Chapter 19: Actress
Dumbledore glanced between his two best students curiously, his shrewd blue eyes taking in their tense expressions.
They were sitting across from each other at a small table on the other side of the room, a position which had become normal in the past few Friday detentions he'd sat with them. It seemed to suit Riddle, who was as far away from Dumbledore as was possible without being literally out of the door, and it suited Dumbledore, as he had ample chance to observe their interactions. Which interested him greatly.
The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece of his office was loud.
"Riddle, give me some essays from your pile." Ms Gray requested in a tone of forced politeness. She was speaking in a low voice, but the office was quiet and Dumbledore could hear her easily. He busied himself with his own work, shuffling papers and showing no outward sign of his interest in their conversation.
Riddle didn't look up from his work, his quill scratching away indifferently on the first-year essay he was critiquing.
"Riddle." she repeated tensely, eyes flashing.
"...No." he replied simply, still ignoring her.
Dumbledore noted with quiet amusement that she seemed on the verge of leaving nail-marks on the edge of the table.
"Why?" she demanded in a low hiss.
He purposefully made her wait before answering. Dumbledore fancied he could almost hear her teeth grinding.
"Well... We started with the same amount." he said languidly, after a long pause, "It's not my problem if you rushed through yours."
"I didn't rush anything," she hissed back. "It's not my problem if you write like an old man."
"As opposed to a drunk, with palsy," he returned, glancing disparagingly at the messy, spidery writing on her completed pile of marked essays.
"Oh, do me a favour and shove your wand up your-," she stopped herself before her voice rose too much, remembering they weren't alone.
"Mature." he commented. He signed his name with a neat flourish and turned over a page.
She huffed and lunged at his pile of unmarked essays, which he easily shifted out of her reach with one hand, making her scowl dangerously.
"Why do you always have to be such an arseho-!"
Dumbledore coughed quietly, cutting her off mid-sentence.
He looked up and gazed at her over his half-moon spectacles somewhat reprovingly. She caught his eye and had the grace to at least look contrite, though he doubted she actually was. Miss Gray was definitely a feisty one. And while Dumbledore didn't approve of her rivalry with Tom - he didn't want her to have anything to do with him - he had to admit he was also relieved at their mutual animosity.
He'd been worried for a while that they had become close, especially with Ms Gray backing up his lies and excuses so willingly. But it seemed that it wasn't the case; after observing them closely during the weeks since he'd issued the detentions, he had found them to be quite hostile towards each other. Indeed, the longer they spent together the worse it seemed to get. Tom's genius had provided him with the perfect way of getting under her skin; absolute indifference. Amalia Gray, Dumbledore surmised, was proud and definitely not used to being ignored; his casual dismissal of everything she said or did was clearly unbearable.
She shoved herself away from the table and turned to Dumbledore. "Sir, do you have more essays I can help with?" she asked, with a tense, forced smile.
He indicated his desk, where a sheaf of second year essays lay waiting. "Yes, here."
She got up and approached, taking a deep breath. "Actually, sir," she said, more calmly, picking up the pile of papers, "I was wondering if you couldn't let me leave early next Friday, or let me do the detention on another day."
He spied Riddle's industrious writing come to an abrupt halt behind her.
"May I hear the reason?" Dumbledore requested mildly, though he had a good idea why.
"It's the Yule play," Amalia explained with an endearing blush, "It'll be our last full rehearsal before the big night... And I..." she scuffed the ground with her shoe, "I just want it to go well. I'm afraid I'm going to forget my lines." she admitted shyly. "I've never been in front of such a large crowd before, so I'm still feeling unconfident-"
Tom gave an odd sound somewhere between a disbelieving snort and a cough behind her, but Dumbledore ignored him.
Ah, yes, the play, he mused. Tom may have been stoically ignoring her, but the rest of the school certainly was not. Excitement was growing about the play, and as the date for the Yule production drew nearer (it was just over a week away now, in the first week of December) students could often be found hanging around the doors to the hall during rehearsals in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her in costume, as well as the other members of the attractive cast. Professor Beery seemed to have chosen his ensemble based solely on aesthetics, and while Dumbledore didn't doubt Amalia would be a good actress, he wasn't sure about the skill of the others. To make matters worse, Professor Beery had produced some highly controversial material before, as if Hogwarts was a gypsy theatre troupe, not a school for impressionable young teenagers. The previous year, he distinctly remembered Professor Fairchilde storming out in indignant protest after leading villain Walburga Black violently stabbed the tragic Hufflepuff hero theatrically through the chest, causing the stage to actually flood with an over-production of fake blood and guts.
