost hear it now; the current head of the Davak house was particularly colourful in her words when indignant.

It would all be an act, however. Victoria would revel in the chance to tuck Yvonne Orlando under her wing, to teach her the subtle arts that so few perceived. The greatness of the resulting situation was that Riddle, for all his intelligence, didn't perceive it. He was oftentimes swayed by old-fashioned perceptions of women and disregarded their intelligence, even acknowledging Salomé's with overt condescension. Victoria was exceptional and beneath the cold-hearted Dark witch façade she presented she had a genuine sense of righteousness that would lend itself to standing behind the promotion of equal rights should Salomé manage to nudge her just the right way. Such an ally would be surely useful, even should she not know of her own allegiance.

It was the perfect solution. Even better because it was one more blow against Riddle and the world he was attempting to create, one he didn't even realise.

Riddle was talking again, and Salomé had to deliberately tune herself into his words for them to comprehend past a soft buzz of registration. "… can hardly conceive it. But truly, if any were to question my incentive to have you as my consort, they would only need hearken to your bedroom talk."

Salomé forced a coy smile onto her lips, blinking slowly. "Listen to my bedroom talk? And would you allow that, my Lord? Perhaps an audience next time?"

Riddle rolled his eyes dismissively. "You know I would not. Don't say foolish things, Salomé. It is unbecoming." And to punctuate his words he gave her another pinch to the hip, bruising the skin once more. She ignored it.

"I do know that. I am yours, my Lord, and no one else has the right to bear witness to that which only you will see. Or hear," Salomé added with another smile.

Dismissiveness faded into satisfaction as Riddle tightened his arms around Salomé once more, pressing her firmly against him. "And that is exactly as it should be. You are mine."

"Of course." She gave him another curling smile. "And would I be presumptuous in suggesting that I am favoured amongst your possessions?"

Riddle grumbled a deep growl of laughter that Salomé felt as much as heard. It was distant, and as he closed his eyes a moment later, resting his head backwards more firmly, it was as though he was falling into a satisfied doze. Yet even lowered as his inhibitions may be, the sound wasn't filled with humour as a normal person's would be. Salomé doubted he even knew what true humour was. "Are you jealous, my dear? What thoughts elicit such a question?"

Jealous? No, Salomé wasn't jealous. Far from it, she would be more than happy to give her position to anyone with the stupidity to take it from her. No, Salomé's question came from a different source. An inquisitive, delicate probing for the secrets she had long sought. And in the warm aftermath of sexual release, Salomé knew Riddle was at his most susceptible to letting details slip. "And if I am?"

Giving another not-laugh, quirked his lips at her. He didn't open his eyes again, however. "Then I would be most pleased. Jealousy is a fiery passion that will only drive you towards self-improvement."

"I would always be driven to self-improvement for you, my Lord."

"Of that I've no doubt," Riddle nodded. "But in answer to your question…" He exhaled in something that wasn't quite a sigh, a comfortable breath that truly did suggest the verge of sleep. It was as though their conversation had alleviated Riddle of his disgruntlement, urging him towards rest. He could awaken fully in a heartbeat, of course, if need be, but for now Salomé could only hold her breath and wait, pleading with the notion that he would just let go a little. "Amongst them, most certainly."

Humming, Salomé inched herself slightly lower in her bed atop of Riddle and dropped her cheek down onto his chest. It was a slow, deliberate motion, an attempt to indicate her own 'tiredness' and further urge Riddle into his own. "And to whom should I consider my primary competition?"

There was a vibration through Salomé's ear, a repetition of Riddle's laughter, though he didn't make a noise this time. "Why? Do you intend to kill them?"

"Maybe," Salomé drawled. Then she sighed in false dejection. "No, of course not. I would never destroy that which was important to you. I merely wished to know."

"Always so inquisitive…" Riddle murmured, and Salomé's breath caught for a moment. Did he perhaps suspect her? Was he suspicious of her questioning, registered the recurring direction of her queries? He'd never indicated any suspicion such before. "But if you must know… no people, no. You are the one that is my most prized possession in such a category."

In a lover, perhaps the words would have been endearing and filled with affection. Not from Riddle, however. There was such emphasis upon the term 'possession' that it was impossible to hear anything else. To Riddle, it was not a turn-a-phrase, a slip of the tongue; he honestly perceived Salomé as nothing more than a that. Understanding had long-since made itself clear to her, but it was still sickening. "Not people? Am I to contest with inanimate objects, then?"

She forced sleepy petulance into her tone and it seemed to have the desired effect for Riddle drew a hand to her head and actually stroked her hair. Awkwardly, and a little painfully with the sharpness of his nails that scored across her scalp, but it was a caress all the same. Or, more correctly, petting. "Hm, your jealously is certainly sparked tonight." He sounded all too pleased for the fact, even in his dozing state. "But if you must know… yes, inanimate objects. They are my most prized possessions. And you will do well to learn from my experience, my dear. People are changeable and unreliable; they do not deserve trust and faith as would the enduring stability of an artefact."

Salomé didn't need to ask to know what he was talking about. Of course the Horcruxes would be his most prized possessions. She had come to realise as much in her hunts for the artefacts; Helga Hufflepuff's cup in the Lestrange vaults would have been unexpected if not for the fact that she had already destroyed the locket of Salazar Slytherin. A locket she had discovered with the happened-upon information of a one Regulus Black. It was his journals that had led her first to Riddle's hidden cave and then to Kreacher in the first place.

Had he been alive, Salomé would have thanked the man. Or perhaps he would have thanked her? Kreacher had certainly been profuse enough in his gratitude when she had destroyed the trinket.

