Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters and elements from the world of Harry Potter, created and trademarked by JK Rowling. I do not claim ownership over any Harry Potter characters or the Harry Potter world. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and is not claiming to be any part of the Harry Potter canon. Thank you to JK Rowling for letting me play with the characters and not suing me for writing them into a new situation.
Light of the Moon
Chapter 16
Dinner at Ser Slughorn's home was affectionately referred to as the 'Slug Club' by many of the noble class. A confirmed bachelor and a harmless gossip, Ser Slughorn delighted in being known for hosting exclusive dinners. Anyone who was anyone was eventually 'collected' by Slughorn to add to his ever-growing list of illustrious acquaintances.
Astoria said that the Ophidian nobles regarded him quite good-naturedly. He had once had a very prominent position in society and the King was known to be quite fond of him. Though an invitation to his home was not considered quite the honor he himself thought, it did carry a certain distinction that could only be helpful to Hermione's reputation.
It was common knowledge that the Malfoy family was not part of the Slug Club. For reasons unknown, Ser Slughorn regularly overlooked them when making up his guest lists. The Malfoys claimed that they had no desire to participate in such a ridiculous custom, but everyone knew they were just trying to save face at being slighted by someone of such inferior social standing.
Hermione didn't much care what their reasons were, she was just relieved that she would not have to face any of them at the first event where she was entirely on her own.
Being the future Queen of Ophidia meant that she was the guest of honor.
Being a foreigner and a Muggle-born meant that she was also an object of intense curiosity.
So, being that Astoria and Luna were not invited, and that Riddle did not accompany her, she would have to triumph alone at this dinner.
Perhaps Slughorn was sensitive to this fact, as Hermione was pleasantly surprised to discover that all the other guests were remarkably good company. Most had never met any Muggles, but they managed to ask about Hermione's life back in Brittania without the kind of sordid curiosity and xenophobic commentary she'd been expecting.
A long conversation with Ser Regulus Black led to some fascinating insights into common misconceptions Purebloods had about Muggles. He told her of a cousin of his who had left Ophidia and married a Muggle. Disowned by her family and unable to return to the country of her birth, she claimed to be perfectly happy in her new life. Her only sister had married into the Malfoy family and refused to speak of her. The rest of the Black family did likewise, but his older brother Sirius had ventured to Brittania a time or two, looking for an adventure.
Ser Black couldn't understand it, but he was intrigued by Hermione's stories of the wonders that Muggles had invented that allowed them to cope without magic. He'd always been convinced his brother was simply making up stories for his gullible younger brother.
When Hermione asked him if he ever had a desire to see for himself, he shook his head and claimed he was content with the lifestyle that Ophidia offered him. If his King required it of him, he would be happy to serve in any way possible, but Ophidia would always be his home.
As Hermione spoke with many of the guests around the table, she noted that it was a very common sentiment. Wanderlust like Astoria's was very rare. The wizards and witches spoke of Ophidia with incredible affection, almost as if the country was a real person; their loyalty was beyond question, and leaving Ophidia was a betrayal.
Much like Astoria though, when they discussed Ophidia, Hermione noticed they tended to stroke one of their arms.
After dinner, Hermione asked Ser Slughorn about this habit.
"Everyone seems to do it," she said, "although they don't seem to realize it. I hesitate to ask them, in case it is a taboo subject." She smiled at him, careful to keep her voice from carrying too far beyond their seats by the fire. "They might. . . misunderstand. But I was sure that you, at least, would not judge me too harshly for my ignorance."
He let out a chuckle, the jovial sound causing a few heads to turn their way. Hermione gave them all a pleasant smile, as if Ser Slughorn had simply laughed at one of her jokes.
"You must mean the Mark, of course! Nothing taboo about that at all." He rolled up one of his sleeves, to reveal a tattoo of the Mark of Ophidia.
The skull and serpent that adorned so many items at Castle Marvolo seemed particularly sinister when showcased on the skin. Hermione did her best not to frown at it.
