A/N: Thanks for the review, Shadowdreamslayer! And for the recent favorites/follows!

TW: abuse, violence


CHAPTER XXI

Kiss With A Fist

[Hogwarts | February 1944]


The castle's being pounded by storm after storm, burying the school under so much snow the groundskeeper's had to create tunnels in some spots to enable students to make their way to more remote locations like the greenhouses, and Hogsmeade.

"It's like we're at the North Pole!" Julie Pembroke exclaims in wonder, as she walks through one of these tunnels with Spektor and Fairchild. "Amazing."

"Reminds me of when I was little, when my dad would make these elaborate snow forts after a blizzard, for me and my sister to play in." Fairchild reaches up and touches the ceiling of the tunnel, causing a little flurry of snow to fall down on top of them.

"Cute." Spektor says absently.

"Hey, so this whole thing with you and Lestrange..." Pembroke is the first to broach the subject. "I thought you weren't into him. After the ball you said he really turned you off..."

"I don't know what happened, honestly." Fairchild muses dreamily. "I guess I just needed some time...but how could I not see it, you know? That we're soul mates..."

"Soul mates?" Pembroke laughs. "V, can we have a rational human's thoughts on the subject, please?"

"Who are we to judge? If they're happy..." Spektor shrugs.

"Oh come on. It's so weird. You have to admit...hey, you're not bent out of joint about it are you? I mean, you and Riddle seem to be getting pretty close..." Pembroke realizes she hasn't talked to Spektor about any of this yet, and is operating purely on assumptions at this point.

"Julie, you should know better than to think something like that." Spektor reaches inside her robes for her flask, full now with a different potion altogether—something she's been working on practically non-stop since getting back to Hogwarts. It tastes disgusting, and she winces as the slimy, slightly gelatinous liquid slides down her throat.

"I'm glad you're not upset, V." Fairchild interjects. "I wouldn't want my new relationship to jeopardize our friendship or anything..."

"No of course not. I'm very happy for you, Penelope." Spektor coughs.

"That stuff's gonna kill you one of these days." Pembroke says, gesturing toward the flask.

"Not if it works..." Spektor winks, slipping it back inside her robes. They're almost to the greenhouses now.

"So...you and Riddle hmmmm?" Pembroke throws a playful punch at Spektor's arm.

"What?"

"You two have become quite the item, I've heard."

"Oh yeah? Who says?" It's not like it's not true, because it certainly is, but Spektor's a very private person—doesn't like her information being spread around.

"Well..." Pembroke pauses at the door to Greenhouse Number 3. "A few people...you know how it is... But is it true? That you're actually dating him? I mean, he hates everyone."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Spektor deflects.

"Oh come on V, you're no fun." Pembroke whines. "Why so secretive?"
"Alright." Spektor rolls her eyes. Pulling on a pair of thick canvas gloves, she whispers the details to Pembroke. Fairchild, conveniently, is already out of earshot, humming to herself as she scoops fertilizer into a pot. "I dunno...it just sort of...happened..." Pembroke nods along. "I certainly didn't expect it..." Pembroke's listening intently as she readies her station at the worktable.

"I knew it." Pembroke whispers victoriously. "When I saw you two at the ball, I just knew it."

"Yeah, it's been pretty...intense...since then, you could say..." Spektor says, now shoveling dragon dung into a pot.

"Oh my god you slept with him already." Pembroke effortlessly jumps to the conclusion, incredulous, casting Spektor a very disapproving stare. Spektor shushes her.

"Really, Julie? It's not like half the girls in our year haven't already lost their virginity..." Spektor doesn't really understand what the big deal is.

"Mistake number one." Pembroke says, taking the dung shovel from Spektor and now helping herself to the bag of fertilizer. "Rushing physical intimacy. I thought you were smarter than that, V."

"This has nothing to do with intelligence." Spektor snaps. "And I can have sex with whoever I want to, thank you very much." She definitely said that too loud. Edward O'Connor looks up from his workstation, venemous tentacula writhing in his firm grip, a curious look on his face.

"You sure can." Pembroke says. "But that doesn't mean it's a wise decision..."

"Well, too late now." Spektor sneers. "Got any more advice?"