But whatever his thoughts about the quality of the production, he was still glad she was taking part in a school activity like an ordinary young girl - especially since it didn't involve Riddle. Amalia had come so far from the suspicious and secretive young lady, jumping at shadows in Knockturn, to the lead actress of a school production.
He beamed warmly at her, "I'm so proud of how well you've fit in here at Hogwarts," he told her sincerely. "Aside from a few... issues..." he shot a cool glance at Riddle impassively staring down at the quill in his hand, "You've come such a long way."
"That means a lot to me," Amalia returned sweetly, "Coming from you."
(At this point there may have been a faint sound of gagging from a certain individual in the room.)
"I have no problem with moving the detention to Saturday," he continued pleasantly. Amalia - and Tom, to be honest - had been on their best behaviour for weeks. Perhaps they had learnt their lesson. "Unless you intend to visit Hogsmeade with your friends?"
Amalia shook her head. "No, I'm quite alright," she replied. "I've decided to give it a miss this year."
He nodded shrewdly. So, she hadn't quite laid her demons to rest? "But you do feel safe here, do you not?" he enquired earnestly.
"Of course," she answered, smile somewhat forced. She refused to glance towards Riddle.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers under his chin. "Does Hogwarts feel like a home to you?"
"Yes," she said, sincerely this time. Her smile was brilliant, "Yes, I think this is my home now. I didn't think it was possible, but I feel like I belong."
"I'm glad to hear it." Dumbledore sat back in his chair. "It's settled then. You'll both come for detention next Saturday."
Riddle jerked at that, looking up at last and abandoning the attempt to act like he wasn't listening. "But sir, I-"
"I'd prefer to keep you two together," Dumbledore said with a frosty undertone that discouraged disagreement.
A muscle was twitching in Riddle's face from anger, though he kept his voice level, "Sir, I've already got permission from Professor Slughorn to go into Hogsmeade. Surely, Friday-"
"Quite out of the question, Tom," Dumbledore cut him off coolly. "It'll be Saturday. And since your Friday evening will be free, why don't you attend Ms Gray's rehearsal? She could surely use your support before the big night."
There was a pregnant silence, in which Amalia and Tom traded uncomfortable glances. He was the first to look away, his resentment disappearing again under an impassive mask.
"I was under the impression you two were friends, after all," Dumbledore said mildly, with just a hint of sarcasm.
"Of course." Amalia hastened to assure him. "Riddle is welcome to attend if he wishes." She shot him a glance, waiting for a response. "I'd like him to come."
"I expect I'll have work to do," he said vaguely, looking at the wall. He dropped his gaze and threw himself back into his essay-marking, writing furiously.
Feeling uneasy, Amalia returned to her seat and resumed her own writing. He was so intent on his work, he finished his entire stack and another in record time, beating Amalia by quite a margin. She could barely concentrate on her own work. She kept sneaking glances at Riddle, but he ignored her entirely, his mouth a thin line.
When at last Dumbledore gave them permission to leave, he strode out of the office without a backward glance, tension in every line of his posture. That in itself wasn't unusual; he normally moved at a speed only slightly slower than a flat-out sprint when Dumbledore dismissed him, but this time Amalia was troubled by it. He was not okay, and this time it wasn't her fault. Well, not entirely.
Dumbledore's blue eyes followed her shrewdly as she mumbled a quick farewell and hurried after him.
"Wait up!" she panted, struggling to catch up with his long-legged stride. "I want to speak to you!"
He didn't even deign to look at her.
"Rid-" her outstretched hand froze, two inches from touching his arm, as she stared at the business-end of his wand, currently threatening to graze her nose. They'd come to an abrupt stop.
"Just try me!" he snarled viciously, his wand trembling with the effort of holding back, "Just give me an excuse!"
She didn't back down, or step away. Showing weakness would be a bad idea right now.
"I just want to talk," she repeated cautiously.