"Are you saying that it is common for Ophidians to get this same tattoo on their arm?"
Slughorn shook his head. "My dear girl, has no one told you? It is not simply a passing fad, or a trend of fashionable youth. Every son and daughter of Ophidia bears her Mark."
"Every Ophidian?" Bewildered, Hermione looked around at all of the guests that were chatting and drinking wine. They all wore dress robes, none of them with their arms showing. Being in a cooler climate, and seeing as how Wizarding society tended to be quite conservative, it hadn't seemed unusual to Hermione that she never saw bare arms. In fact, even when the dress robes had shorter sleeves, most of the women at all the formal events were wearing long gloves. Had they all been covering this unsightly tattoo?
"It is a time of considerable pride when a young Ophidian reaches the age of citizenship," Slughorn told her, "and it is marked by the taking of the…well, the Mark."
"What age is that?" she questioned him, imagining young adults crowding the tattoo shops after graduation.
"When they start school, of course," he explained. "At the age of eleven, young witches and wizards receive their first wand in a sacred ceremony. After declaring their loyalty to King and country—or Queen, of course, as most of this generation of Ophidians pledged during Queen Merope's reign—they receive the Mark on their arm."
He looked with fondness at the black design on his forearm, tracing the edges of it with his fingertips. "It is an honor, yes, quite an honor to be a wizard of Ophidia."
The cadence of his words became that of a well-told story. "You know, legend has it that in a time of dire need, Ophidia will call all of her children to her. And wherever they may be, the Mark of their loyalty, this sign of their devotion, will bring them home. To protect and to preserve. For glory, for honor, for power."
For a moment, he seemed caught up in a memory, and then he smiled up at her, rolling his sleeve back down. "It's not expected of non-Ophidian-born citizens. But most foreigners are running from something, seeking a safe place to practice their magic, and when they feel Ophidia accept them as a son or daughter, they are moved to accept the Mark."
"You speak of Ophidia almost as if she were a real person," Hermione observed.
At that, Ser Slughorn chuckled again. His eyes twinkled at her as he said, "And can you tell me you haven't felt her presence since you've been here? This is not just another country, another nation of stone and soil. We are all connected, grounded into the magic of the land of our birth. The Great Lady guards us and guides us, and she's why Ophidia is the greatest country in the world!"
His words rose at the end, causing them to be overheard by those nearest to them. A smattering of cheers and applause went up, and that started off a round of toasts to Ophidia, and then to the King and the future Queen.
Hermione laughingly partook, careful not to imbibe too much, thinking carefully about everything that she'd just learned.
When the conversations around her settled, she again turned to Ser Slughorn, who was sitting comfortably in his chair, pleasantly observing the festivity around him.
"I've spent copious amounts of time recently in the wonderful library at Castle Marvolo. There is so much rich Ophidian history preserved there," she told him.
"Oh yes, oh yes." He nodded in agreement. "Many productive hours I have spent there, researching ingredients, creating new spells. No other library like it in the world. Not since Alexandria, of course." His expression turned sad for a moment as he thought of the scrolls lost to fire.
Patiently, Hermione brought him back around to her point. "I haven't seen mention of the Mark of Ophidia being used in a citizenship ritual anywhere in the books that I've read."
"No?" Slughorn looked a little bit confused, glancing down at the wine goblet in his hand as if it held answers. He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure you have only to find the right sections. Ask the librarians, they'll be able to point you in the right direction before you have your own done."
He spoke of her getting the Mark as if it were a given and Hermione felt a twinge of alarm. She was curious why Astoria, who had been quite thorough in preparing her for all aspects of Ophidian life, had failed to mention the possibility of taking a tattoo that clearly proclaimed one's allegiances. She was not keen on the idea of taking on the Mark herself, but if it was the custom of all of the Ophidians, she didn't see how she could avoid it and still be taken seriously. She resolved to check the library first thing in the morning. And while she was at it, she'd ask Astoria, too.
Deciding Ser Slughorn had told her all he could on that subject, for the moment, she changed the topic of conversation.