Two I've destroyed and three destroyed by Dumbledore. The words echoed in Salomé's head, a repetition of those that had drifted on the edges of her awareness for days. Including those Riddle has used himself… I have to be almost there. He couldn't possibly have more and still be sane enough to speak. I must be nearly there.

In her mind, Salomé had only to find a final Horcrux. One more of his most coveted items, six of which she had identified in total. One more of the pieces of his soul to unearth and eradicate from the world like an inkblot beneath a Scourgify.

It was those items that he held nearest to, if not his heart – for he was certainly without one – then at least the black abyss that was the shadow of one. For what more would Riddle prize than himself? Than the pieces of himself? He was certainly egotistical enough for such. It was all that which Salomé had heard before, and yet she did not interrupt him, instead letting him continue to talk in his sleepy state. And, after a few moments of near-silent breathing, talk he did.

"Artefacts… and her."

Salomé's breath caught, trapping in her throat. Feeling her muscles freeze, tensing, she strove to enforce nonchalance upon herself. Her… This was knew. She had never heard of a 'her' before. "Her?" Salomé asked with forced casualness.

She was fairly certain she failed in her attempt at blasé, but perhaps Riddle perceived it as a revival of that 'jealousy' he favoured for his deep murmur of laugher sounded again. "There is no need for that, Salomé. I have no inclinations towards an additional bedmate, not even for passing amusement. You are certainly adept enough at sating my desires." He patted her head again, slowly, as though complimenting a well-behaved dog. "No, Nagini does not hold my favour for such purposes. She is… important for other reasons…"

His voice trailed off into nearly inaudible murmurs. He could have even fallen to sleep. Salomé wasn't sure, and in that moment, she didn't know if she cared. Nagini… Nagini was a Horcrux? Was that even possible?

Salomé didn't know, but the more she considered it the more she suspected it to be the truth. It was very, very likely, for what other reason would Riddle possibly have for demonstrating such fondness for a snake? He had never expressed a similar tendency towards other snakes, despite his Parseltongue abilities. No more fondness than for another human, at least, which was as good as none most of the time. He had never shown any particular desire to take on a pet or similar companion. He was just as aggressive to animals, took his anger out on them just as dispassionately, as he did upon humans. But Nagini… Salomé had always considered it to be because she was his Familiar, but even then…

Yes. Yes, it had to be. Something about the notion felt right to Salomé. Like a puzzle piece put perfectly into place: Nagini was a Horcrux. And more than that, she could be the last, Horcrux.

Euphoria like none Salomé had ever felt before – ever – flooded through her and it was all she could do to still suppress her excitement. She waited, however, waited until Riddle drifted into a doze, uttering barely a handful of words more before departing from wakefulness into sleep. She would have to be careful, she knew. And she would have to be doubly careful because Nagini was alive. She was living, and she was loyal to Riddle like no other being. She would defend herself for him if need be, Salomé knew.

Perhaps she should wait. That would be the logical thing to do. Perhaps Salomé should withhold from acting, dig more deeply to be sure of her suspicions as she always had in prior instances before she wholeheartedly committed herself to an act that, unless she was especially careful, would get her killed. And she had no intention of dying. Not now. She didn't know if Riddle could kill her – he'd certainly had enough difficulty in the past. She didn't know for sure if he would either, for they were, after all and according to him, soul mates. But she didn't want to test her invincibility. Salomé wanted to end Riddle, to tear apart the man who had stolen so much from her, inflicted so much. The man who was struggling to reduce the world to disaster.

She would kill Riddle. Salomé desire was so profound that she found there was no denying it, not even for a moment. She would kill Riddle, right after she killed Nagini.

And she would do it tonight.

The door uttered a snick as the latch snapped shut, but Salomé was striding from Riddle's suites before it had fully closed. Hair hung loose with little care, her bodice barely laced, Salomé had departed with all haste from the rooms as soon as she was assured that Riddle had indeed fallen into sleep. Her dark skirts billowed around her legs, flapping like the wings of a bird with each step and nearly catching under her bare feet with every step. She ignored the possibility of tripping; she wouldn't let herself.

It was intentional that Salomé had not worn shoes. It would afford her more stealth. Not from the snake, of course – Nagini would likely become aware of her presence from corridors away – but from potential observers. It wasn't as though Salomé had back up that could assist her in fighting off a wave of defenders. She was alone in this task.

Pulling up short, pausing in step, the thought resounded hollowly in Salomé's mind. Alone. She was alone, and with the potential to have the entirety of Riddle's household fall upon her with the potential snarling direction of its master, such solidarity was dangerous. Fatal even. It had never been a problem before, what with the Horcruxes being firstly objects and secondly stashed in alternative locations, but Nagini was different. Not only was she a permanent resident of the manor and often trailing in Riddle's wake but she was sentient. More than that, she was bound to Riddle as his Familiar. They shared a mental connection, one that would immediately awaken when she was provoked, Salomé was sure.

The situation was looking grimmer and grimmer the longer Salomé contemplated it. Her immediate resolution to hasten to the snake and destroy it and the Horcrux she held faltered slightly as reality instilled itself. Nagini would fight back to the last second. And even after that second, Salomé as her killer would not be out of the flames. Riddle would know. If nothing else, Riddle would know that the snake was dead and it was more than likely that he would know it was Salomé who had killed her. It would be nothing but sheer luck should Nagini not inform him before she perished.

Dangerous. Very dangerous. And dedicated as Salomé was to putting her life on the line for Riddle's destruction, to end the bastard once and for all, she was not prepared to do so for a Horcrux. Not before she even got a chance at the man himself.