This was the angriest he'd been since that night in his dormitory. He'd done nothing but ignore her for weeks, occasionally making a nasty comment, but otherwise treating her like she had an incurable disease. If she entered a room, he'd leave it. He'd swapped partners in Potions - she was now stuck with a dour-faced Hufflepuff girl - and otherwise pretended she didn't exist. She'd be lying if she said it hadn't hurt; they'd always been opposed, but sometimes their back-and-forth had seemed as natural as breathing. But now... things were different. Broken. He genuinely despised her now, and she'd been a fool to hope his anger would abate over time. He was a master at holding grudges.
Of course, she didn't give up easily, either.
She looked calmly into his murderous eyes with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Listen, Riddle..." she said slowly, "I didn't know he'd take away your Hogsmeade weekend, okay? When I asked that, I never wanted-"
He turned away from her in disgust, slipping his wand back into his robes. "I don't want to hear it." he started walking off again.
"I mean it!" she protested, trotting after him. She didn't attempt to reach out again. "It was really unfair of him to-"
"Save it, Gray."
"Okay." she took a breath, "I also want to talk to you about the tapestry."
He gave no indication he was listening, and she fancied his walking pace actually sped up, if that was possible.
"- I found the first Stone in the forest," she rushed on, desperate to get his attention for even just a moment, "I don't know if you have yet, but... Look, the runes on the Stone are complicated, perhaps we should look at them togeth-"
"I told you, I don't give a damn about anything you have to say!" he cut her off coldly. "I just don't care."
She stopped and glared at his back as he strode away from her, frustration welling up inside. Who the hell did he think he was?! "Screw you, Riddle!" she yelled after him, regretting her childish lack of composure instantly. He'd no doubt consider it a victory. But he didn't turn or break stride, even to gloat, and that made an almost physical pain pierce her chest. He walked swiftly around a corner.
It seemed he really had lost all interest in her.
At this rate, they really would be killing each other in January.
Tom woke up the next morning in an absolutely black mood, which continued right through the rest of the weekend.
His followers seemed to sense the threat of violence hanging around him, and gave him a wide berth. All except one, of course, the one boy who suddenly seemed immune to his glares and threats.
Rosier had changed quite drastically since the incident - gone was the submissive sycophant pandering to his every whim. He was still around almost constantly, but their relationship was different. Not so much master-slave as... something else. Strangely enough, Riddle didn't hate it as much as he thought he would.
"Tom," said Rosier bracingly, addressing him from his bedside with his hands on his hips. "It's almost ten o'clock. Don't you think you should get out of bed at some point?"
It was Sunday morning. He'd done an excellent job of avoiding that girl since Friday evening - he was afraid if he was in her presence too long he'd forget their pact and curse her into oblivion. Though they now had nothing to do with each other, it wasn't as if she was no longer on his mind. Indeed, some days he could barely concentrate in class for stewing over her victory (and he had to admit, it had been her victory) in his dorm room, and plotting her death over and over, each new method more... creative... than the last.
Recently, every tiny little annoyance in his life was making him inexplicably angry with her. He dropped his pencil in class and his mind would immediately accuse her of having something to do with it. And he would feel oddly disappointed that she hadn't. He knew deep down it wasn't her fault he'd be missing out on Hogsmeade - it was Dumbledore - but he couldn't help blaming her anyway. It was pleasant to have one more reason to hate her.
She'd refrained from all hostile action against him, exactly according to their cease-fire. School without the mind-games they'd grown accustomed to playing should have been more enjoyable, but instead it was just downright tedious. January couldn't come fast enough.
Her behaviour was not helping. A couple of times she'd actually approached him and tried to be friendly! He knew it was a ploy. A trick, an attempt to lure him into a sense of false security before their big duel. Well, he wasn't so easily fooled. Like Friday's little encounter- Them, work together? It was ridiculous. Not worth considering.
Which is why you're hiding in your room, a nasty voice from inside mocked him. No, he reminded himself hastily, I'm not hiding. It's just more comfortable here.
"Get lost." he growled at Rosier, and burrowed deeper into his blankets. It was warm and soft. He never wanted to leave.
"You missed breakfast." Rosier pointed out with a hint of impatience. "That's not exactly healthy."