"You called Ophidia the Great Lady. Is there a story behind that name as well?" she asked him.
He blinked myopically at her, clearly far more into his cups than he let on. "I can't say as I remember any story. She's always been the Great Lady. The Great Lady of the Land. When the King and the Queen are in harmony with the Great Lady, Ophidia is blessed with great magic and prosperity. When the King and the Queen are not worthy, the Great Lady sleeps."
He gave a snort of laughter. "Not that anyone, King or Queen, will ever deny that they are worthy. King Athanasius is the very best of kings, though. I daresay Ptolemy himself would be proud. Ophidia has had many blessings since His Majesty took the throne, though Queen Merope was a gem, as well. Yes, indeed, she was."
He turned to look at her as if remembering why she was there. "And you, my dear girl, you are worthy. You will be a blessing for this land, driven and ambitious, and courageous, too." He smiled at her and patted her hand with fatherly approval. Then he frowned, as if remembering something, "Not like King Athanasius' first bride, no, no. She was lacking. Not a good choice for the wife of a King." His face strained as if he were trying to recall further details.
Hermione felt herself freeze in her chair. "Pardon me, Ser Slughorn, what was it that you just said?"
"Eh? What was that?" he asked, looking up at her, his eyes blank.
"You spoke of the King's bride."
"Oh, yes, yes," he said, blinking rapidly. He held up his goblet. "To the King's bride!" The room toasted to Hermione's good health again.
She didn't wait for the cheers to subside. Quietly, she cast a Muffliato around the two of them. "You said something about the King's first bride. What was it you were saying?"
Ser Slughorn looked very confused. "You're the King's first bride. And quite a search it took him to find you!"
Hermione shook her head, feeling anxiety welling up inside of her. "No, you said that King Athanasius had a bride, a different wife, who wasn't worthy of Ophidia."
"Did I?" He huffed at that. "Well, that doesn't make much sense." He stared down at his now empty cup with some consternation as if it were at fault.
"Do try to remember, Ser Slughorn," she implored him, all too aware that it was likely futile. Whatever momentary memory had surfaced, it had immediately been buried again. She could tell he had no idea what she was talking about.
Carefully he set his glass onto the table, his expression stricken. "Begging your pardon, my lady, if I've said something to upset you. I'm afraid my mind has many holes in it now that I'm in my old age. Please, don't be upset." He wrung his hands together, one hand straying up to touch the Mark she now knew was under his sleeve. "His Majesty was so kind to trust me with your company, and now I've upset you. Oh dear, oh dear."
Swallowing her irritation and trying to ignore her heart slamming in her chest, she patted his arm, reassuring him that she was not upset.
She had no qualms about lying.
Hermione had read several books about the history of the Marvolo family, even before she came to Ophidia, but certainly since. There was no way she could have missed the fact that the King had been married before. But there had been something in Ser Slughorn's honest face that alarmed her. He truly hadn't known what he was saying, but it wouldn't be the first time that wine revealed truths that had been concealed.
She returned back to her suite that night with her mind whirling. So what if the King had been married before? Did she even have the right to feel hurt by that knowledge?
"Pheme," Hermione called, as she entered her bedroom, knowing the little elf was always just around the corner. She forced her tone to a lightness she didn't feel. "I heard a bit of castle gossip today. Perhaps you can help me figure it out."
Pheme's eyes lit up as they often did when they were gossiping. She loved to hear all the latest news and didn't much care whether it was about important political alliances or whose stockings had developed a run in them. "Of course, Mistress! Pheme knows everything in the castle," the elf boasted.
She jumped up to sit on a chair while Hermione changed for bed, her feet swinging excitedly. "Did Mistress hear something at the Sluggy Club dinner party?"
Carefully not looking at the little elf, Hermione casually said, "Yes, from Ser Slughorn himself, actually. He mentioned about King Riddle's first wife being not particularly nice." She paused deliberately, using her wand to whisk her shoes back to their place in the closet. "Do you happen to remember her at all?"