Salomé needed back-up. Support, some sort of assistance. It vexed her to acknowledge as much, but it was true. And given the circumstances, given Salomé's circumstances, there was little by way of allies that she could claim. At present, the Order of the Phoenix were only marginally better than the Dark wizards and witches she found herself entangled with most of the time for their distrust. Slightly better, but... No, even being Salomé's past friends as they were, she couldn't trust them to stand by her side, not when they were still obviously so wary of her. She had seen it in their eyes, in their awkwardness around her. She couldn't blame them, really, but it meant she certainly couldn't hardly rely upon them.

Despite Dumbledore's suggestions that they work together, she didn't trust them in return. She suspected would be as likely to lump her in with the rest of Riddle's malevolent followers as to work with her. Even her old friends were questionable. No, Salomé couldn't trust them. She couldn't rely upon any of them, not yet and perhaps not ever. There was no one she could –

Cedric.

The thought arose from nowhere yet echoed as though through from a shout. Cedric was different. For whatever reason, Salomé knew he was different. It had nothing to do with his proclamations of loyalty, that he'd disregarded any and all other orders and direction, both from Riddle as his employer and from the Order of the Phoenix. It wasn't that Salomé had, somehow, somewhere along the way, grown almost… almost fond of him. It wasn't even because he had defended her on multiple occasions before, even against her express direction not to do so.

No, it was not because of any of that. Salomé didn't know the reason, couldn't pinpoint exactly why Cedric was the exception. But somehow she knew that, if there was one person she could rely upon to act in her favour, to help her, to never gaze upon her with wariness and grasp a knife with the intention of stabbing her in the back, it was Cedric.

It was impossible, such confidence after such a short time of knowing him. But it was true.

Thinning her lips, vexed at the foolishness of her ridiculous trust and the necessity of having to act upon it, Salomé clicked her tongue for a moment before slipping her wand from the sleeve of her robes. Drawing upon her memories – it was a struggle these days, but she managed – she called her Patronus into existence. The hulking, long-limbed and blurrily speckled crocotta coagulated in an accumulation of fluttering, white-blue wisping light. Prowling like a caged tiger, it circled her once before pausing at her side. Its ears pricked attentively, pale eyes meeting Salomé's unblinkingly at almost equal level.

Casting a quick Invenitio for privacy, Salomé directed her words towards the creature as though it could actually hear her. Which, given that it was an extension of Salomé herself, it did. "I've a message for you." The crocotta tipped its head obligingly, urging her to continue. "Cedric Diggory: my mission is all but complete. I seek now what I believe to be the last in my hunt. Should you find yourself so obliging, I would… appreciate your assistance in the matter. I fear that my impending and necessary escape may be hindered as the singular aggressor that I find myself." She paused, biting her lip for a moment with a frown. "Cedric, I believe that I may be in need your help."

It almost hurt to say the words. They sounded so wrong, rung discordantly in her ears like an un-tuned instrument. But aversive as they may sound, Salomé knew she had chosen right to so request. She had never asked Cedric's help before, not at all. Accepted it when forced upon her, yes, if somewhat begrudgingly, but to ask? Never.

He would surely become aware of her urgency for such bluntness.

Nodding her head curtly, Salomé swept her wand in a directive gesture. Bowing its head, her crocotta spun on its heel and loped down the hallway before her. It moved faster than was possible, even accounting for the length of limbs and extension its strides, but then that was simply the nature of a Patronus. Within moments it swept around the distant corner and disappeared.

Salomé set off once more. The Privacy Charm dissipated with her passage.

She should wait. She knew she should wait, at least for Cedric's reply if not his physical presence. But after acting already, after bending her spine to request help and delaying her progress as much as she had already, Salomé couldn't pause again. Her feet moved with a will of their own, driven by a sore and desperate need.

Her one desire, her escape and impending freedom clasped in Riddle's clutches, was so close she could almost taste it. It was sweet and salty all in one, even the sole prospect flooding her senses intoxicatingly. That she would, at the earliest possible moment, complete her goal by destroying him entirely was the savoury and long-awaited morsel atop her Huntress's Banquet. It was all she could do not to run, and she'd be damned if fear and hesitancy waylay her further.

Nagini was her target, the giant predator now become prey.

Dark, empty hallways peeled past almost without notice. Stairways were descended in rapid steps, one after the other. Salomé ploughed through almost blindly, her eagerness making her foolish until sense instilled itself and she took a moment to cast a personalised 'Point Me' Charm to direct her to the snake. Her wand jerked and jiggled before urging her forwards. And on Silenced feet, Salomé set off once more.

It was in the darkest recesses of the Manor that she found her, floors beneath ground level in the largely forgotten depths of the building. Salomé didn't find her immediately, but with the nature of the Directional Charm it warmed slightly with her proximity. The sconces on the walls, once glowing candles in elaborate holders, grew more and more distant. The rooms she passed grew similarly distantly spaced, their doors darkening as the lights dwindled for the shadowy, secretive grain of the hardwood as much as the dimming of the lights. The depths of the manor were nearly impossible to perceive.

It was cavernous. That was the impression that Salomé was afforded, and she had been in her fair share of caverns in her search for Riddle's Horcruxes. Even had she not been directed by magic towards Nagini, she believed she could have guessed the snake would have secreted herself so deeply. Nagini disliked the muddle of humans that swept through the upper floors of the manor, Salomé knew. Not that she cared about the her uneasiness around anyone except Riddle, but she couldn't help but notice. Nagini loathed the Dark witches and wizards of Riddle's servitude almost as much as Salomé did.