From the depths of his cocoon, Riddle glared with slightly blood-shot eyes at the fair-haired boy. "S'none of your business." he grumbled. It was a pity death-threats no longer worked against him.
Rosier sighed. "Tom, please... You've got to eat. You barely had anything last night."
It still irked him that Rosier used his first name so casually when they were alone, but he was reluctantly getting used to it. He no longer had the urge to strangle him every time he opened his mouth, which was progress.
Rosier tapped his foot, and folded his arms stubbornly. "What about some bacon? Toast? Hot chocolate...?" he wheedled. His eyes brightened mischievously, "Hm... waffles dripping in maple syrup, nice, hot chicken soup with crusty bread, or maybe a steaming apple pie with cream, and-"
"Okay, you've made your point." Riddle snapped, his mouth watering despite his resolve to never leave his bed again.
Rosier grinned smugly, triumphant.
"Did you bring me anything?" he hated the way his voice had taken on a slight whining edge.
"Nope." Rosier said cheerfully, "I thought we might go down to the kitchens. The walk will do you good."
Riddle thrust down his irritation at Rosier's persistent fussing, and took a deep breath. He was hungry. He had to move at some point. He swung his legs out of bed.
And immediately drew his feet back under the covers, like a reluctant tortoise, his toes curled in the cold morning air.
Perhaps I'll stay in bed a little longer, after all.
From his textile fortress, he heard Rosier heave a long-suffering sigh.
Eventually, Riddle did make it out of bed, and accompanied by Rosier, and finally got a full stomach in the kitchens. Afterwards, fully awake and feeling somewhat chipper, they stopped by the Library, picking up some books that they'd need for homework, and returned at a leisurely pace to the Common Room to get started. It was early afternoon.
Entering through the porthole, Riddle frowned, seeing a small crowd of buzzing girls in the center of the Common Room. There was a lot of inane giggling and chatter.
He heard a distinctive, silvery laugh and gritted his teeth. Of course, it had something to do with her.
He shouldered his way through the crowd of chattering girls to see what the commotion was about.
"-I do hope you'll all make it to the play next Monday." Amalia was saying, a lazy smile directed at the excited throng of girls from her favoured position nearest the fire. Flint, Yaxley and Callidora Black were sitting opposite her. When they saw Riddle, they started elbowing each other. Black whispered something into Flint's ear, making her stifle a laugh.
He ignored them and glared at the rest of the chattering girls, who quietened somewhat at his forbidding expression.
"Oh, we wouldn't miss it for the world!" exclaimed Primrose Carrow, a vivacious Slytherin fourth-year, and her friends nodded eagerly at her side. The girls of Slytherin had become much friendlier towards Amalia since her and Riddle's "estrangement". The whole school thought they'd gone through an ugly break-up.
As if I'd ever waste my time with the likes of her.
But it wasn't Amalia that the girls were ogling.
Riddle found his voice again. "Davies." he said coldly, looking down his nose at the tall seventh-year stretched out on the Slytherin sofa. With his arm wrapped around Amalia. "You are surely aware it's against school policy for students from Ravenclaw to be in our Common Room?"
Benjamin Davies was a tall boy with a handsome, square jaw, well-built from zealous quidditch-playing. His longish, dark brown hair was slightly curly, roughly mussed to give that just-out-of-bed, casual look. He wasn't just a pretty-boy, however. Sharp hazel eyes surveyed the room with relaxed confidence. "Good day to you, too, Riddle." he said, slightly mocking.
Riddle narrowed his eyes, but there was a Prefect's badge shining on his broad chest. He couldn't exactly throw him out.
The onlookers tittered, and a few seconds later, as if as an afterthought, Amalia gave a small chuckle, too.
Riddle despised him from the bottom of his soul.
"Gray," he snapped, "You-"
"Oh, don't be a bore, Riddle," Amalia cut him off airily, "Ben's just visiting. At my invitation." She was tucked into his side quite suggestively, his arm draped around her shoulders. "He's my co-star, after all. You know, we're close."
So Davies was the lead actor of that accursed play. What genre was it again? Thriller? Action?...Comedy? Not that it mattered, of course...
He gave her a razor-thin smile. "I'd rather you un-invited him, then." he gritted out, "Lest you set a bad example." he indicated the group of onlookers, many of whom were younger students.