The silence that followed was very unusual for the energetic house-elf. Hermione glanced back to see how Pheme had reacted to her heavy-handed probe for information.
Pheme sat in the chair that was far too big for her, her eyes wide and her ears trembling. She shook her head back and forth, "No, Mistress! The King has not been married before! Ser Slughorn must have lied." At this statement, her eyes got even wider and she clapped her tiny hands over her mouth. "No, no, Pheme did not mean to say such a thing. Ser Slughorn is a good wizard. Pheme is a bad elf."
The little elf was shaking very hard now, casting her gaze around the room as if she were looking for something to iron her hands with. An elf in Brittania would have already caused considerable harm to herself simply for being disrespectful enough to be contradictory.
So far, Hermione had never seen a house-elf in Ophidia deliver any self-punishment. Still, she moved hastily to reassure Pheme that she did not take offense, and that she understood no disrespect was meant to Ser Slughorn.
"Perhaps," Pheme said, suddenly, "Ser Slughorn was simply mistaken." She nodded her head enthusiastically, looking at Hermione for confirmation. "Yes, perhaps he has just misremembered. Pheme hears that Ser Slughorn misremembers many things."
"Perhaps," Hermione said, noncommittally. "But will you do me a favor, Pheme?"
The elf nodded immediately, her ears perked up to hear what her Mistress wanted.
"Could you try really hard to remember if you'd ever heard of King Riddle marrying another," Hermione asked her, "or even being betrothed to another woman? Might there have been another wedding, maybe a very quiet one? One that no one would know about?"
Pheme looked decidedly less pleased once she heard what her Mistress wanted. "Pheme has heard no such thing in all the years she has been at the castle." Her ears drooped down quite low. "But Pheme will try to remember." Her face turned comically studious as she thought for several moments in silence.
Hermione tried not to hold her breath. Pretending like the answer was unimportant to her was too late, she'd already upset the house-elf.
After a while, Pheme's eyes popped open. "Pheme cannot remember anything."
Hermione felt her hopes deflate. She didn't know why. It wasn't as if she hoped Pheme could suddenly recall a missing wife. Maybe it was simply Ser Slughorn misspeaking after all.
"Pheme's memories have holes," the elf said, drawing Hermione's attention back to her.
"What did you say?"
"Pheme cannot remember about the King and a wife. But Pheme cannot remember enough to say yes or no. There are little holes."
Hermione didn't know how to respond to that. Ser Slughorn had said the same thing about missing memories, though she assumed his were due simply to old age. Was there a connection? Had someone tampered with their memories? Was that proof that the King really had been married before?
She suddenly felt it was imperative that she learn the answer to that question. It was too late to go to the library and she felt certain that she would not find what she needed on the printed page. Where could she go to find the truth?
She must have spoken out loud because Pheme suggested, "Mistress could try the Portrait Gallery! There is a family tree there."
Of course! A magical family tree should register all those born and married into the family. Even a branch that was disowned or cut off was still recorded.
Hermione hurried back to her closet, pulling on a heavy night robe and some slippers.
"Mistress is going right now?" Pheme asked, aghast. "In her nightclothes?"
"No time like the present for us, Pheme," she said. She didn't want anyone to hear about her asking questions and manipulate the evidence. If anyone had heard her speaking to Ser Slughorn, or if he had said something to anyone else, she might already be too late.
"Pheme is going with Mistress?" The elf seemed pleased at the implied invitation.
"Of course, Pheme."
Pheme was a wonderful guide, and she turned out to have a flair for subterfuge as well. They peered around every corner as they tiptoed their way through the castle. Hermione cast Disillusionment Charms on them, but her heart was still pounding as they snuck into the gallery and quietly slipped past the sleeping portraits.
Hermione noticed that Merope was still wide awake, though Tom Riddle was fast asleep. The imposing witch who was the last Queen of Ophidia seemed to stare at them as they crept down the passageway, almost as if she could see through their charms. To Hermione's relief, if she could see them, she did not say anything.
