A/N: Apologies in advance for delays in posting...I'm in the process of moving from one end of the country to the other, so my writing time is being seriously curtailed. I'm going to try to post once a week, but it might go a bit longer between updates. Anyways, happy equinox! ;)
CHAPTER XX
Accusations & Avoidance
[Hogwarts | January 1944]
The Slytherin table at dinner is buzzing with hot gossip. Instead of sitting in her usual spot amidst the cluster of seventh-year girls, she walks to the end of the table and slips into the empty space beside Riddle, who's currently engaged in conversation with Avery. He abruptly breaks eye contact with Avery to shift his attention to the silent young woman now at his side. His breath gets all caught up in his lungs for a second.
"You're alive." He says, positively beaming. He's not going to tell her he spent the last few days attempting to mentally prepare himself for her potential absence, including the torturous train ride back to Hogwarts after failing to locate her... No, he's going to just enjoy this because god damn it it worked. He saved her life...Wait, what? He did what now? She looks at him with those eerie black eyes, her face expressionless.
"Seems like it." And there's the smile he's been waiting for. It creeps across her crimson lips, a small curl at the corner of her mouth. "Thanks to you." He's not sure how to respond, and instead becomes lost down the deep wells of her eyes until Avery drags him back up to the surface.
"Oi! About the-" Avery begins.
"Yes, tonight will be good, I think." Riddle answers, snapping back to the previous conversation as abruptly as he left it. And without breaking his attention, he casually places his hand over Spektor's as she reaches for the last roll, giving it a small squeeze, before sneakily taking it for himself. Spektor nudges him hard in the ribs.
"Oh, did you want this?" He drawls, smirking. Ever the gentleman, he then tears the roll in half and hands her a piece. Spektor narrows her eyes at him while she wolfs the thing down. When she reaches for a piece of chicken, she catches Lestrange's glare.
"Evening, Lestrange." She says. Lestrange nods, an odd twinkle in his eye. Perhaps it was just the reflection of a candle flame. And then Spektor feels a hand on her shoulder. She swivels in her seat to see Julia Pembroke standing over her.
"Hey. Wanted to tell you somethin'." Pembroke's agitated, muttering under her breath.
"What's wrong?"
"Have you read the papers yet?"
"The what?"
"The Prophet? You read it today?"
"No. I haven't..." Spektor says distractedly, as she feels Riddle's hand come to rest on her knee. "What are you on about?"
"Here. Just read it." Pembroke pushes a rumpled copy of The Daily Prophet into her hand before ambling back to where she was sitting with Fairchild, who's uncharacteristically distraught. Spektor unfurls the newspaper and immediately catches what Pembroke was on about. A decent portion of the front page has been devoted to a report on the murder of a young witch, which she begins to read:
Authorities are still trying to identify the killer responsible for the death of Lucinda Spektor, daughter of Septimus Spektor and Victoria Spektor (née Weasley), who was murdered in her family home in East London just days after Christmas. Mrs. Spektor could not be reached for comment, as she is receiving treatment in St. Mungo's. Her son, Barnaby, told one of our reporters that he suspects his sister Victoria was somehow involved, but did not elaborate. Miss Victoria Spektor has not responded to our owls...
"Everyone's been following it." Avery interjects, correctly assuming which article has caught her attention. "Pretty juicy stuff. Hey, did you see you're a suspect? Hah!" Spektor doesn't laugh; she doesn't even finish reading the article.
"You think I'm a killer, Avery?" Her deadpan sparks an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.
"Umm..." Avery mumbles. "Well, now that you mention it..."
"You know how much I loved my sister. Honestly, if I was going to off anyone in my family it would've been that prick over there." Her gesture indicates the hunched back of her brother Barnaby, surrounded by a gaggle of fawning Gryffindor Quidditch fans.
"Should I alert the Prophet?" He jokes.
"It'll be the last thing you do."
"Spoken like a true murder." Avery laughs. V. does not. Avery, now feeling thoroughly uncomfortable, directs his attention back to Riddle. "So it's just you, me, and Lestrange..."
"Huh?" Lestrange perks up.
"About tonight." Avery says to him. Lestrange nods jerkily. Riddle hisses, signaling them to quiet down, before reaching for V.'s full goblet of pumpkin juice.
"Eat your own food!" Spektor demands.
"No!" Lestrange leaps from his seat. Riddle freezes, goblet raised, just about to take a sip. Riddle and Spektor are both staring at Lestrange now, as he sits back down and starts blabbering. "Don't drink that! Here, just give it to me." Riddle smirks, and moves the goblet closer to his mouth. "Stop! Riddle, don't!"
"What's going to happen, Lestrange?" Riddle asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. Lestrange flushes.
"Please don't drink that." Lestrange pleads. "Just put it down."
"So I'm not the one you have a crush on?" Riddle says in mock confusion, putting on an exaggerated frown. "I'm hurt, Lestrange."
"Shut it!" Lestrange barks. "You..."
"What?" Riddle challenges. Lestrange backs down immediately, remembering well what happened less than a month ago at that ball. "I saw you slip that love potion in her goblet."