"Did you hear that, Amalia?" Callidora Black said meaningfully, "I don't think Riddle wants you to bring boys home." There was a new outbreak of inane giggling at this, and Riddle felt the beginning of a headache coming on. To his intense displeasure, even Rosier was staring at the intruder rather... appreciatively.
"I won't intrude long," Davies said with a roguish grin. "But I could hardly refuse a lady's request." he played with her hand, pulling it up to brush his lips briefly. The onlooking girls swooned. "A chance to play the hero off-stage is not something I could turn down."
Amalia gave an uncharacteristic giggle, tugging her hand away. "Oh, stop teasing!"
"Request?" Riddle repeated, eyes narrowing. He knew what she was up to. "So I'm to believe this visit is not, in fact, a social one?"
Amalia's eyes flashed up to meet his in a challenging stare. Her lip curled. "Well, it's not anti-social, that's for sure," she drawled, clearly referencing his recent behaviour.
He refused to blink first, staring pointedly at the way Davies was hanging around her.
A hint of colour appeared on her cheeks. She gave a small cough and looked away, shifting slightly. But the next moment she was batting her eyes at the buffoon next to her again. "For your information, Ben's agreed to tutor me." she explained. "He's been ever so kind."
"You?" Riddle said disbelievingly, "Needed a tutor?"
"Mm," Davies hummed smugly, "Ancient Runes, was it?"
Of course. Riddle glanced at the tapestry gracing the wall of a small alcove next to the fireplace. It was fixed there with a Permanent Sticking Charm. Not many students had noticed it going up... The design was a complex star-chart embroidered with green trees and serpents. It fitted in quite well with the Slytherin aesthetic. Was Davies now in on their secret quest?
"Yes, I fancy myself quite an expert in the area." Davies continued blithely, "My library at home is extensive - my father is a collector of ancient artefacts." he boasted, "The Wizarding History Museum often brings old texts to us for translation."
"How fascinating." Amalia smiled superficially.
How far has she gotten with the Stones? Riddle steamed, furious that she'd had a head-start on him. He hadn't even tried to venture out into the Forbidden Forrest yet - too distracted with ignoring Amalia and tip-toeing around Dumbledore. He was ninety-nine percent certain if he stepped foot outside the castle after curfew the old man would somehow know about it. Plus, the location changed every month. It had seemed logical to wait until after the Christmas break. But Amalia had taken the risk and found the first Stone already. Now, she'd enlisted the help of a seventh year to decode runes...
But none of this mattered. In January, he could take his time figuring out the Stones. Dumbledore would stop breathing down his neck. And Amalia would be dead... Perhaps he could kill Davies too. Why not? The more, the merrier.
The taller boy seemed to pick up on the ominous aura building up around Riddle, and raised an eyebrow at Amalia, "Should we take this somewhere more... private? I know a place where we won't be bothered."
"That sounds perfect." agreed Amalia easily, and he stood first, helping her up with a chivalrous hand. The other girls sighed in envy.
"See you 'round, ladies," the tall boy winked at the onlookers, and sent a cool nod in Tom's direction, "...Riddle."
He made no reply but continued watching as they left the Common Room, arms linked as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Deprived of the spectacle, the crowd of girls slowly dispersed, disappointed it was over.
Rosier carefully observed Riddle's impassive expression as the door to the Common Room swung closed after them. He turned his forbidding gaze upon his follower expectantly.
"Rosier?" he prompted.
"Don't ask me," Rosier shrugged. He was just as surprised. "If they're together, it's a recent development."
Suddenly, Riddle gave a snort of laughter. It sounded a little unnatural.
"Uh... Riddle, are you... okay?" Rosier asked cautiously.
His laughter stopped abruptly. "Okay? Why would I not be okay?" he snapped, instantly ill-tempered, "I just find it hilarious that Davies is oblivious to her plans." but he sounded disgusted, not amused.
"Her... plans?"
Riddle rolled his eyes as if it was obvious. "She's using him. Why else would she wasting her time on that idiot?"
Rosier hesitated. Amalia and Ben Davies been working on the play for almost nine weeks in close proximity. Was it really unbelievable that they had become more than friends? After all, Amalia wasn't the type to grin and bear it if she didn't get along with someone. Plus, Davies was quite attractive... And intelligent to boot; he was a Ravenclaw. An overachiever in every sense of the word, perhaps?
