Chapter 15: Tender moments in the dark hours.
XV.
Dark Night of the Soul
[Wool's Orphanage | December 24, 1943]
It's well past midnight, and the inhabitants of Wool's Orphanage are tucked up in their beds and sleeping soundly. The only soul who should be awake, the night watchman, is dozing in the foyer, his radio leaking static, a crumpled newspaper on his lap open to an article on how to properly stock your bomb shelter. The sudden crack of Tom and Victoria apparating is faint enough not to jostle anyone out of dreamland.
"You can let go now." Tom says. Victoria doesn't budge. "Or loosen up a bit at least, I can barely breathe."
"Sorry." She says, relinquishing her grip and taking a small step back from him. "Where are we?"
"It's my room...it's the only safe place I could think of..." He says, a little embarrassed now that he thinks about it. It's a small room, more like a cell than a room, actually. Just a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe in the corner. The desk is littered with papers, a large book open, a quill resting in the crease, leaking minuscule ink droplets onto the pages. The small iron-frame bed is neatly made, thick grey blanket, crisp white sheets, one pillow. He moves to light the stubby candle on the bedside table, bathing the room in a dim warm glow. After taking off his coat and gloves, throwing them on the desk, he helps her out of her black wool coat. As he hangs it on the back of the chair, she unravels the thick grey scarf from around her neck and places it on top of the desk.
"Take those boots off. They're soaking." he says while rummaging in the wardrobe for something. She slips her boots and wet socks off and sets them near the radiator. When he turns around, extra blanket in his arms, he sees Victoria sitting on his bed and freezes for a moment, taking in the scene. Her dark hair cascading over her narrow shoulders, grey silk blouse tucked into an ankle-length black skirt, bare feet on the dirty wood floor. He sits down next to her and wraps her in the blanket. They don't say anything for a long time. The clock ticks on the bedside table. Rain drips on the windowsill.
"Thanks for coming with me." She says solemnly, looking down at the floor.
"You were right." He says. "It did get weird."
"Do you think..." She stops for a moment, as nervous about thinking this as she is saying it out loud, then continues. "Do you think that...if I was able to make one of those...horcruxes...Slughorn talked about...I'd be able to hide...buy some time..." An unsettling smile creeps across Tom's face, as if he was just waiting for her to bring up the topic.
"It's possible. I was thinking about that as well...It would solve your current problem at least...with your soul removed from your body, you would no longer be a...well..." He notices the scowl she's making in anticipation of the term, so he doesn't say it.
"But my soul will still be alive." She sighs, pondering the technicalities, the potential loopholes—if only she knew more.
"That might not matter. Very few things operate in absolutes, Victoria. This could be the very same route that wizard took—the one your grandfather mentioned. Not a foolproof plan, but a plan nonetheless..." Why is he smiling? Maybe she should cheer up. All hope isn't lost. And it seems as though Tom is willing to help her. There is something she can do. There's hope.
"A plan. Yes, I need a plan. And then I'll be safe." She says, pulling the blanket tighter around her, and up over her face so just her eyes are peeking out. "Right? You promise?"
"Promise?" He laughs, tugging on the blanket. She resists, drawing her limbs in to her core, needing to feel the compression, the comforting solidity of her own mass.
"This is no laughing matter." She says, although she's begun to laugh as well.
"Sure. Alright." he says, rolling his eyes. For a split second he looks away, the candle flickering and guttering, and she gives him a sneaky kiss on the cheek.
"What was that?" he asks sternly. Then, turning back to her, "How dare you! Don't you ever do that again." he orders, a playful smirk on his face.
"Or what?" She whispers. He laughs, pushing her down on the mattress, which squeaks a little as she falls back onto his pillow. He leans over her, and she grabs his cardigan, pulling him down so his face is mere centimeters from hers. She gives him another quick kiss on the cheek. Everybody loves a tease.
"Or I'll have to do this..." He resigns, his look conveying she is about to get what she deserves. Not that that's a bad thing...no, not at all...
