It's raining as I arrive outside the towering iron gates to Malfoy Manor. I don't bother conjuring an umbrella, instead letting the downpour soak into my scalp and run in rivulets down my skin. The marble columns of the manor are blurred by the rain, the overcast sky giving them a greyish tint.
I stride purposefully up the steps to the house and pull the metal chain to ring the doorbell. A bedraggled peacock scurries past me, seeking shelter from the rain. I expect I look similarly dishevelled, with my wet hair plastered to my skull and my skin bone-white with cold, but my mind is too occupied to bother with my appearance.
The butler, a greying, middle-aged man answers the door.
"I need to speak to Abraxas Malfoy," I say, before he has a chance to open his mouth. "It's urgent."
"I'm afraid Mr. Malfoy is currently in a meeting and cannot be disturbed," the butler announces ceremoniously, and goes to close the door. I jam it open with my foot, drawing my wand swiftly and pointing it at the butler's exposed throat. He swallows nervously.
"Perhaps I did not make myself clear," I hiss, too impatient to bother being civil. "It's urgent. You will fetch Mr. Malfoy right now if you value your life."
I think my slightly unhinged appearance aids the threat. The butler eyes the wand at his throat cautiously and nods, shuffling away down the hall to get Abraxas and I wait on the doorstep, shivering and restless. After a few moments, I hear footsteps and Abraxas Malfoy appears.
I stare at him and he stares at me, paling in shock, his face going slack, his eyes wide. I can hardly believe the evidence of my own eyes, for here is Abraxas, the boy I saw at most a mere month ago, and yet he must be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a dark suit, a wedding ring on his finger and his platinum blond hair just beginning to recede. I can only imagine what he makes of me; a girl who disappeared eighteen years ago only to show up on his doorstep barely a day older.
"Evangeline?" he whispers, reaching out a hand as if to touch me, as if he's not sure I'm real. "It can't be. You're dead."
I frown slightly. "Why would I be dead, Abraxas?" I ask quietly.
"You disappeared," he breathes, fear written across his face. "We all thought- Tom had—" he breaks off for a moment, "He refused to ever mention you again. And when he came back- alone- we thought—"
"That he'd killed me?" I ask softly. Abraxas nods, not taking his eyes off me.
"But you're—" he says, his confusion evident, "You look exactly the same. How—"
"It's a long story," I say gently, cutting him off. "But not why I'm here. I have to speak to Tom. Do you know where he is?"
Abraxas flinches almost imperceptibly and doesn't answer right away.
"Sir?" says a voice from behind him. It's the butler, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "The Dark Lord has requested that you return immediately to the meeting. And that you bring your visitor with you."
I look at Abraxas in fear. "He's in there?" I whisper, my heartbeat increasing in anticipation, my hands trembling slightly. He nods shakily, not meeting my gaze.
"If you'll follow me please, sir, madam," the butler says, glancing at me apprehensively and ushering us down the hallway and through a tall, wooden door into a large meeting room, occupied by a long table around which sits men and women, some of whom I recognise from the Slytherin common room.
Silence falls as we enter. Abraxas bows, and immediately makes a beeline for an empty chair- presumably his own- on the right-hand side of the table, leaving me stood awkwardly by the door, which closes behind me. I can feel the eyes of everyone in the room upon me, but my gaze is utterly fixated on the man who sits on a throne at the head of the table, my locket around his neck.
We stare at each other wordlessly for what feels like eternity, neither one of us able to break eye contact.
It is Tom, but it isn't. His face is more angular, and white as bone. His eyes are a blazing crimson, sunken deep into his skull, his lips thin and cruel. There's something waxy about his appearance, as if he's a distorted sculpture of the Tom I knew crossed with someone entirely alien to me.
"Evangeline Chambers," he says slowly and at length, his voice breathy and quiet, yet altogether too loud, too piercing in this silence. He doesn't seem surprised, only… curious? Contemplative?