"You're probably right," he hastily agreed, but Riddle seemed to pick up on the note of uncertainty in his voice, and glared at him.
He tossed his satchel of heavy books from the library, hitting Rosier squarely in the chest with it, and knocking the slim boy back two paces with a surprised huff of lost air. "Take care of it." he ordered coldly. Riddle turned on his heel and stalked away in the direction of the dormitory.
Rosier heaved a sigh, but didn't complain. Extra homework was not the worst thing Riddle had ever thrown at him.
"Belby!" exclaimed Professor Beery with a dramatic hair-pulling gesture, "What on earth are you doing?! You're supposed to be shell-shocked, fresh off the battlefield! At the moment I'm just seeing indifference. Do you think our audience pays to watch indifference?!"
Belby rolled his eyes. "They don't pay at all, Professor. It's just a school play!"
Amalia's eyebrow twitched. Yes, their director was a little over the top, but Belby had a serious attitude problem. It all came down to arrogance; he's taken it personally when Beery had relegated him to a very minor role with appearances in only three scenes out of the twelve.
The Herbology professor spluttered in outrage. "Just a- Just a play?!... With that attitude, can you wonder why I only cast you for Knight Number Three? I truly don't appreciate your insufferable urge to play the diva!"
Amalia, waiting her cue just off-stage, gritted her teeth. It seemed the rehearsal was going to take longer than expected, and it was already almost ten o'clock at night. Across the stage, she made eye contact with Ben, waiting in the wings on the other side. He made a noose out of his silky cravat and pretended to hang himself, surprising a reluctant snort of laughter out of her.
Her eyes fell back onto the now-mutinous Belby, who was glaring resentfully at their apoplectic director. She fingered her wand pensively.
"Fine! Maybe I'll just quit!" Belby shouted petulantly, kicking at the fake rock prop on the stage in a fit of pique. "Since it's such an insignificant role!"
"What?!" screeched Professor Beery, pulling at his already-thinning hair, "Are you planning to abandon us in the eleventh hour?! This has to be perfect by Monday! If you can't get it right now, then what in Merlin's name are we going to-"
"Professor," cut in Amalia soothingly, sashaying out of the red velvet curtains, "Calm yourself."
The older man was almost hyperventilating. "Amalia!" he cried, "Tell me you can convince this fool to find some kind of acting professionalism before we all die of old age!"
Amalia was dressed in her full costume, a white, billowing robe of semi-sheer muslin, with a low-slung harem pants that exposed her midriff. A band of white under the robe preserved her modesty on her chest, but the thin material left very little to the imagination. Her willowy curves were accentuated by the outfit, and when she was on-stage she carried herself differently, prowling with almost feline grace.
"Roland," she addressed the staring boy with seductive gentleness, "I'm tired. We only have one last scene left after yours... So, do you think you could JUST FUCKING GET ON WITH IT?"
They all stared at her in the sudden, ringing silence, but she ignored them in favour of smiling at Belby, who'd gone the colour of off-milk.
"Well?" she prompted sweetly.
He nodded jerkily and said, cowed, "Y-yes. Okay. Uh, I mean... I'm sorry, I just..." he stuttered into silence.
She walked off stage without further comment, leaving him to complete the scene to Beery's exacting standards. For some reason there was a strangely subdued atmosphere among the watching cast. Amalia looked around and spied a few of the other students hastily avoiding her eyes. She hid a thin smile.
Dumbledore had stuck his head in the hall for a while earlier, before it had gotten so absurdly late, and he'd seemed mildly disapproving of Beery's plot of murder, adultery and general violence, if not also a little entertained. One thing the play did guarantee was boatloads of drama; it had been inspired by Shakespeare's Othello, after all.
Suddenly her eye caught the door to the great hall as it cracked open, firelight from the torches in the Entrance Hall beyond briefly framing a dark silhouette that slipped quietly inside. The hall was large and dark - all of the lights were concentrated on the stage - but she knew. She knew who it was, and she had an instinctive thrill of pleasure and excitement that started from the top of her head and ran all the way to her bare-footed toes.