Her wand almost hummed when Salomé turned a final corner to slip into a corridor with only a single door at its end. Partially opened, the sliver of even deeper blackness within was like a glimpse into the abyss. Foreboding but also enticing. Barely breathing, Salomé silently edged towards it.

Lumos illuminated the snake. In a room empty but for a misshapen pile of pillows heated by a Warming Charm, Nagini coiled at the very centre. Her flat black eyes, as emotionless as Riddles, turned towards Salomé without a hint of surprise. She'd likely been staring at the door since Salomé had descended the final staircase corridors away. As Salomé stepped further into the room, her body taut with wariness, the snake similarly curled even tighter. The folds of her coils slipped in slick slithers over one another, the only sound in the room. Without pausing, in a fluid motion, Salomé raised her wand.

The light of Cedric's Patronus was a beacon to Salomé's candle, snapping her attention to it in an instant. Like a cymbal clash into silence, the wraith-like figure of a wolf burst through the half-opened door behind her. Not quite as tall as Salomé's crocotta, it was still an immense figure. Its hackles stood raised at the back of its neck, mouth hanging open and tongue lolling. Its tail swished like the twitches of a cat.

To the accompaniment of Nagini's hiss, Cedric's voice seeped from its parted jaws. "Salomé, wait! Please, hold off your attack until I can accompany you. It's not safe; you know it's not. They will descend on you like a horde of bees upon an attacking wasp. I'm on my way to you now. Don't act rashly."

Something that sounded almost a growl drew Salomé's attention from the dissipating wolf-Patronus. Turning sharply back towards Nagini, her eyes narrowed at the sight of jaws stretching into a wide yawn, coils tumbling over one another in tangling roils. She drew backwards, hissing fiercely and rearing like a cobra. Salomé knew in that instant that somehow, impossibly, the snake understood. Salomé couldn't speak to her, hadn't been able to speak Parseltongue for years, but whether it was a product of her Familiar bond or some magical nature, Nagini seemed to know she'd been sought for one purpose.

There was no way Salomé could wait. The rearing, the uncoiling, the threat. She knew that she would have to kill the snake now. It was now or never. Cedric's cautioning aside, she had to, because if Nagini knew… If Nagini knew, then Riddle would know too.

Nagini's rearing paused. She paused only for a moment before – with the speed only a serpent could attain she launched herself forwards, darting for Salomé. In a heartbeat, Salomé erected a shield. The impact of the snake's nose to her glimmering Protego was explosive. A crack like a wrecking ball into a brick wall shook the room, again when the snake recovered with unnatural speed and struck a second time.

There was no other option. Salomé ran. She did not flee, wouldn't attempt escape, but she still turned leapt from the room because it was necessary. Her skirts tripped her briefly onto her knees as she stumbled through the doorway, casting a glance and throwing another Protego over her shoulder as Nagini immediately launched herself after her. Scrambling to her feet and slicing her skirts at the knees, Salomé threw herself down the corridor. The hissing, the slick slap of scales on stone, followed her as Nagini gave chase. Not that she needed the indication. She's known Nagini would follow.

The snake had to die. She had to die fast, and take the Horcrux with her. Salomé knew this, knew she had to act even as she tossed Shield Charm after Shield Charm over her shoulder, sprinting through the dark recesses of the bowels of Riddle Manor. The snake moved impossibly fast, faster than should have been possible. It was only Salomé's hastily erected hurdles that prevented her from falling upon her at all.

This will not do, Salomé scolded herself as she swung around a corner. She had no idea where she was in the depths of the manor, no clue of what direction she raced. The only knowledge that coursed through her mind was that she needed to run faster, defend herself harder, pump her legs still aching from muscular and feet jarring almost painfully on the stone floors. The thoughts were more intense than those of survival. Her breathing became pants as seconds faded into minutes of sweeping through the manor's labyrinth; she blessed her capacity for wordless magic in that moment. Words themselves would have only drained her further.

She barely thought past necessity. And necessity dictated that she needed to kill the snake.

An opportunity. Salomé needed an opportunity, a chance to retaliate. Whipping around another sharp corner, she erected a shield to the subsequent resounding crash of Nagini into her magical defences. The snake hissed a string of aggressive sibilance, mouth yawning widely. It could have been curses for the ferocity of her sounds. Salomé could almost feel the hateful glare, the accusation in the snake's gaze. She didn't pause to be certain. She only ran.

Distance. Distance to turn, to attack. To strike in return.

Even the light of intermittent sconces had disappeared when Riddle's voice erupted through the manor. It seethed from walls, blasted through the floors. It echoed off every surface like a squash rebounding from the walls of its court. Salomé winced slightly as the words speared deafeningly into her ears as though it were shouted right beside her.

"Salomé! Traitorous wench! You will burn in my Fiendfyre for this. Kill her! Kill her now!"

Well, I suppose that eradicates any uncertainty over his potential for hatred of me. Salomé considered as she threw herself around another corner. Nagini had obviously told him and he'd deduced reality readily enough. Unfortunately.

The corner of a dark, patterned rug nearly tripped Salomé and another flung Protego shield was the only thing that prevented her from becoming snake-fodder. Heart pounding in her chest, gasping from more than exertion and ears throbbing in the aftermath of the resounding shout, she raced down the next darkly lit corridor. The manor was truly an endless pit.

Soul mates. That was what Riddle had said, yet clearly when she threatened him so, that status deteriorated to blood foes once more. It said something that Salomé felt only a hint of regret for the deterioration of her life, of her heretofore ability to urge Riddle unwittingly and infrequently to her bidding. Of everything that she had come to live, even if it was a hated life. Salomé knew that, had she more headspace, reality would have hit her harder.

