It was not hard to convince my parents that I had suffered great psychological trauma at Hogwarts in light of the horrific events of that school year, though they remained blissfully unaware of just how closely those events related to me. They brought me home to France, and agreed that I would complete my student career at home, under the tutelage of a governess. I was glad to be home. Glad to spend evenings and holidays with the girls I'd grown up with, visiting parks and attending parties like a normal witch. In the comfort and glow of my parent's home the memory of Tom Riddle dimmed, and before long he was like a distant dream, like the haze of a nightmare that was not so frightening in the light of day.
Nine years swept by in a blur. I was now twenty-five, and living in Paris where I was a junior editor for La Sorciere, the premiere fashion magazine for witches. My life was the picture of perfection. I was living in a beautiful little flat in the magical quarter, hosting dinner parties and rubbing elbows with all the who's who of the Parisian wizarding world. The French magical community was still largely unaware of the storm that was brewing in England. We heard only snippets of rumors about missing witches or wizards, only vague comments about unusual tragedies among the British Muggle population. We had no idea that the whole magical world would soon be in uproar.
One fine spring evening found me in front of my mirror, dabbing on perfume and smoothing my hair. I was waiting for Pierre to arrive and enjoying the nervous butterflies that tickled my stomach at the thought of him. I had met Pierre a few weeks earlier through a common friend, and quite enjoyed his flirtatious attention. It had been years since I'd been interested in a man. Not since Tom...
My doorbell buzzed, startling me so that I spilled perfume down the front of my dress. "Ah, merde!" I cursed under my breath. "J'arrive! Un moment!" I called, hurriedly yanking the dress over my head. I thumbed through my wardrobe, muttering angrily at myself at the thought of Pierre waiting out on the step like a beggar. "Don't ruin this, Amelie," I told myself, selecting a powder blue frock and stepping into it, "or Pierre will lose interest."
Suddenly a searing pain ripped across my right hand and forearm. I gasped, clutching it to my chest. The word 'interest' echoed in my brain, coursing in time with the throbbing pain in my arm. A voice rose up in my mind, like a rushing wind, 'In the likely event that another man takes an interest in you...' I sank to my knees and choked back a sob, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.
The doorbell buzzed again. The pain suddenly surged up my arm and spread across my shoulder, an excruciating warning of the death that would inevitably come if I broke my Vow. "Un moment s'il vous plait!" I nearly screamed. I had to think. Taking deep breaths I slowly stood up, still cradling my arm against my body. I had not thought seriously about the Unbreakable Vow in years. I had forced it from my memory in a desperate attempt to move on with my life, had somehow managed to make myself believe it wasn't real. But the white-hot pain that crept across my chest, coming closer and closer to my heart, was an all-too-real reminder that I still belonged to Tom. I had no choice. I would have to bring Pierre to him to be - what were Tom's words? - dealt with?
I didn't even know where Tom was, hadn't spoken to him since that dark night. I had no idea how to contact him, let alone bring someone to him. The pain was nearly unbearable, making me nauseous. What could I do? I had no options! Or did I? Tom said if another man was interested in me... what if Pierre lost interest? Would that satisfy the Vow? A loud knock sounded at the door, followed by Pierre's voice. "Amelie? Are you all right? I'm worried!"
The pain flared intensely, taking my breath away. I felt weak, felt my consciousness beginning to slip. I made a desperate dash to the door, my dress still unzipped in the back and hanging off one shoulder. I fumbled with the doorknob, cold sweat causing my palms to slip, and finally flung open the door. Pierre stood on the step, a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a bewildered look on his face.
"You must go!" I screamed at him, the pain of my oncoming death making me delirious. "I don't want you! I can't! Get OUT!" With a final effort of strength I shoved him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling backward down the steps. The momentum carried me with it and I fell headlong onto the stoop, heaving one last sob into the pavement before everything went black.
…
Whirring. A soft whirring was all I could hear. Is there whirring in heaven? Angel wings, perhaps? The sound made my head throb a little. No, must not be heaven, then. There is not supposed to be pain in heaven. If I was dead, and not in heaven, then there was only one other alternative that I knew of...
"Bloody hell." It was a mutter, somewhere to my left. The whirring stopped, and was replaced by little clicks. I tried to open my eyes, but found the light too bright. I quickly shut them again, uttering a groan. The whirring began again and I felt a cold hand on my forehead.
"You there," the voice said, "tell your Master she is awake." A little squeak of anxiety and the scurrying of tiny feet, followed by a slamming door. I tried my eyes again, squinting in the light. I looked around, dazed and feeling slightly drunk. I was in a large, ornate bedroom, brightly lit by sunlight filtering in through floor-to-ceiling windows. The cold hand belonged to a severe-looking nurse, dressed in a crisp uniform and wearing an odd, blank sort of stare. The whirring, I found, came from a small contraption on the bedside table, which was attached to my arm and seemed to be recording my vital signs on a long silvery strip of tape.