"Like you don't have the same...intentions..." Lestrange snarls.
"I'm right here, you know." Spektor's interjection falls on deaf ears. She punched the man in the face. Twice. What doesn't he understand?
"I don't need a love potion, mate." Riddle's arrogance on full display here. To rub it in, he wraps his arm around V's shoulders, large hands gripping her arm, knuckles white with otherwise unnoticeable tension.
"You know, he's not some knight in shining armor, V." Lestrange says, standing up, then thudding both hands angrily on the table, causing it to shake. Spektor looks up at him, her eyebrows raised. "He's...he's..."
"Please, Lestrange—tell me what I am. The suspense is killing me." Riddle drawls sarcastically.
"Nevermind." Lestrange thunders off, his robes billowing out behind him as sweeps through the Great Hall.
"A love potion." Spektor snorts, pushing the drugged goblet as far away from her as possible. "Not gonna to lie, it would've been hysterical if you actually drank that."
"Oh God—never..." Riddle dismisses the thought immediately. Just then, Spektor has a nasty idea. She takes out her wand and hovers the drugged goblet over to Penelope Fairchild's place setting. When she turns back to her food, she causally lifts the goblet to her lips and takes a long drink. Spektor smiles to herself, having just solved two annoying problems with one simple swish-and-flick.
"Nasty stuff, love potions..." Riddle says quietly, more to himself than to Spektor, as he watches Fairchild sip the tainted juice.
"She wants a husband." Spektor shrugs, replacing her wand in her pocket. Then she feels his hand on her knee again. "Not here Tom." She whispers sternly.
"Let's go to the library." He suggests abruptly, giving her knee a sharp squeeze before standing up.
"I haven't even finished eating!" She says.
"You are never finished eating." He quips. As they make their way out of the Great Hall, a fair number of students, likely those who have been following the reports on the investigation in the Daily Prophet, watch the pair closely, some pointing, others whispering.
Tom leads her all the way through the library to the back, slipping into the Restricted Section completely unnoticed. In a secluded corner, surrounded on three sides by towering bookcases, Victoria drops her bag on the table. She's about to light the candle when Tom grabs her roughly and turns her around to face him, his lips slightly parted, his eyes ravenous.
"So...what do you intend to study then?" Victoria inquires, knowing full well they didn't come here to do anything remotely academic. When he doesn't respond, she lifts her slender fingers and begins loosening his tie. Tom watches her hands as they slide over the knot, arching an eyebrow. He pushes her black school robes off her shoulders, and they puddle on the floor. Deftly, he slides his hand up under her shirt, tracing his long fingers up her spine, as she unbuttons his collar, kissing his neck softly. He sighs, a little too loudly, and Victoria quickly places a finger to his lips. In response, he swoops in and kisses her, holding her so tight he lifts her slight frame effortlessly off the floor, her arms draping gracefully around his shoulders. She giggles and kisses him back. Momentarily losing balance, he staggers back, colliding with the bookshelf and dislodging a few dusty old volumes. Her feet back on the ground, she grips the ends of his tie and pulls him back upright, drawing him into a tight embrace, running her fingers through his meticulously neat hair. He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. He wants her so bad it's almost paralyzing. She is doing everything in her power to exercise some self control, but she could have him right here, right now. Just..breathe. Easy now...
"What was that?" She whispers.
"Hmmm?" Tom murmurs disinterestedly.
"I heard something...coming from over...over there I think..." Quicker now, she whispers, her breath tickling his ear. Tom listens and hears it too. A shuffling of feet, the slide of a book off a shelf...someone else is back here.
"We should go." He says, crestfallen, picking up Victoria's robe from the ground helping her put it back on. "Who else would be here is what I'd like to know..." He whines agitatedly as they creep around the bookcase and make their way back to the main section of the library.
"Thought it had to be you." Says a gruff voice from somewhere behind them.
"Barnaby?" V is shocked. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the feast?"
"Saw you leave in a hurry. Figured I should follow you... Y'know, keep better tabs on you, seeing as last time I didn't and...well...you know what happened..." He steps out of the shadows. "Don't want any more poor kids getting murdered..." Barnaby may be only a few months younger than V, but sometimes he acts like he's only half her age.
"You know full well I wasn't home either when she died." V lies forcefully. "We left shortly after you did, to go on a walk."
"Nobody saw you." Barnaby says, crossing his arms over his muscly chest. "And you." Now looking at Tom, "I thought you were just some weird nerd..."
"Are you accusing me of something?" Tom scoffs.
"You two are up to something." Barnaby says, pointing from one to the other, voice wavering slightly, the vibes emanating from his half-sister setting his nerves on edge.
"What've you got there?" V asks, pointing at the large book under Barnaby's arm.
"Thought I should read up on your kind...get a better idea of what I'm dealing with..." When he shifts his arm she sees it's the only book in the library on devils—one she's read several times herself.
"Read?" Her sarcasm is razor-sharp. Barnaby never reads. Not even for classes. She's heard people say that he enlists various Gryffindor girls to read his school books to him while lounging around the common room polishing his broomstick.
"Yeah. I read. Sometimes." Barnaby huffs.