She didn't. She would contemplate it later. Later, when the pounding of her heart didn't nearly drown out the continued cries of Riddle rebounding through the manor. When her every thought was no longer trained upon urging her legs to move faster, for her feet to spread wings in flight. When the snake was dead.

If the bloody beast would slow enough for her to strike back.

Salomé abruptly knew she had no choice. To avoid had been a temporary course of action, to put distance between herself and her prey. Yet it wasn't working. The distance was not increasing. If anything it was lessening. Flight would not support her endeavour.

And neither would waiting for Cedric. Not now. Not when Riddle was demanding murder, using the very walls of the building as his mouthpiece. The Dark wizards and witches amassed in the manor would be a-riot in their hunt for her, Salomé knew. They would thirst for her blood at a breathed word from their lord and master. All of them; Salomé had no allies in their ranks.

So she stopped. Skidding around a corner she threw herself into a crouch, bare feet sliding on the floor rug that only thinly softened the hard floor. And with wand stabbing forwards, she attacked with a gasping utterance.

"Diaboli ignis!"

Nagini struck. She didn't slow for the corner, didn't pause at the sound of Salomé's shout. The snake threw herself through the flames that erupted from the end of Salomé's wand as though she didn't notice them at all. She ploughed through the eruption of blinding orange-white, the intense explosion of heat that drew Salomé's breath from her like a vacuum. For a brief moment she prevailed, fangs sinking into the soft flesh of her shoulder and her full weight crashing solidly. Salomé was thrown to the ground like a flung doll, crushed by the merciless assault.

Until the Fiendfyre grasped a hold of Nagini and locked its own fangs through glistening scales.

It was ironic, Salomé considered detachedly, that she would kill Nagini with the very spell Riddle's curses announced he would inflict upon her. Ironic too that said fyre took the form of an enormous, fiery snake. As big as a basilisk, bigger, the spurting stream of magical flame that spewed forth in an endless torrent from Salomé's wand illuminated the dark corridor with the blinding vibrancy of the sun. The engorged form ploughed through Nagini like wildfire through paper, only to spread to the walls, clambering along the panelling. The cloying smell of lacquered wood sizzling beneath the consuming power of the curse replaced oxygen in the air that Salomé desperately struggled to suck into her lungs.

It was manic. Fiendfyre was crazed, had a mind of its own. From the two prior experiences she'd had with the curse, Salomé knew this. She knew, just as she understood that her control of the erupting snake would turn upon her with no compunction. The defeater of the foe from which not a scrap remained continued to hunger, to set alight in consuming flames the very walls and floors of the corridor as if it chewed the stone. It, like true fire, held no loyalty to its creator. It simply destroyed.

Salomé's skin felt tight. It was too hot. It burned, even without touching. The pain from Nagini's bite had not registered immediately, but under the throbbing heat and pressure of the Fiendfyre it sparked into sharp relief. From her sprawl on the floor, her skin erupting in thick sweat from the radiating fyre that spread like a coursing river along the corridor in the direction she had come, Salomé struggled to regain her footing. She blessed the offhanded thought to rid herself of most of her skirts; her wavering legs, trembling as she urged them into haste, would not have been able to accommodate their added complexity.

Heaving herself to standing, Salomé stumbled in the direction she had been headed. She spared only a brief glance over her shoulder, another moment to assure herself that Nagini was dead, before falling into a wavering stumble. The fyre painting the dark walls charcoal black, following her as it clambered along the walls in glowing pursuit as though drawn by the last of the spluttered flames that still spat from the tip of her wand. It was an entirely knew kind of snake that followed Salomé as she resumed her flight.

But Nagini was gone. Some part of Salomé's mind that was not becoming increasingly consumed by the growing spikes of pain in her shoulder, the aching burn of the chasing fyre, rejoiced in her success. It had been so short, so simple… Nagini was simply gone.

The last one. I swear, if it's the last one….

Had circumstances been different, Salomé would have laughed. But a spark of heat that whipped forwards briefly, nearly searing the back of her heels, removed any jubilant humour from the situation. Salomé cursed that she'd had to use Fiendfyre, even knowing as she did that nothing else besides basilisk venom would have been as effective. She had researched Horcruxes long and hard enough to know there was no other option.

More's the pity that she'd killed possibly the only live basilisk in the world six years ago.

The fyre basilisk was destructive in an entirely different way. Salomé was not sure if she was delighted or concerned by the speed at which it chewed through the halls behind her. On the one hand, the potential for Riddle Manor to burn beneath the disastrous effects of Fiendfyre was… intoxicating to consider. Euphoria-inducing. Delightful, even if she knew that somehow, Riddle would manage to get it under control.

But then, Salomé had no idea how far she was from the nearest exit. The Anti-Disapparation jinx, set like a dome over the manor, prevented her from direct escape and even the possibility for relocating to a different part of the estate to escape the fyre – even that was dangerous. Salomé knew not who she would happen across, could be cursed dead in an instant before she got her bearings. Better the enemy she knew, that she could see. That she, even to such a minute degree, held control over, struggling to push it away from herself as she ran. Salomé could only hold hopes that the fyre would remain her reluctant companion for the next few minutes without eating her alive. Just long enough to escape. Long enough to –

Kill Riddle?

The thought overwhelmed even the climaxing pain of venom that was seizing Salomé's shoulder, the aching of over-sensitive feet slapping on thin rug turned fiery hot as she pounded through the corridors before her train of fyre basilisk. How she longed to kill Riddle. It gnawed at her with a physical need. Perhaps she could –

"Filpendo!"

