Chapter 30: Merry Christmas
Riddle stumbled back, gasping as an excruciating pain much like the kick of a horse ripped through his torso. Head swimming, he almost collapsed, only managing to keep himself upright by grabbing onto the stone wall of the bridge.
He tasted metal, his pulse all but deafening as his ears popped, as if he'd surfaced too fast after diving. He looked down, groping clumsily at his shirt to have a look at his chest – but it was unmarked. Apart from a rapidly fading feeling that he'd just been hit by a train, he had just survived an Unforgivable.
Amalia seemed equally shocked, eyes wide as she realised the spell had failed. A complex expression – almost like fleeting regret – flickered over her face, but it was quickly replaced with mask-like neutrality. She lowered her wand.
"Well," she forced out into the yawning silence. "Shit." She gave an odd-sounding laugh.
He pushed himself back upright. "You dare-" he said, his voice hoarse, and broke off in an involuntary cough. The discomfort was fading quickly, but he'd still had the air knocked out of him.
He saw her throat work as she swallowed. She looked down at her wand with a bemused frown. "Perhaps Ollivander was onto something about our wands… A pity."
"You used an Unforgivable on me-!?"
"Unpleasant, isn't it?" she sneered, drawing herself up. Riddle thought she looked rather pale and shaken, though, despite her uncaring tone. She held his gaze a moment longer, and then abruptly turned on her heel and left him, marching back through the snow towards the house.
Riddle took a few stumbling steps after her, before pausing to catch his breath. He took a moment to try to focus – to think – but he was just in shock.
She had tried to kill him.
With an Unforgivable.
An unblockable killing curse which would have ended his life in an instant.
Why hadn't it worked? There were a number of explanations, among them Ollivander's twaddle about 'bonded wands'. But perhaps it was simpler.
The number one rule of Unforgivables was that the caster had to mean it – from the depths of their soul, they had to wish pain, or control, or death, on their foe. Perhaps, no matter how angry she was at him, she couldn't quite bring herself to mean it.
But that didn't change the fact that she'd tried.
He looked up, but she had already disappeared. He followed, barely aware of the following minutes as he strode up to the house, his eyes wide and furious, his lips set in a thin, pale line. His fingers trembled very slightly, still from the adrenaline of his near-death experience… and the overwhelming need to latch his fingers on her throat and squeeze, to choke the life right out of her for her impudence…
As he took the staircase three steps at a time, barely aware of the house-elves scrambling to get out of his way, he began to see red. Red like anger. Red like blood. Red like the fire.
Red like her lips as she callously formed the words to end his life.
"AMALIA-!" he roared, bursting into the main bedroom of the house. Some sixth sense had led him here, and there she was, waiting for him, with not a hint of remorse in her cold eyes as she fearlessly met his incensed gaze. Her wand was holstered and out of sight, and he didn't bother drawing the spare he had, either. This was no longer something a duel could fix.
Her lip curled. "What?" she spat, "What do you want, Tom? An apology?!" she laughed, loud and mocking and utterly humourless. "I regret nothing except that it didn't work."
Then why didn't you try again? The stray thought silenced him. He stopped, glaring, breathing hard, unable to break her gaze, with the rage still thundering through him like an electrical current, as he tried to collect his scattered thoughts. What did he want…?
That was a good question.
As his icy stare and furious silence continued, she ripped her eyes free from him and started pacing like a caged lion. "What the fuck did you think would happen, Tom?" she snarled furiously. "Did you think I'd let it go? Did you think I'd let you invade my mind and then just… walk away? Do you have ANY idea who you're dealing with?!" her voice rose to a shout at the end. Suddenly she stalked forward, her posture aggressive, challenging-
Tom felt his pulse pick up in response. His eyes flickered to her lips, baring her teeth ever so slightly…
-and she continued, in a low, furious tone. Her eyes were dark, liquid pools of anger. "I've been tolerating all of your SHIT for a long time now, you selfish prick," she hissed, "And you've obviously taken it as a weakness. Well, I will not stand for this. I'm not some stupid classmate you can manipulate and toy with! You cannot threaten me, you cannot attack me and expect me to just take it-"
When did she get so close? He could count the individual eyelashes around her blazing eyes.
"If you ever pull a stunt like that again," she vowed savagely, "I'll rip out your heart myself and make you eat it."
There was a ringing silence after her tirade came to an end.