"Hey, no reason to get cross. I'm just..."

"Can you two quiet down? I'm trying to concentrate." Minerva McGonagal quips.

"Sorry." Pembroke apologizes. "C'mon V, don't be mad at me..." She whispers. V's wrestling with her tentacula now.

"It's been a strange few months." Spektor mutters.

"You've been really distant..."

"I've been really busy..."

"You look better, at least." Pembroke says, smiling. "For a while there I thought you were gonna die or something..."

"Yeah, me too." Spektor says. McGonagal shoots them another look of annoyance. They shut up and get to work.


"Wait up!" Edward O'Connor's running across the courtyard, a pair of gloves clutched in his hand. "Hey, V!" She halts, swiveling on the spot to face the strapping young Gryffindor. He jogs up to her, panting slightly, cheeks rosy from the chilled February air. He holds out the gloves, and she takes them gladly.

"Ah. Thought they fell out of my pocket." She says, slipping them onto her hands. They're still a little warm from his grip. "Thanks." She turns to continue on inside.

"Wait." He says. She does. "You're good with potions, right?"

"The best." She says, ever so modestly, eyes surveying the boy before her with mild curiosity.

"Good. I'm having a bit of trouble...I was wondering if you could...I dunno..." O'Connor stammers. Huh. Here's a person who's never talked to her before, a person she didn't even think knew her name, and now, all of a sudden, he's asking her to tutor him in potions? And...is he blushing? Strange.

"What's going on?" A harsh voice makes O'Connor. Tom Riddle's striding towards them across the courtyard.

"No idea." Spektor shrugs. Riddle casts her a withering look.

"I've gotta go. See you in Care of Magical Creatures." O'Connor bids her farewell, with a nervous glance at Riddle.

"What was that all about?" Riddle asks.

"He was being weird, wasn't he? You saw it..." Spektor says, watching O'Connor slip through the archway and out of sight.

"I did." Riddle says, taking her hand in an iron grip. "You know, I can't help but notice...but you seem to have acquired a fair number of...admirers..."

"Admirers?" Spektor snorts.

"You know what I'm talking about." Riddle says, dead serious.

Now that he mentions it, she has noticed. The lingering glances. The blatant stares. She has been operating under the assumption all the newfound attention is because of the coverage of the murder investigation in the Daily Prophet that all the students seem to be lapping up. But wait a moment now...Riddle thinks that these people are attracted to her? In all her years of existence, she's never once considered herself to be an attractive person by any conventional standards. Perhaps this is because she's never been able to see herself clearly—damn mirrors. Still, it's ridiculous.

"A little paranoid, are we?" She says.

"Quiet down, would you?" He hisses. They're walking past a cluster of professors, with Albus Dumbledore in the mix, watching the two of them out of the corner of his eye. Hmm. Yes. Well, they're both on the same page regarding him, at least.

Fairchild once talked about how a woman suddenly becomes more desirable once she's no longer available. That's a reasonable explanation, sure. But ever since that night in her garden, since the separation of her human soul from her infernal body, there's been some slight...changes... Not only does she appear much healthier than before, even gaining a little weight to round off her sharp edges, but people are regarding her with much more interest. You could even say they're draw to her—sometimes approaching her without even knowing why. Riddle's clearly not coping well with this unexpected side effect...


He's pacing—something he rarely indulges himself in because it makes him seem scattered, distraught even—but he can't help it. Nobody's around to witness it anyway—the common room is empty, the fire flickering feebly in the grate, heavy snores drifting from the boys dormitory. He tries to sleep, but his dreams cause just as much unrest as his waking life. If they're even dreams...they seem so real. He's awake now, though, that he's sure of. And he's got this vision fixed in his mind of Victoria and Edward O'Connor...

They're in the greenhouses and the rest of the class has left. Victoria's packing up her books, slipping them into her bag, turning to leave, sunlight leaking through the chinks in the snow-covered glass above, glinting off her hair, the metal buckles on her bag...and then, a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at O'Connor, who's grinning, holding her gloves in one hand, then using the other to push the bag off her shoulder. It falls to the floor with a thud. He's pushing her up onto one of the worktables, knocking pots and trowels out of the way. She tosses her glossy hair over her shoulder, eyes glittering, teeth flashing, pulling him closer, wrapping her stockinged legs around his middle...