The attack struck Salomé as she vaulted up the last few steps of her second ascended stairwell. It was only a blessing that when she fell it was forwards, tumbling head over heels in a humiliating display of inelegance Salomé cared not a wit for in that moment. She rolled like a smashed bowling pin, jarring elbows and sending another lance of pain through her injured shoulder as it briefly bore her weight.

It was perhaps for the best, however. Or perhaps her fyre responded to the attack. For as Salomé slid to a stop, she felt a dragon's breath blast of heat scorch the air above her head as the fyre-basilisk whipped overhead. Throwing her arms in a painful twist over her face, she ducked beneath the abusive radiation of the curse-fire.

A scream, half anger and half terror, was cut short with a shout of "Protego!" Eyes squeezed shut, Salomé froze, body tensed as she curled in the middle of the floor. She could hear the sear and crackle of her fyre, the hollow echo of its strike to the Shield Charm. She could smell the pungent aroma of the thin rug beneath her, half of it burned to a cinder where not completely vanquished by the fyre basilisk's passage. It was highly probable that she burned just as fiercely; her skin certainly felt as much, couldn't even sweat for the intensity. Only detachedly, Salomé felt the retreating tidal wave of that fyre as it rebounded back over her head as though tossed back the way it had come.

In an instant, the second the fyre passed, Salomé had drawn her wand and, before she even opened her eyes, erected a shield of her own. Just in time, it would seem, as with a reverberation through her bones, she felt another attack impeded by that shield. And another. And another. Too fast to be from the same attacker so there must be more than one.

And finally peeling her arms painfully from her face, clawing herself into sitting and straining to withhold the returning, onrushing wave of Fiendfyre that had recovered from its rebound, Salomé saw them. Loren and Jemima. For the first time in perhaps ever, two apprentices were cooperating. And of course it would be to bring Salomé down.

Jemima's plain, round face was twisted into a snarl of hatred, of fury and indignation. Her wand held aloft, she stood poised like a sword-fighter, as though she held an epee rather than a rod of wood barely longer than her forearm. Loren at her side showed the most expression that Salomé had ever seen on his sharp face. His eyes were narrowed, a twitch tugging at his prominent nose and teeth bared.

Angry. Yes, they were certainly angry, and that anger was directed entirely at Salomé. How dare she think to act against their master? Salomé doubted they even knew exactly what she had done, could wager they didn't, in fact. But to act against Riddle? It was sacrilege to the most profound degree.

Struggling against the thrashing demands of the Fiendfyre behind her, Salomé clambered to her feet to face them. Her legs trembled, the strain from earlier that evening, from the exertion of her run, from the seeping of venom that steadily spread through her body but she refused to acknowledge. Dizziness captured her briefly but she thrust it aside, smothering it alongside the throbbing in her temples, the pulsing flashes of painful heat through her shoulder. She affixed the Apprentices with a cold glare.

"Looking a little the worse for wear, Salomé," Jemima sneered. Her lip curled even more impressively in an all-too-familiar expression. "Look at you. You can hardly stand on your own two feet."

"Lucky for me, I don't need to be standing to annihilate you, Jemima," Salomé replied. She cringed internally at the hoarseness of her voice but didn't let her discomfort for the sound allay her.

Jemima hissed angrily. "You actually think you have a chance of facing me? Me? You certainly do have an inflated ego." She scoffed with little real humour. "I've no idea from whence it came. Do you think that our master's favour affords you leeway?"

"Even should it, such exalted status exists no longer," Loren murmured at her side. Jemima, for perhaps the first time ever, actually nodded her head in agreement with his words.

Struggling once more with a sudden increase in her Fiendfyre's aggression behind her – she felt like a handler straining to withhold a baying hound at the end of its stretching leash – Salomé turned towards him instead. "You believe me exalted?"

"No longer," Loren specified, eyes narrowing further.

Salomé shook her head, condescension just barely attainable through her rising exhaustion. "You are sorely deluded, Loren, if you believe anyone should wish to have such favour. None would desire to hold the attention of his esteemed majesty that I have so held."

"How dare you," Jemima seethed. Even from the distance of nearly ten metres, even in the black, white and red planes of half-shadow that the fyre afforded, Salomé could make out the spittle that flecked her lips. "How dare you even –"

"Are you finished?" Salomé interrupted, biting down on the waver in her voice. "Because I, unlike some, have places to be. Should you wish to continue talking, could you do so in my absence?"

Her nonchalant attitude was only barely clung to. Salomé knew that she couldn't hold out much longer, both physically and magically. The trembles in her body were growing only more profound – she was almost certain that the two apprentices could see them – and her tenuous grasp on the Fiendfyre was growing weaker by the second. She could only hope to escape the witch and wizard barring her way before she collapsed entirely. For all of her posturing, Salomé knew she would not be capable of standing up against them. Not now.

Jemima stuttered to a halt at the interruption. In the fiery glow of Salomé's basilisk, her cheeks flushed furiously. "You pathetic, presumptuous, slimy little leech. Our master should have destroyed you years ago."

"Are you questioning Riddle's intelligence, Jemima? Perhaps querying his actions?" Salomé tutted. "Dear me. What would he think of your lack of faith?"

Jemima snapped. She had always had a short fuse, even more so with Salomé than with anyone else. Jealousy, Salomé suspected. Misguided given what she was jealous of was the 'favouritism' that Salomé received from Riddle, but irrational as she was that jealousy had only grown over the years. She'd snapped before and when she did it was always explosive.

It was no less this time. In a series of slices, hashing across the air before her, Jemima loosed a torrent of curses. Reactively, Salomé threw up her shields. The explosion of magic in an array of colours and clashing sparks, was nearly opaque in its brief suspension in the middle of the corridor.