I tried to sit up, but the pain in my head sharpened and I fell back against the pillows with a little gasp. The nurse leaned over me and peered into my face, the tip of her wand shining a bright light first into one eye and then the other. "Please lie still," she said, still with that blank look on her face. The door opened behind her and she straightened, turned on her heel and retreated to a far corner of the room, where she stood like a statue, her empty stare fixed on nothing. A tall figure entered the room - a man, dressed in beautiful and expensive robes. His dark hair was combed with precision, and his face was strikingly handsome, even regal. Propriety made me suddenly aware of the pale silken nightgown I wore, and, disregarding the nurse's orders, I sat up straight and pulled the blankets up to cover myself.
The man approached slowly, his dark eyes taking me in with a mixture of caution and wonder, as though he had never seen a woman before. When he reached the bed, his lips curled up in a familiar boyish grin and he flung out his arms exuberantly. "Ma chere Amelie!" he beamed.
"Tom?" I croaked, my voice broken with disuse. My breath quickened nervously, the horror of my last meeting with him flooding my heart as though it were yesterday. I clutched the blankets so tightly my knuckles whitened. Tom sat down gently on the edge of the bed, looking at me with a sympathetic smile.
"You've been through quite a turn," he said, his voice like silk. "You've been out cold for three days. I almost thought... but you're here and you're well." He smiled, leaning closer to me and cradling my cheek in his hand. His thumb traced tender circles on my temple and my pulse quickened, half from fear and half from an old and deep longing. The whirring machine screamed, apparently awakened by my suddenly pounding heart. Tom glanced at it and it stopped, as though frozen under his glare.
"I... you..." my voice faltered and I looked away, squinting at the too-bright windows. Following my gaze, Tom waved a hand lazily and the curtains drew shut, relieving my aching head. I looked back at him and felt hot tears fill my eyes. "Tom, what am I doing here?"
"You, my darling, are resting and recovering," he said cheerfully. Just as in youth, there was a dangerously manic tinge to his cheer. And just as in youth, I felt mesmerized by his smile. "I never meant to leave you for that long," he went on. "My intention was to bring you back much sooner, but things took longer than expected."
He withdrew his hand from my face and leaned over me, one hand on either side of where I sat, so that his face was so close I could smell his aftershave. "I was always watching, though. Always protecting you from afar. In fact, I was already en route to... take care of that Pierre fellow, but you, my dear, you were brilliant. I thought at first you might break our Vow, that you were foolish enough to risk… but when I arrived to find you had fought so valiantly, I promised to never put you in that situation again - never to let you out of my sight to face the world alone."
I stared at his chin, unable to meet the intensity of his dark gaze. My lip quivered. I was terrified. I was flattered. I hated him and yet somehow I loved him. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to kiss him. "Tom, I should not be here. I must-"
"Look at me." His voice, though quiet, was overwhelming in power. My eyes met his against my will. Was it magic? Was he looking at my mind, reading my thoughts like a book? Was he in control of me, or was I? With Tom Riddle, I could never be quite sure.
"Amelie, Amelie," he murmured, suddenly serious, "I never once forgot you. But I fear you have forgotten me. Or, at least, you had for a while. You weren't going to tell me about Pierre. You were going to break your Vow, and I wondered… but then at the very last you changed your mind. Tell me," at this, he lifted my chin with the crook of his finger so that we were eye to eye, "was it love that changed your mind? Or self-preservation?"
His eyes were too black. My head ached and my heart pounded and my throat nearly choked on my words. "Tom, please," I squeaked, "please listen to me. I didn't forget you. How could I? I was just so – so uncertain. You never spoke to me again, never called, never wrote – I – I could not be sure what was real and what wasn't!" I don't know if it was seconds that passed or hours, but those eyes bored into mine for what felt like an excruciatingly long time.
Finally, he released my chin and smiled. "Lord Voldemort understands," he said softly. Something turned in my stomach at the sound of that name, but all the same, I was relieved. "You must have been so confused."
I nodded weakly and tried to smile. Tom stood and straightened his robes, once again looking imposingly regal. "Rest. Sleep. Tomorrow I am holding a banquet in your honor!" He took my hand in his and kissed it, sending an electric thrill up my arm. "I can't wait to show you off!"
With that, he turned and left the room, waving a hand at the nurse on his way out. She suddenly sprang back to life and came back to my bedside, that same blank stare on her face. I closed my eyes and sighed deeply. Now that Tom Riddle was back in my life, I knew nothing would be the same. And as I've said before, reader, I still cannot be sure if it was love or lust or magic – but some part of me was all too happy to be his prisoner.