They made it all the way down to the far end of the gallery where the Marvolo family tree was in its own little nook. It took up the entire wall, generations and generations descended—as the tree showed—from Ptolemy. There were some interesting breaks and twists, but it didn't take long at all for her to locate the last surviving direct descendant.
Athanasius Marvolo Riddle, only child of Merope Gaunt Marvolo and Tom Riddle. Unmarried. No children.
It should have made her feel better to see the proof, but it didn't release the ball of anxiety in her chest.
A sound from behind her caused her to whirl around, wand out. Even in the dim lighting of the gallery, she could still make out the sharp features of the man who would be her husband in just a few days' time.
Beside him stood an elf wringing her hands. "Pheme is sorry, Mistress," the elf whispered, making it clear who was responsible for alerting the King.
It shouldn't have surprised her. Like everyone else, the house-elves had probably all sworn vows of allegiance 'to King and country.'
"Thank you, Pheme, that will be all," the King said, and Pheme dutifully Apparated away with one last sorrowful glance at Hermione.
All too aware that the King had once again caught her in her pyjamas, she watched him as he walked over to a marble bench and sat down. She noticed he left plenty of room beside him.
Neither of them spoke, though Hermione had to restrain herself from blurting out the questions that were foremost in her mind. In the silence that ensued, though, Hermione had time to progress from prickly defensiveness to self-conscious embarrassment.
With slow steps, she walked over and gingerly sat on the edge of the bench, her night robe draping to cover her feet.
Into the empty room, she said, quietly, "Ser Slughorn mentioned that you've been married before. I came to check your family tree, and I don't see any record of a marriage." She paused. "But is he—is it true?"
His eyes were unreadable as he looked at her, contemplating her words.
She thought she'd taken him by surprise, to ask him so directly. But he didn't seem guilty or anxious as if she'd uncovered a shameful secret. She supposed kings didn't need to feel guilty about anything they did, and were probably trained not to show anxiety.
After a moment in which he regarded her in silence, he closed the distance between them on the bench, sitting directly beside her.
The heat from his body being so close gave her a tingle that she tried to suppress, but it only intensified when he turned his dark eyes on her.
"Yes, Hermione, I have been married before."
Hermione's stomach fell at his admission. It was silly, but she'd really been hoping that it wasn't true; that Slughorn was mistaken, that all the anxiety she'd felt had been irrational and easily dismissed with facts.
"It was a … very short marriage," he offered, though she hadn't asked for an explanation. "Erased from the tree for… important reasons."
"Oh, I see," she said, lamely. "And an Obliviation spell, I suppose?" The pieces fell together.
He gave one short nod. "It was necessary."
She supposed it would be, as a royal marriage was no minor thing. It must have been a very short marriage indeed, for an Obliviation spell to erase all the evidence of it. Perhaps it was annulled. She felt stupid for letting it upset her as much as it did.
"I guess you didn't think it was important to tell me." Her voice sounded petulant even to her ears.
"I was. . . not going to tell you," he confirmed. His serious tone was gentle, but unapologetic. "Whatever came before is. . . irrelevant to our own marriage."
"Irrelevant?" she asked, irritated. "Would it be irrelevant if I told you I had been married before?"
She thought she saw a flash in his eyes that might have been the seed of jealousy, or possessiveness. Her heartbeat thumped loudly in her ears.
"Were you?" he asked, in that same dangerously even tone of voice that she'd heard the night he'd addressed the Malfoy boy.
She wanted to lie and say that she had been, just to see how he'd react. Just to prove that it mattered. But with his eyes holding hers, she couldn't. He'd probably just see through her, anyway. "No," she admitted. Then she added, "But I could have been."
His mouth quirked in the tiniest hint of amusement at her statement, and it irked her.
"I'm not a virgin, anyway," she said, her chin stubbornly pushed out.
His eyes flashed again, very quickly, before his face was once more utterly bland. Then he laughed, a full and hearty sound that should have made her feel even more irritated but actually made her feel warm.