"Are you finished?" he said quietly. His own anger simmered just below the surface, along with… something else. Something he didn't recognize.
She didn't step away. Her eyes narrowed, evidently taking his lack of expression as an insult. "No. But we are. You obviously don't see me as an equal and I will never submit, you arrogant arseho-"
SLAM.
Amalia's breath left her with a surprised huff as her back hit the wood-panelled wall, with enough force to shake a sprinkling of dust loose.
Riddle loomed over her, pinning her in place with unforgiving fingers that bit into her shoulders, hard enough to bruise.
"Shhh," he hushed her, dark eyes drinking in her expression which reflected not an ounce of fear, but only spirited heat. "You talk too much." He said in a low, dangerous tone, "And I'm getting a headache."
She glared balefully, and opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could stick his misplaced aggression-
He rolled his eyes, and leant in without warning.
"Mmf!" she was abruptly cut off as he roughly crushed his mouth against hers.
Instantly she jerked back, eyes widening in shock, but he simply tightened his grip on her shoulders and pushed her even more securely up against the wall. Her instinctive struggle ceased as her mind caught up to her body. His kiss was not sweet, nor forgiving, but a harsh and consuming need to control.
A heat of a different kind flooded through her unexpectedly in response.
Still incensed at everything that had happened, Amalia found herself reciprocating, fighting for dominance. Instead of pushing him away, suddenly her hands were fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, aggressively demanding more.
This feels good… Amalia thought, almost drunk on the awareness of his skilful mouth on hers. Just as she'd always suspected, he was a fantastic kisser. Just like he was a fantastic liar. All her emotions had mixed up, lust and anger and adrenaline all blending until she no longer knew which way was up.
He released her shoulder in favour of running a hand up the column of her throat, to tilt back her head and deepen the angle of the kiss, invading, exploring, nipping at her lips. She reached up and roughly raked her nails through the hair at the base of his skull, tangling her fingers through the neatly combed strands and tugging, mussing up his perfectly styled hair just like she'd always wanted. This elicited a murmured oath from him, and he irritably yanked her wrist away from his hair, slamming it beside her head before resuming his plunder of her mouth.
"Mh…" Amalia wasn't quite able to stifle an involuntary shudder as he ran his other hand down her throat, resting with a grip just shy of painful over her pulse, like a not-so-subtle warning for her to behave.
Or was he…
Through the haze of heated sensation, Amalia dimly realised he was monitoring her heartrate.
The realisation was like an ice-cold bucket of water dumped down her spine, stripping away her clouded thoughts like cobwebs in the wind. She stiffened. His movements were too sure. Too calculated.
She was the fool. Again.
Annoyance spiked through her, and she bit down. Hard.
Tom jerked back. "Ah – what the fuck?!" he swore, touching his lip. His fingers came away bloody.
She brushed the lingering taste of him off her mouth with the back of her hand, disgusted with herself. "You're just trying to manipulate me." she said coldly, "I'm not stupid, Tom."
"Well, it didn't work, then." He snapped, grimacing as his lip throbbed, "Because you're still talking."
She pushed herself off the wall and glared at him. "I hate you." She said venomously.
He sent her an icy stare right back.
"I hate you, too." He said stiffly.
There was an heavy silence, as they just looked at each other. Tension thickened between them, but after recent events, the exact nature of the tension building between them was uncertain.
Amalia was the first to break the silence.
"Get out."
One eyebrow rose, challenging and stubborn. He made absolutely no other movement.
After a moment of indecision, she huffed. "…Of this room. Get out of this room, Tom. I want to sleep."
"… Don't call me that."
"I'll call you whatever I want."
For an instant, he looked like he wanted to argue, but then something seemed to stop him. His eyes darkened a fraction, and for a second so brief, she might have imagined it, Amalia thought they darted to her mouth. But then he simply turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him with a little more force than was absolutely necessary.
Amalia let out a breath and sank down onto the side of the bed. She was angry at him, and she was emotionally raw from almost dying, and then being forced to relive her worst memory… And the time on the clock was past three in the morning - she was exhausted.
But after all that had happened, the one thing she absolutely could not stop thinking about...
...was the confusing feeling of mouth on hers.
The next day was Christmas Eve.
Riddle woke up alone in a guest bedroom at around midday. He used a washbasin thoughtfully placed there by some industrious elf, and then dressed himself in clean clothes. Yawning, he made his way downstairs, where he was surprised to realise that, for once, he was awake before Amalia.