Loren was right behind Jemima. Though not as impulsive as the witch, Salomé knew that any criticism of Riddle would induce similar fury in him. His magic was more focused, more direct. After only moments of battering at her shields, Salomé knew it was his magic that was lynchpin that shattered her defences.

They punctured like a balloon beneath a needle.

There was only one thing Salomé could do. She knew she would lose, knew that should she attempt to fight back with curses and counter-curses she would be defeated in seconds. So she didn't fight. She didn't attempt to erect another shield. In a motion that, later, Salomé would not have been able to deduce was intentional or simply collapse, she dropped to her knees in a crack of bone on hard floor. Sparing a desperate thought that her tenuous control still held, she let loose her basilisk.

It cascaded forwards. With the rush of a crashing tsunami, the name-like Fiendfyre rolled over her head and ploughed towards the apprentices. Salomé could feel the heat of its passage singe at her hair and lick at her skin, but only barely. It was loosed, liberated, and the full force of its unrestrained power arced forth. It was all she could do to erect the thinnest of shields above herself to deflect the worst of it

The Shield Charms erected by Jemima and Loren held. Briefly. Fiendfyre was not like most curses. It was unlike even the Unforgivables, despite being on par in brutality. It was pure, destructive magic, like long-sleeping molten magma drawn from beneath the earth and erupting from the apex of a volcano. The energy that drove its action was unrestrainable. It had been at suppressed by Salomé's hand for too long to hold back. As she forsook her control, laid bare the expanse of the corridor as victim to its whims, the Fiendfyre consumed.

Smallness. Obscurity. Dismissal. That was what Salomé strove for. Curling to the floor, Salomé pulled the last of her magic around her and shrouded herself in protection in barely more than a second, magical skin. Her reserves were too scant to manage more. The sheer amount of power required to maintain even temporary control of Fiendfyre was exhausting. Debilitating. Salomé, arms flung once more over her head, squeezed her eyes closed. Maintain, persist, please hold on, just for a little longer…

She didn't know what she waited for. Didn't know for sure that, should she simply hold out for long enough, the Fiendfyre would either burn itself out or disappear in its hungry chase to another hitherto untouched part of the manor. But Salomé had no other choice. All she could do was endure. She couldn't even bring herself to glance around herself to perceive her situation; the lingering, searing heat was suppressing of the urge well enough.

When hands grasped her shoulder, Salomé lashed out. It was so surprising, so unexpected, that reflexive, aggressive defence was the only response she could make. Biting back a cry at the pain of contact to the throbbing snakebite, Salomé half-rolled and flung her arms in a physical attack to her assailant. Magic was beyond her, at least for the moment. The wand clasped between her seized fingers was nothing more than a useless stick.

Her hand struck flesh in a snap that elicited a grunt. Salomé didn't have time for satisfaction, didn't have the headspace for it, but instead, blinking her eyes open blurrily, kicked her legs towards her attacker alongside her fists. She would likely have connected, even possibly done damage too, had Cedric's cry not paused her motion.

"Salomé! Wait, please, it's me!"

Her blurry vision cleared only slowly to the persistence of rapid blinking. Still tense, still wincing beneath the grasp of hands clasped on shoulders, Salomé gradually felt her adrenaline descend from its reflexive heights.

The first thing she registered was Cedric. He consumed most of her field of vision, crouching down where she slumped on the ground, and for a moment she couldn't draw her attention from him. His face was pulled tight in an expression she hadn't seen before, peering eyes blown wide and eyebrows drawn in a sharp, wrinkled bridge above them, lines evident around his mouth and lips pulled so thin as to be nearly absent entirely. He looked deathly pale beneath the thin sheen of sweat that smeared across his cheeks, though that might have been simply because of the sudden darkness of the corridor.

For it was darker, Salomé realised detachedly. Perhaps not as dark as the rooms buried deep beneath the manor, but certainly darker than it should be. She'd hardly even realised that torches had lined the walls; they'd been negligible when compared to the sheer, glowing vibrancy of the Fiendfyre, but they had been there.

No longer. Not even elaborate iron candleholders remained hanging on the walls. There was not a scrap of charred remains, not even a hint of ash. Instead, painting the walls like a grim mural and replacing the immaculate, glossy panelling, streaks of blackness drew morbid fingers in black. Speckles of embers, the last of the otherwise disappeared Fiendfyre, dotted the walls like pinpricks of starlight on a clear night. It was from those embers, pulsing in a visible heatwave, that the warmth persisted to seep.

But the basilisk of fyre? Gone. And with it any trace of the apprentices.

Turning slowly back towards Cedric, Salomé blinked up at him. Her body sagged slightly, and she was at once grateful that, for all the shooting pain that his firm grasp elicited through her shoulder, he held her upright. Perhaps unintentionally, yet he did all the same. "They're gone?"

"Who?" Cedric's voice was nearly as hoarse as Salomé's own.

"The Apprentices. Loren and Jemima. Are they…?"

Cedric stared at her unblinkingly for a moment longer before, as though with a physical effort, he drew his attention to the rest of the corridor. Only briefly, however, before he affixed her with his full attention once more. "I didn't see them."

Salomé closed her eyes. It was that or flinch in distaste. More than likely their absence only meant one thing. Salomé sincerely doubted that they would have fled and left her alive. She doubted they would have even been able to flee from the speed of an unleashed, chasing fyre-basilisk either.