He reached out to take her hand, the one that would soon be wearing his ring. Smiling, he brought it to his mouth and gave her palm a gentle kiss that loosed all the butterflies in her stomach. His lips were soft and light, and when they moved down to the spot on the inside of her wrist, she was sure her rapid heartbeat gave her away.
"Hermione," he said, still holding her hand to his face, forcing her to look up into his eyes. "If those things mattered, I would have included them on the invitation to the castle. I do not require a virgin." He said the word with amusement. "And I could care less if you have been married before. Even if you were still married, it would be only a tiny obstacle." He dismissed a theoretical husband as casually as one might shoo away a pesky fly. "You are mine now, and that is all that matters."
She shivered a little at the satisfaction in his voice.
"And are you mine, then, Athanasius?" she asked, foregoing his title for the first time.
He grinned at her, a strangely boyish thing for such a serious man. "My Greek name comes easily to your mouth, for a witch from Brittania. Perhaps because you have such a lovely Greek name as well."
She flushed at his compliment. Actually, she'd practiced saying his name in front of the mirror, wondering what it would be like to use it in front of the man.
He kissed her hand once more before setting it down. "You can call me Tom, actually."
"Tom?" she repeated, confused at the simple, unassuming name. "Isn't—isn't that your father's name?"
He nodded with some humor at the family tree on the wall. "Been reading up on your Ophidian history, I see. Yes, it is my father's name. But it is also my name."
When she didn't seem to understand right away, he continued, "It is not unusual for the name Athanasius to be changed to Tom, for the convenience of those with less clever tongues than yours."
She blushed at his words, trying to pretend she didn't hear the subtleties behind his words.
"My mother wanted to name me after my father, but couldn't bear to have the next king of Ophidia have such a common name as Tom Riddle. Still, she and my father always called me Tom. It is the name I use to refer to myself, privately, when I am not required to be 'Athanasius Marvolo, King of Ophidia.'"
She couldn't imagine there were any times when he wasn't every inch the King of Ophidia. Even in these quiet moments between the two of them, he didn't act like any other men she knew.
She bit her lip before deciding to ask the question that had come to her mind. "And did your wife call you Tom, too?"
His eyes were very deep and very dark and seemed to pull her in as he faced her. Very seriously, he said, "No one has called me Tom since both of my parents crossed the veil."
The thought that he was trusting her with something so personal, so intimate as a name, sent a lovely warmth coursing through her. How quickly she forgot the anxiety of an hour ago after only a few minutes in his company!
She was pleased to learn that there was a man underneath all that intimidating power and elegance. A man named Tom.
Feeling suddenly very bold, she reached up to trace the lines of his face. The heat of his skin enticed her to run her fingertips up his jawline, and she marveled that he let her touch him like this.
"Tom," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. There was no mistaking the fire in his dark eyes now. They burned into her as she called him by his name. She repeated her question. "Are you mine, then, Tom?"
When his lips parted to answer her, his breath against her palm made her shiver. His voice was low and gravelly and his eyes stayed intensely on hers. "I will never marry another. I have searched through the best the Wizarding World has to offer, in order to find you. Your place with me will never be challenged. There will never again be anyone else."
The words thrilled her. She had anticipated a marriage of convenience and had hoped for one with at least respect. Since meeting the King—Tom—she had even believed her marriage might hold a measure of pleasure and even affection. But the words he said against her skin rang in her head like the vows they hadn't spoken yet.
Here was someone she could grow with, someone who wanted her exactly as she was. Someone, she was entirely sure, she could grow to love. And dare she hope, someone who might love her back.
She shivered again, at the possibility of loving and being loved by the man before her.
She noticed his eyes grew impossibly darker right before his mouth came down on hers.
Fire and heat seared straight down to her belly. She couldn't move, overwhelmed by the feel and the taste of him.
His hands were in her hair, tilting her head back so he could ravish her mouth. Helpless to resist, she opened to him, her tongue reaching out for more of whatever this was that tasted so dark and sweet.