No. Tom presses his palms into his eyes, trying to get the awful scene to stop replaying itself. It can't be true. It would be easier to deal with if he could just ask her about it, but god only knows where she is right now... And right on cue, a slim figure creeps through the entrance.

"Tom. What are you doing up?" She whispers, catching sight of the young man.

"Couldn't sleep." He growls. "You?"

"Ok. Look." She sighs, striding towards him, "I'm not fooling around behind your back, so just get that out of your head already."

"Now where would you get an idea like that?" Tom muses, crossing his arms.

"You've got to be kidding me." She's exasperated. "You're mental if you think I'm going to put up with this any longer."

"You sound guilty."

"Do you want me to be guilty?" She asks, arching an eyebrow. "Let's go get O'Connor then and I'll do him right here. You can even watch, if you like—" And without a moment's delay, Tom's hand strikes her face. Hard. She winces, steps back, face screwed up in utter disbelief. "Bloody hell that hurt..." she says, massaging the place where, she's sure, a nasty bruise is already blossoming.

"How dare you talk to me like that." Tom spits. "You're my girl, Victoria. You better start acting like it." The shock starts to fade from her face, and is slowly replaced by a grin—bearing her teeth like a viper ready to strike. Normally she would've given him a taste of his own medicine, but this time she's taking a different tactic. She re-approaches the glowering young man, slipping a hand around his waist.

"And how do you want your girl to act?" Her tone is low, sultry. Tom's face is still chiseled into a deep scowl. As she traces her hand up his spine, she feels his muscles twitch, as though he's about to hit her again. This should be a deterrent, but to her, it's incentive. "I can be bad...if you want..." She purrs. "I can be...cruel...if you want..." She brazenly bites his lower lip, lightly of course. His left eye twitches.

"You little bitch..." He sneers, "Someone ought to teach you some respect..."

"Mmmm...right..." She taunts, "And you're the one for the job?"

"You're damn right I am." He pushes her backwards into the sofa, behind her. She stumbles, lands awkwardly on the tufted velvet, and he descends upon her, pinning her down. She can smell his sweat, his breath, his heat almost stifling her, and suddenly bursts out laughing. "This is no laughing matter." He scowls. She obviously thinks otherwise.

"Then why are you smiling...?" She whispers. It's true, he is—out of nerves, maybe, as he's trying to wrap his mind around how the reason he hit her is also one of the main reasons he's falling in love with her. Her black eyes are almost hypnotizing, and a bad feeling writhes in the pit of his stomach.

"You think infidelity is funny?" He growls.

"I think it's funny that you'd even entertain the notion that I'd be unfaithful." She's no longer laughing now, wriggling in discomfort against his weight and the awkward position he's got her in.

"Prove it then." He challenges.

"And how do you expect me to do that?" She scoffs. "We're supposed to trust each other. Otherwise what's the point of even being together?" Ah, that's it right there. He's got other motives, for sure, and for some reason, she's not sensing them.

"You still have that ring I gave you?" He asks.

"Of course. It's in my trunk, for safekeeping..."

"I want you to wear it." He commands.

"But...what if I lose it?" That is why she's not wearing it in the first place. She doesn't really give a shit about her own horcrux—he can do whatever he wants with that—but she was entrusted with his, and she's going to make sure it's protected.

"You won't lose it." He assures her. He softens the harshness of his voice with a smile.

"You're so sure of yourself." She flashes a smile back. "So does this mean what I think it means?" He doesn't answer, but instead pulls her into a kiss. Does she really think that he doesn't care if she talks to, or even looks at other men? No, that won't do. He's made up his mind. She is his now. There are rules that must be followed, and she will follow them.

"You're lucky I like you." He whispers, shifting his weight, pushing aside a lock of hair that's fallen across her face.

"So are you." She winks. Her kisses are anesthetic, her voice a sinister lullaby. The closer he gets to her, the greater the pull of her gravity. Who's really in control here? At this point, it's anyone's guess.