Chapter 9: These days, for V Spektor, nothing is as it seems.
IX.
Hallucinations & Hospital Beds
[Hogwarts | December 1943]
Footsteps and a surprised shriek alerted Spektor to the presence of Professor Slughorn, whose office she was currently robbing of expensive, not to mention dangerous, potion ingredients. A few bottles slip from her hands and smash on the floor as she whips around, hurriedly trying to draw up some sort of reasonable explanation.
"Sorry Victoria, didn't expect to see you there. Looking for something?" Professor Slughorn is weirdly unfazed by the fact that he caught one of his students, let alone his golden girl, stealing from his private stores.
"I was just...waiting for you to get back...and was...admiring...your stock..." Spektor says, somewhat convincingly, as she replaces the bottles that are still in tact on the nearest shelf.
"Impressive, isn't it? You'd be hard pressed to find a selection like this anywhere else, I imagine. Now, what did you...Good God Victoria...are you alright?" The alarm in Slughorn's voice is now much more elevated than moments ago. Blood is leaking in tiny rivulets from the corners of the girl's eyes, from her ears, from the corner of her mouth. Usually an uncommonly pretty girl, the figure that stood before him looked positively demonic. Horror's all over his face.
"What? Sir?" Spektor observes his shock with mild curiosity.
"What have you done?" Slughorn whispers, dragging Spektor over to a mirror. One glance in the thing and she clamps her eyelids shut. Now she's elbowing Slughorn in the stomach, trying to get away. "My dear Victoria, look—you're bleeding. Your eyes, they're bleeding."
"I…Don't. Like. Mirrors." She says emphatically, refusing to look.
"My dear dear girl...what have you done."
"I don't know what you're on about...I haven't done anything." Spketor wipes her cheek. It is real this time. Not just a hallucination. But what did it mean? She hadn't done anything to cause this. Her experimental potions should be helping with the weird visions, creepy feelings, strange dreams... Maybe Slughorn could help? "I've been seeing it in the mirrors for months. Thought they were just weird hallucinations... But please, Professor...I don't want to go to the hospital wing. I have a feeling they might not...understand..."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand..." Slughorn says, visibly shaken. "The only time I've heard of this sort of thing happening..." He pauses, shakes his head, laughs to himself, "but that's impossible...I shouldn't even say it..."
"What is it?" Her voice drops, eyes widening out of fear, coupled with her insatiable curiosity.
"Well, it's been said that humans...after a soul's been...well..." Slughorn is resisting even as he's speaking the words. "Forgive me, I shouldn't be discussing this. Especially not with a young woman such as yourself. There is enough darkness in the world without speaking of it." Spektor's eyes still unnaturally wide, her face fades impossibly pale.
"After a soul's been...what...professor?" Spektor practically whispers. Professor Slughorn glances around his office nervously.
"Well, sort of, you know, tampered...with..." Slughorn says slowly.
"How does one's soul become tampered with?" Spektor asks quickly. Slughorn steps toward the ghostly young woman and holds the back of his hand to her forehead to test whether she's feverish. Instead, her skin is cold and clammy to the touch.
"My dear girl, I can't imagine why you'd be concerned about that." Professor Slughorn says, more to console himself than her. "Why don't we go up to the hospital wing...get you some sleeping draught, and have a nice long rest. Have you been sleeping?"
"No. No! Please professor, I just need you to answer my question. Then I'll go back to my dormitory and go to sleep. I promise."
"I'm afraid I can't allow that." And without a moment's pause, he disarms her, takes her by the arm, and escorts her quickly from his office and up to the hospital wing. Once they arrive, Spektor has given up on resisting. Although she's about as tall as Slughorn, he's about three times her size and her strength is just not up to par. Madame Knowkes bustles up to them, sets eyes on Spektor, slumped and sallow, and begins muttering to herself nervously.
"Oh dear...oh dear. Well what've we got here? Let's have a look-see old girl, and we'll get you back in tip-top shape as quick as a broomstick." Madame Knowkes takes Spektor from Slughorn and brings her to a bed all the way in the back of the wing, sitting her down, and beginning to examine her. Slughorn hovers in the background, waiting to hear a snippet of information to disprove his suspicions. "Now tell me what happened."
"I don't know." She shrugs.
"Interesting... Are you sure nobody put a curse on you? Slipped something suspicious in your pumpkin juice?"
"I don't know." Spektor mutters, knowing full well nobody put a curse on her, but deciding it better to leave some room for interpretation. Madame Knowkes has her change into a hospital gown, prepares a sleeping draught, and soon Spektor sinks into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
When she awakes, someone is sitting next to her bedside. Her eyes still weighted and lazy with sleep, she has difficulty telling who is sitting there, but after a moment, she sits up with a start, drawing the sheets up to her shoulders, clutching them tightly in her fists.
"Riddle? What are you doing here?" Spektor demands.
"I could ask you the same thing, Spektor."
"Please Riddle, I am not in the mood for this." She whispers furtively.
"I heard you were bleeding out your eyes...Figured I'd visit..." He drawls.
"Well, now you can see for yourself. I hope your curiosity is sated." Spektor says bitterly, sinking slightly back down into the bed, eyes narrowed, sheets still pulled up to her nose.
"Not even a little bit." Riddle smirks. Although he's been doing his share of research, and knows a fair bit more about this strange, secretive young woman thanks to the hints she dropped that night in the potions classroom, there are still so many unanswered questions. "Anyway, I brought your books." He gestures to her bedside table, which is stacked with textbooks.
"Thanks." She says, then, "Wait...you went into my dormitory?"
"You're welcome." The smirk is still fixed on Riddle's face.
"Why are you smiling like that?" Spektor demands, squinting at him.
"No reason."
"Sure."
"I brought you this also." Riddle hands her the notebook she'd been sketching in that day she let Riddle try the Draught of Dreamlife. Alright then. It all makes sense now. "You sure like to draw. Strangely, towards the end, there seem to be only sketches of one person..."
"I can't figure you out." Spektor hisses.
"Maybe I don't want you to." Riddle says, rising from the chair. They were even now. Sort of. "That Ancient Runes paper is due tomorrow. Two feet of parchment." He says loudly as he strides out of the hospital wing. Spektor watches his back retreat until the door of the hospital wing swings shut. Did she really draw only sketches of him? She flips through the notebook, and sure enough... But wait, the last drawing isn't hers—it's done in dark green ink, a completely different style. It's a crude doodle of her in her hospital bed. She stares at it for what seems like hours. Riddle had been drawing her as she slept. He'd been sitting there for however long, waiting for her to wake up, and instead of leaving or reading or doing whatever else, he sat there and sketched her. What a fucking creep. There was a note beneath the picture. She squinted to read the small, neat handwriting:
Come to the Yule Ball with me.
In true Tom Riddle fashion, it is a demand. She laughs out loud, drawing Madame Knowkes out from her office.
"I see you're feeling better, old girl."
"Slightly, yes." Spektor says, still laughing. She can't seem to stop.
"Top notch! Still bleeding though, I see. I'll see what I have to put a stop to that. Back in a flash." Madame Knowkes bustles back off to her office. When Madame Knowkes comes back, Spektor's still chuckling to herself. "Now tell me what's got you so amused. I simply must know."
"Boys." Spektor says, and Madame Knowkes gives her a knowing smile.
"That one that just left?"
"That very one."