His lips are upon hers, heavy and forceful. He brushes her hair away, clearing a path to her neck, collarbone, as she unbuttons his cardigan and pushes it off his shoulders. He pauses for a second, then yanks the garment the rest of the way off and tosses it on the floor. Victoria's small fingers now work with the buttons of his white shirt, which she notices is his Hogwarts uniform shirt, as he swiftly pulls her blouse off over her head. She's a little surprised to see he's almost as scrawny as she is. Not that it's a bad thing. Just another commonality to add to the list, which just keeps growing longer.
He reaches around her back to unclasp her bra, hands scanning greedily over her body, eventually discovering her two small breasts. When he kisses them she almost shrieks. What a strange sensation. His skin so deliciously warm against hers, feeling his hardon against her thigh, he plants soft kisses on her neck again, then her lips. Inhaling deeply, her lavender-rosemary perfume washes over him. When she slips out her skirt, he hastily rids himself of his trousers. The beating of his heart, the beads of sweat forming on his brow, he's boldly going where he's never gone before—where, quite honestly, he never thought he ever would go. This must be a dream. He's about to wake up any second, he thinks. This isn't supposed to be possible. No—stop that. Focus. What's that noise? Is that an air raid siren? Strangely, he's even more aroused...
She wraps her smooth pale legs around him, heavier breathing, then adolescent fumbling, kissing again, more tongue, more movement, rhythmically now...the bed creaking a little too loudly...her fingernails digging into his back, and then, together, they reach the climax. An incredible release—something neither of them could have anticipated, not just because of their collective inexperience in such acts, but also because of the resolution of such unbearable tension. They settle into each other, aligning too perfectly, although neither wants to be suspicious at such a time. No, now is a time for relief, for the safety in a gentle touch, for the silent joy a night not spent alone brings.
Victoria rests her head in the crook of Tom's neck, still breathing hard, and as he traces his long fingers through her hair, she feels peace spread through her veins. Tom exhales slowly, letting the air hiss through his teeth, lips curled in absolute contentment. He kisses her forehead, and she gazes up at him, her black eyes glittering, heart pounding out of her chest.
She's fast asleep now, her head resting on the right side of his pillow, engulfed in a cloud of soft dark hair. But Tom can't sleep. He's staring at the ceiling, trying to puzzle this all out. First of all, he's happy—happier than he's ever been in his life—which is a fairly new emotion for him. The only thing he can compare it to was the complete satisfaction he felt after he murdered his father and grandparents last summer. But that's different, of course.
And the next thing—and possibly the most confusing thing to him of all of it—he is not just happy but quite possibly in love with this strangely beautiful creature sleeping beside him. When he discovered he was conceived while his father was under the effects of a powerful love potion, he thought that explained it—why he was unable to feel any sort of affection for another person. But she's not exactly a person now is she? Is that why she's the exception? God, how can someone be the exception to so many rules? He shifts carefully, so as not to wake her, and watches her chest gently rise, gently fall. Was it fate that brought her into his life? Did he even believe in fate? No, of course not. But she is making his job a lot easier, and more...enjoyable. He sighs, tugs the blankets up a bit farther to cover her shoulders. She snuggles deep into him. She's a force to be reckoned with. But she won't become a threat. He'll be careful. He knows what he's doing. When it's all said and done, she'll make a fine queen.
The six-fingered gentleman is dancing in his little room. It's a weird movement but she knows it's supposed to be dancing. And then there's that shadowy thing scuttling across the floor again. This time V.'s able to follow it, out into the hallway, which grows longer with each step, then twists unexpectedly, and again, until she's got the thing cornered in front of a large mirror. Gotcha. What is it? She bends down to get a closer look and—are those hands? Yes. A pair of severed hands in white gloves, standing on five fingers each like terrible spiders. They start to move again. They're jumping. They can jump? Oh god. They're reaching out. They're going for her throat.