"Tom?" I ask unnecessarily. My voice is foreign, even to myself.
"The years have been very kind to you," he observes softly after a moment. Is that hatred, venom, envy, lacing his words?
"I'm afraid I can't say the same for you," I reply faintly.
He smiles then, leeringly, displaying unnaturally sharp teeth, but his eyes burn with cold fire. It makes me shiver uncomfortably.
"Leave us," he says sharply to the other people in the room. As one, and without question, they stand, dutifully file out. I wait until they are all gone and it's just Tom and me, standing at opposite ends of the table, an insurmountable barrier between us.
"You kept my locket," I observe quietly.
He laughs, a high, bitter sound. "I didn't keep it for you," he replies harshly, such overwhelming hatred on his features.
"Then why?" I ask simply.
He sneers, walking smoothly around the table until he stands only a few feet away from me. I resist the urge to flinch away.
"You did everything you could to keep me ignorant," he hisses at me, baring his teeth. "You tried to keep me from achieving true power because you were afraid that I'd become more powerful than you. But you've failed, Salazar. I see through your lies now."
I frown. "Don't be ridiculous, Tom."
"My name," he spits out, "is Lord Voldemort." He leers at me again. "Do you want to know why?"
"I have a feeling you're going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not," I say. After all this time, he's still just an idiot.
Your idiot, my mind says unhelpfully.
"It means 'flight of death' in French," he announces viciously.
I roll my eyes. "Yes, I had gathered that. I do, in fact, speak French. Now stop this insane act and come home. Please."
"You don't understand," he ploughs on, a hint of malicious glee in his eyes. It's extremely unnerving. "I don't need you anymore. Because death does indeed flee from me."
I freeze. "What have you done?" I breathe.
He holds up the locket by its chain, allows it to spin, catching the light. "This was the source of your immortality," he says triumphantly. "Well, it's the source of mine now."
The floor drops out from under me. "What have you done?" I repeat, the blood draining from my face.
"Nothing much," he says idly. "Just added a bit of… soul to it."
He will bind your lives together so that one's death shall spell certain doom for the other.
"You fool," I whisper in shock, staring at him. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You're playing with death when you make a horcrux. I toyed with death, and I lost eighteen years. You may well lose much more."
Not just one horcrux, he says into my mind gleefully, ignoring my words of warning.
"How many?" I ask, almost too afraid to hear the answer.
Slowly, smiling all the while, he holds up four long, pale fingers.
I shake my head, backing away. He advances towards me, sneering cruelly.
"You have meddled in things you don't understand," I warn. "There is always a price."
He raises his wand, still approaching undaunted. I have thought of nothing but this moment for eighteen years, he says wordlessly, his wand now pointing directly at my head. Now, I will be the last Slytherin.
"Please don't do this," I plead in vain, backing up against the wall.
Goodbye, Salazar, he whispers silently, his tone mocking, his wand at my throat.
I'm so sorry, I reply, and stab him with my little engraved silver knife.
He lets out a choked gasp, staring at me with wide eyes. It's enough time for me to send him flying back against the far wall with a flick of my fingers. There's a nasty crack, and he falls into an unconscious heap on the floor. I walk over to his crumpled body slowly, then turn him over. He makes a soft groan as I yank out the knife, his eyelids flickering.
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," I say, my voice's forced lightness disguising my agonising heartbreak. I wipe the knife on my cloak, all too aware of the sticky blood on my hands and the unending pain in my chest. "You'll survive. You are immortal now, after all."
I pause for a moment to touch his face gently, reverently. His features are softened in sleep and with his eyes closed, I can almost imagine that it's the old Tom, my Tom, passed out from drinking long into the night with me. When I pull away, I leave bloody fingerprints on his cheekbone.
"Goodbye, Tom," I whisper, and disapparate.
I know, I know, I'm evil. Trust me, this is breaking my heart as much as yours.
As always, thank you so much for reading :)
Amy Grace xx