Dead then. Salomé clenched her teeth tightly. She didn't like death. Accepted it, yes, but approved? Never. She could live with it, could at times even see it as a necessary evil that was in many ways a mercy when faced with other less conclusive punishments, and yet she would never revel in it. Salomé would never disregard life, think it any less valuable than it was. Disliked though the two apprentices had been, hated even, she didn't long for their death. She didn't want to kill anyone.

No one except Riddle, that was.

Resolutely thrusting her regrets to the side for later consideration, Salomé drew herself away from Cedric. On arms that trembled as though under the effects of a violent quake, she propped herself in sitting before slowly, gradually, heaving herself to her feet once more. A glimpse down at herself, at her swaying body, drew a grimace. Her legs, bared to above her knees, were streaked in soot as thickly as the walls. The tatters of her skirts hardly warranted the word 'tatters' for their state. It might have been the continued blurriness of her eyes but Salomé could swear that she even smoked slightly, her skin slightly charred. It hurt.

Cedric rose to his feet alongside her. His hands didn't hold her for support, but the twitching Salomé noticed in his fingers suggested he was on the verge of doing so. Or perhaps of offering. Yet he didn't. Despite the worry on his face, the distress that only mounted with every passing moment, he didn't voice his concerns. Nor did he express any ounce of resentment that Salomé had acted before his arrival, even against his express cautioning. Cedric was just like that. It was another thing she liked about him, she pondered hazily.

"I need to get to Riddle," she said. Or muttered, for her voice was still a hoarse whisper that stung her throat with speech. The stare she turned upon Cedric brooked no argument.

Not that Cedric heeded her. Shaking his head, he took half a step towards her. It was an invasion of personal space but for whatever reason it didn't bother Salomé nearly as much as it should have. "You can't do that."

"I can't not –"

"You mean to kill him?"

Salomé paused, narrowing her eyes. "Of course."

"And how do you think you will do that? He needs to die – of course he does – but how will you do it?"

Muted in surprise, Salomé blinked. She'd expected that he would urge her otherwise, perhaps to find another solution to violence. To encourage her towards the preservation of life, despite it being Riddle's, or perhaps to leave the situation in someone else's hands. Any of those arguments could have been anticipated, for although Cedric's beliefs that Riddle must be removed from power aligned with her own, she had always seen it as a necessity of those of the Light, of Cedric himself, to promote the pacifist approach. To spare even their worst enemies from death if possible.

Clearly, she'd been wrong.

"The how is of little consequence," Salomé finally replied, her words long and slow in wary contemplation. "I will kill him with my bare hands if I must."

"I've no doubt," Cedric said, and in spite of what Salomé had deduced was concern, in spite of the overwhelming worry that thrummed through every plane of his body, he sounded almost amused. Certainly entirely sincere. "And I'm sure you would most likely have to."

"What do you mean?"

"You're dead on your feet, Salomé," Cedric said. He nodded his head towards her as though she might have misunderstood the reference for his words. She didn't give him the satisfaction of glancing down at herself once more. "I've no doubt you would fight to the death, but it's my hope that it wouldn't come to that."

"I'm more than capable of –"

"I know you are," Cedric interrupted her. "I know you're capable. You'd have to be just about the most capable person I've ever met." He smiled tightly. "But I don't want you to kill yourself to prove it."

Salomé slowly folded her arms, ignoring the searing twinge of her shoulder that almost made her drop her arm once more. She lifted her chin objectionably and it took far more effort than she would ever admit, even to herself. "I will not kill myself. I have every intention of surviving that monster."

"I'm gladdened to hear it," Cedric said with a nod. "But leave it for another day. I've to wonder if we'd even survive to escape this place without killing Riddle."

"You are more than welcome to leave," Salomé said. She had to draw her eyes from Cedric's that sharpened them.

"I'm not leaving without you."

"Your loyalty does you proud, Cedric," she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster, "but it is unfounded. And unnecessary. I never asked you to –"

"No, you didn't. I chose to remain by your side. And I will continue to, even if you maintain that you won't flee despite my suggestions. Even if it meant that escaping, even if only temporaryily, would have you returning stronger and more capable of victory."

"Don't treat me like a child, Cedric. I don't need such condescending encouragement." Salomé could hardly even summon the energy to put affront into her tone. In that moment, despite her protests, Salomé knew Cedric had won. Or at least that she had ceded to his opinion.

She tried not to consider that a primary reason for that allowance lay in that she knew Cedric was genuine. That he would indeed walk through death's door with her should she seek to travel through herself. In spite of herself, in spite of the fact that she knew she shouldn't put other's priorities before her own, Salomé couldn't help but drop her chin to his words.

Cedric shook his head. "I would never belittle you, Salomé. I just don't want you to die." He paused, peering at her for a moment. "It is ultimately your decision, though. I'll stay with you the whole way, even believing our success to be next to impossible."

Shaking her head, Salomé sighed. Her arms dropped, unable to remain folded for even a moment more.

"You are a fool, Cedric Diggory."

A crooked grin curled across Cedric's face, not quite alleviating the worry but not far from it. "I've long since reconciled myself to that fact."

With another shake of her head, Salomé sighed. She had to close her eyes for a moment as dizziness took hold of her once more. "Fine. Fine, we will leave. But I swear, Diggory, if my opportunity is forever lost from this point, I blame you entirely."

Cedric chuckled, causing Salomé to snap her eyes open once more to glare at him. "Alright. I think I can handle that."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so certain of that," Salomé muttered. But she said no more, couldn't urge herself to breathe another word. Cursing her ill luck, the exhaustion that accompanied her use of Fiendfyre and made the conclusion of her life's goal unfeasible, she fell into a staggering run down the singed corridor. Cedric ran at her side in perfect step.