Victoria awakes with a scream, sitting bolt upright, clutching the covers tightly to her chest, her heart racing, looking around anxiously, not knowing where the hell she is.
"What is it?" Tom wakes with a start, looking around, reaching for his wand. V. does a double-take. Oh. Right. She becomes so distracted by the fact that Tom isn't wearing any clothes that she completely disregards his question and just stares wide-eyed at him. "What's wrong?" He asks again, becoming a little annoyed now.
"I...uh..." She stammers.
"Shhhh." He puts a finger to her lips. Footsteps echo in the hallway, pause momentarily in front of Riddle's door. "Put this on and get in there." He says, tossing her his shirt and pointing at the wardrobe. Then a harsh knock at the door. He throws on his bathrobe and stuffs the rest of the clothes scattered about his floor into his bed, pulling the covers up over them. Victoria silently creeps into the wardrobe. The knocking persists.
"Riddle? Open up, boy." It's Mrs. Cole. He opens the door, yawning, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
"I thought I heard...a woman...screaming. Sounded like it was coming from in here..." She says sternly.
"That's strange. I didn't hear anything." He says, feigning confusion.
"A few other staff members heard it as well..." She says, poking her head into his room. "Step aside." He obliges. She surveys the room, looks under the bed, and starts towards the wardrobe. As Tom starts formulating how he's going to explain her away, V. hears her coming and quickly transforms, hiding herself quite well in one of the dark corners. When Mrs. Cole swings the door open she sees no sign of anything unorthodox. "Hmmm...Must've been coming from outside..." She muses, confused.
"Probably." He says stiffly.
"This area's getting worse and worse…with the war on…less police..." She mutters. "Breakfast's in an hour." She strides out the door, shutting it behind her. Tom immediately rushes to the wardrobe, opening it and finding it empty. Where'd she go? Then, a large black snake slithers out, coiling at his feet. The snake lifts its head and winks.
"An animagus. Very impressive." He says with a laugh.
"Thanks." She hisses. "It comes in handy."
"So that's why you know that snakes have different accents..." He remembers back to that day in September when she drew a picture of him having a chat with the basilisk.
"Clever boy." She hisses, then resumes her usual form, standing in front of him now in his white button-down, which hangs quite loosely on her. He smiles. She's still in her makeup from the night before, her eyeliner all smudged.
"That was close." He says, "So...what was the screaming about then? I'm not that awful to wake up next to, am I?" He's only half joking, but he's fully blushing.
"Are you kidding?" She says with a laugh, locating her clothes and getting dressed. "No. I had this dream...I was back in that apartment and..." Something suddenly dawns on her. Tom watches her eyes widen.
"What?"
"We have to go back." She says.
"What for?"
"There's this book I saw on the shelf in the living room. I totally forgot about it until now but...it'll help. I know it will. I need it."
"So we're going to just walk right in and take it?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Alright then." He says, pulling a pair of corduroy trousers on, along with a very chunky, very ugly, cream-colored turtleneck sweater. She laughs.
"Really?" She eyes the sweater skeptically.
"It's cold." He says flatly. At least at Hogwarts people can't pick on his second-hand clothes because everyone's wearing the same damn thing.
"Sorry it's just..." She says, then starts laughing again. "It's very hard to take you seriously while you're dressed like that..."
"Then don't take me seriously. See if I care." He says angrily.
"Oh don't be cross..." She says hastily.
"Too late."
"Cut it out, Tom. I'm sorry. I won't say anything about your outfit again." She says, batting her eyelashes.
"God damn it I don't want to be mad at you. This is the worst. I'm too happy." He scowls. She kisses him quickly before retrieving her coat and scarf. Her shoes and socks are warm and dry now, after spending a night by the radiator. She's in an unreasonably good mood, despite the weird events of last night, and perhaps because of the more positive aspects of the evening. If she didn't feel compelled to rush back to the six-fingered gentleman's apartment, she knows exactly what she'd rather be doing right now—and it wouldn't involve Tom wearing that ugly sweater, that's for sure.