Relentlessly he plundered, marking her as his with every stroke of his tongue, every pull of his lips.
It almost scared her how easily she relinquished possession of her own body. She met him with no resistance, just gave him what he wanted as he took and took and took.
When he finally lifted his lips from hers, she gasped, trying to pull air into her lungs. Her heart was beating so fast it couldn't possibly be sending enough oxygen to her brain. She thought she might wobble if his hands weren't still on her face, holding her steady.
"Wow," was all she could think to say when she could make words again.
The darkness of his eyes lightened, and he laughed, softly depositing another kiss on her upturned lips.
"Come," he commanded, clasping her hand in his, and raising her from the bench. "I will return you to your rooms."
Slightly dazed, she let him lead her back. She was giddy with the feel of her hand in his. They padded through the corridor, her in her slippered feet, as if they were two lovers sneaking home.
"Oh," she said, suddenly remembering the night of the trial. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."
He looked at her questioningly as she spoke his full name.
"Your Destiny number is seven, after all. If you use Tom instead of Athanasius, I mean." It wouldn't have mattered if she had known that before, since the answer to the riddle's reference to seven had nothing to do with Arithmancy. "Mine is seven, also," she added, unnecessarily.
He nodded at the coincidence. "And it will still be seven even after we are married."
She hadn't thought of that, but some quick calculations in her head showed that he was right. "Well, perhaps we have the same destiny, then," she said, shyly.
"Perhaps." His voice was pleasantly agreeable as he softly rubbed his thumb over her hand.
She glanced at him as they approached the door to her suite, wondering if he might kiss her goodnight. But he simply walked in, her trailing behind him.
It was at her bedroom threshold that he stopped. The wide double-doors were ajar, though the darkness behind them made it impossible to see inside.
He stared into that darkness for several seconds before he looked back at her. "The Heart of Ophidia—the prize you won in the competition—do you carry it with you, or keep it in your room?"
"The Heart of Ophidia? Is that what it's called?" Her brain rapidly processed that information. "It's the elements, isn't it? Earth, water, and air in the shape of the flame. That's the heart's desire: Ophidia. Magic. Belonging." She smiled, knowing her current sentimental attitude was making her look goofy. "It's lovely!"
She recalled his question and asked, "Is it important? Should I be guarding it better? I keep it on a shelf in the room, but ought I to be doing something else with it?"
"There is no need to guard it." He shook his head. "It cannot be stolen from its rightful owner. But keep it close, if it ever needs to be used, you will know. Ophidia will call to you."
"The Great Lady," she said, solemnly, remembering the title Ser Slughorn had used.
Riddle's eyes glittered. "Indeed."
He made a motion as if to go, but she stopped him.
"Tom?" She noted how his dark eyes lightened when she spoke his name. "We are to be married soon. Very soon. I want you to know that I will take my vows very seriously."
"As will I," he said, nodding solemnly.
She didn't know why she felt the need to speak right now. There was still a couple of days before the wedding. But this moment they were sharing seemed important, and she wanted there to be no misunderstanding in the days ahead.
"Between you and I, I just wanted to say that. . ." She paused. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm glad it's you. I'm glad it's me. That it's the two of us. Together."
He didn't smile, like she thought he might. But he closed the distance between them until his face was once again very close to hers. She leaned in to him, closing her eyes just as she felt his lips on hers.
This second kiss was not as strong as the first. It didn't brand her with fire, but it marked her just the same. Her soul shivered as she stood on her toes, lips and tongues and breath mingling in the air.
As they drew apart, she heard him say, the words tickling her skin, "I'm glad it's you."
Then he was gone, walking swiftly away. She watched him until he rounded the corner, and then walked into her bedroom, flicking the lights on as she did.
Many nights she went to bed with the shocking thought that she was going to be a Queen in just a few days.
This night, she went to bed with the lovely warm sensation that she was going to be married. She was going to be a bride, the King's Bride. She was going to marry a man named Tom. And she was practically, nearly, almost certain that she was going to live her own love story.
She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
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