He came to watch her. After weeks of ignoring her, she'd begun to think he really didn't care anymore. Then, his semi-jealous behaviour in the Common Room with Davies had given her a small sliver of hope that he wasn't as indifferent as he pretended. That maybe she still had a chance at convincing him their duel-to-the-death-pact was unnecessary... And now he'd come. To watch her.
Why? Was it merely curiosity? Did he have some kind of dastardly plan? She didn't think he would violate their cease-fire, but of course she couldn't be certain... Well, she'd give him a performance worth watching. It was fortunate he'd dropped by in time for the last scene; she thought it might... resonate with him...
She moved a little way out of the curtains, just so that the light caught her, and then looked directly into the spot she knew he was standing, with a faint smirk. She couldn't see anything now that the lights shone brightly into her eyes, but he would know that she knew that he was there.
Perhaps it was her unsettling presence lurking on the edge of the stage, but Belby's voice stuttered and he muffed his lines again, causing irritated groans from the bored students waiting in the wings.
This was no good. She needed to do her scene now, while he was watching. She slipped her wand out of the invisible interior pocket she'd attached into her harem pants (even on stage, she would never be caught unarmed) and muttered a spell, concentrating.
To everyone's relief, Belby's next attempt at his lines was perfect.
Now dramatic piano music swelled as the red velvet curtains closed and the scene was hurriedly changed, the lighting turning red and dappled, except for the large grey rock in the centre of the stage, upon which a bright shaft of pale light shone down from directly above.
The curtains opened again to display the "sleeping" form of Ben Davies leaning with his back against the rock. His wizard's robes were gold-threaded finery, but scorched and torn in places, as if he'd just come off a great battlefield.
This last scene was an important one. Davies' character, Iago, was not the traditional villain of Shakespeare's work, but rather the hero. He was the white knight, the good man, who was tricked and betrayed at every turn by Othello, his enemy. Desdemona, the character Amalia played, is married to Othello and at the start of the play was a sweet, innocent girl. But, as the play progresses, Othello's character is steeped in more and more darkness. He eventually accuses Desdemona of infidelity with the good and handsome Iago, a crime of which she is wholly innocent. Her innocent love for her husband turns to bitterness and hatred, and in vengeance she resolves to do the very thing he accused her of...
The music trailed off hauntingly, and an expectant silence fell on the stage.
Amalia entered from the right, pacing with catlike grace around the sleeping wizard, her eyes fixed on him. She drew nearer and nearer, until at last she knelt next to him, and reached out with a gentle hand, caressing his cheek.
He blinked awake, looking up in confusion. "... Lady Desdemona?" he murmured. Their voices were all magically enhanced to carry across the room, ensuring they had no need for "stage whispering".
"Yes, it is I, darling," she crooned, leaning in for a kiss.
He frowned and stumbled to his feet before she could close the distance, putting some more space between them, "What are you doing?" he demanded. "What of... your husband?"
She shook her head, not breaking eye contact, and stepped deliberately closer. "He is a fool, and I have no need of him. You are all I think about." Her finger traced a line along his lips, "You are all I want."
He seemed helpless in the face of his own desire, his eyes hungrily travelling over her body. But still he hesitated, his good character preventing him from acting on temptation.
The stage lighting changed subtly, becoming darker, redder, reflecting the sudden anger on Desdemona's beautiful face. Gone was the innocent girl, and in it's place there was a seductress and manipulator.
She threw out a hand imperiously, and Davies staggered, falling in theatrical slow motion backwards onto the rock (which was coincidentally, exactly the right height and size for a surface upon which to lie). She hadn't used a wand; in stage plays it was customary for the actors and actresses to simply allude to the act of using magic. In the very early days of magical theatre, it was discovered that real magic, overly excited actors and large audiences were an explosive mix.
In a flash she was straddling him, a dangerous smirk on her lips as her hand played with his cravat.
Davies was supposed to have a line to say, but he seemed to have forgotten it, staring up at her helplessly with glazed eyes, his pupils blown wide.
From the wings just off-stage, Professor Beery had a sudden inhalation of breath, entranced by her performance. He'd never seen her act with this much intensity before. Had she been practising?
"Iago," she crooned pleasantly, playing with the first clasp on his robe, "Let's have some fun, shall we?"