"You better cut it out. People might think you're a weird nerd." Tom says.
"Hey man, back off." Barnaby steps toward him, prompting Tom to give ground.
"Careful, Spektor. Seems like you've forgotten you're talking to the Head Boy." Tom warns.
"Don't call me that name. I wish my mother never married him...The bastard." Barnaby spits. "I'd rather be a Weasley any day."
"Hm. A Weasley? Yes, I suppose that suits you more." Tom sneers.
"Hey what's that supposed to mean?" Barnaby narrows his eyes at the pale, scrawny bookworm.
"Just an observation." says Tom. He's looking at these two siblings now, and they honestly couldn't be more different. Barnaby with his shock of red hair and broad build, and V's body merely a wisp, buried under a mound of dark locks. It's easy to see the Weasley in Barnaby, and obvious as to why he'd no longer want to be associated with his father: too much trouble for the future Minister of Magic.
"So you're building a case against me?" V asks, shifting her weight.
"The truth will come out." Barnaby says, intending to sound confident, but instead coming across more nervous than anything. And with that he takes his leave, scurrying through the stacks and out of sight.
"I can't believe he's your brother." Tom says, still fixed on the spot where Barnaby turned the corner to exit the library.
"Half-brother." V says, "His mum's a piece of work though, just like him. She didn't know what she was getting into, marrying my father. I honestly don't know how they ended up together. For such a feisty young woman to end up with such a dull, serious, old man..." She muses, "I wonder what my mum was like...If he loved her...what would've been different if they could've been together..." Tom remains silent, listening to V chatter on about her parents, all three of them, and can't help feel a twinge of jealousy. Just to have a family to hate would be better than having no family at all, he thinks for a moment. But no, that's stupid.
"You should've killed him instead." Did he just say that out loud? Oops. V halts her monologue and looks at Tom with wide eyes. She said the same thing earlier to Avery, but when he says it, it sounds so...cruel. But isn't that what murder is? Of course. But...
"We all get what we deserve...in the end..." She says softly. Tom puts an arm around her and they walk in silence back to the Slytherin common room.
Tiny globes of light refract through the icicles descending from the steeply pitched roof of the owlery. Through the windows they glisten like talons, encircling the room in something of a death grip. Perches extending nearly fifty feet above her hold the weight of hundreds of quivering, ruffling birds of prey, all eyeing the young woman below with their customary vigilance. It's Victoria Spektor, of course, and she's rooting through a fresh layer of droppings for any discarded letters that might bear her name. A raw wind rushes in through the glassless windows, pushing the soiled straw up around her feet, tugging her scarf tight around her neck. Turning her attention back to the ground, she doesn't find a single piece of mail addressed to her. But hmmm...what's this? Under her boot is a dirty envelope that's oddly thick. She reaches down with her dirty, and by now almost frostbitten hands, and sees a very familiar name scrawled across the front in deep crimson ink. Mr. Thomas M. Riddle. A natural snoop, V can't resist a peek...
Dear Mr. Riddle,
It has come to our attention that you have become acquainted with a young woman by the name of Victoria Spektor. We request that you cease this relationship immediately if you value your safety and personal freedom. You may wonder who we are, why we are writing to you, and what we could possibly do to enforce the claims we've made above. Do not trouble yourself with such details. Let it suffice to say that this is a warning, and we strongly advise that you heed it. If you have any further questions, please refrain from asking them. The answers you'd receive would be of no use to you anyway.
Sincerely,
D. F. Leviathan
V stares at the letter for a solid ten minutes before shoving it back in its envelope. Below the signature is a stamp—a reversed pentacle inscribed within a snake, which is biting its own tail. This must be the symbol of the Embassy... Without a second thought, she grips the envelope tightly in her hands and rips it clean down the middle. Fuck you Mr. Leviathan. She rips it again. And again. Hundreds of tiny pieces litter the ground, mingling with the owl shit. Footsteps on the stone stairway outside, and then a giggling couple enters the owlery.
"V!" It's Penelope Fairchild. "Guess what!?" V turns around to see Fairchild dragging Lestrange by the arm. Oh. Right.
"Looking good, as always." Lestrange says to V, who, covered in straw, scowls in return.
"We're going steady!" Fairchild squeaks, threading her fingers through Lestrange's hand.
"Oh wow." V says flatly. "That's great." Lestrange's got a cocky grin plastered across his face.
"Jealous?" Lestrange teases.
"Heh. You wish." V kicks the pile of scraps.
"Are you going on the next Hogsmeade trip?" Fairchild asks excitedly. V shrugs. "You and Tom should come—we could make it a double date!"
"Huh. Alright...well, I'll ask him, I guess..." It's like they're existing in different, parallel universes at this moment.
"Yeah! It'll be great!" Fairchild says cheerily.
"Don't forget about the letter, sweetie." Lestrange says, nudging her.
"Oh right!" Fairchild reaches into her pocket for an envelope.
"Right...well...I've got to get going..." V says, inching towards the door. They take no notice of her. All the better. She skirts down the winding staircase, skillfully avoiding the ice patches, and into the warmth and relative comfort of the castle.