As the elves rushed around preparing a late breakfast at his command, he wandered into the extensive library and chose a book at random to read.
He was idly perusing the book – a mildly interesting treatise on levitation as a means of transport – while sitting at the dining room table, a cup of coffee in front of him, when Amalia finally emerged, dressed but still looking somewhat tired.
He said nothing as she entered the room, but waited, watching with sharp eyes, for her reaction.
Her jaw seemed to tighten at the sight of him, her eyes growing a little colder… but she didn't seem nearly as hostile as the previous day. Riddle took it as a good sign, absently touching his damaged lip as he sipped his coffee. He placed the cup back down on the table and decided to break the silence.
"What's that?" he asked, nodding at the package wrapped in brown paper in her hand.
She snorted, and threw the parcel onto the table, almost hitting his coffee, which he just managed to move out of the way with excellent reflexes.
"Your Christmas present," she drawled, "Of course, I bought it when I wanted peace between us… you know, as an apology for calling you pathetic."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I guess I'm the pathetic one now," she sneered, "For failing so spectacularly to kill you." She threw herself down in the chair at the opposite end of the table. "I'll have to try harder next time…" she muttered.
Riddle decided to treat that last statement with the attention it deserved – none whatsoever – and slowly pulled the package closer, tearing the paper open to peer inside.
"A diary." He said automatically, flicking through the blank pages with one hand. He looked up at her. "This wasn't necessary."
"You're welcome." Amalia said acidly. She rolled her eyes and turned to Pippy, who was eagerly waiting at her elbow for orders. "Tea, please." She said, rubbing her temples.
"Of course, Miss Gray!" the elf chirped, and bounced away to the kitchen.
After a moment of hesitation, Riddle inspected his present more closely – there was an insert which explained the enchantment on the diary, and how it could be used to keep the thoughts he wrote in it secret. It was actually quite a useful object… His fingers traced the black leather cover, itching for a quill to test it out. Perhaps he could write down his theories on the Department of Mysteries, and the connection with Alric – it could help put his thoughts in order, if –
Amalia was watching him with an inscrutable expression, though the way she was gripping her butterknife, as though she was itching to drive it through his larynx, was certainly worrying.
He cleared his throat and wrapped up the diary again in its paper, placing it to one side. "I didn't get anything for you." He informed her, as she continued to watch him balefully.
At this, her lips raised in a thin, humourless smile. "I know." She simply said.
He struggled with himself for a moment. "It's a… good present." He acknowledged stiffly.
"I believe the usual phrase is 'thank you'."
He glared. "Amalia-"
She smirked. "Don't strain yourself, Tom."
His eyes flashed at the deliberate use of his name, but he gritted his teeth and held back with difficulty. She was taunting him on purpose. She was still angry with him, and she was trying to get him to give her a reason to vent her anger. Oh yes, he knew her quite well by now. She wanted a confrontation. But, strangely… He didn't feel like fighting anymore. He was tired of fighting… with her. It was unfamiliar feeling.
He decided to change the subject.
"We have other goals before we head back to Hogwarts, don't we?" At her blank expression, he raised an incredulous eyebrow, "The Stones, of course. We can try to translate them with that Sumerian Alchemical dictionary."
She blinked at him in disbelief. "…We?" she repeated slowly.
He shrugged easily. "There's today, tomorrow… and the next day. Then, we're on the train. We can save time by working together on it."
She frowned. "You're being... weird."
"Why?" he asked, sipping his coffee.
She stared at him. "I tried to kill you yesterday."
He nodded. "You did."
There was a hint of steel in his gaze which told her he hadn't forgotten about it. Knowing him, he was probably biding his time.
"You kissed me." she stated next.
"I did."
"…Why?" she demanded.
His expression was perfectly blank. "You were being incredibly annoying. I thought it would distract you." He indicated his swollen lip, "Evidently, I was unsuccessful."
She hummed, dissatisfied. Had his actions really been so calculated? In the cold light of day, it didn't seem that simple. Something was different. The way he looked at her was different.
Tom smirked, his dark eyes watching her expression shift from irritation to caution. "Well," he drawled smugly, "If we're re-capping recent events… Don't forget the part when I saved your life."
She was jolted from her thoughts, and frowned. "How could I?" she threw back, "You cut it so close, I really thought for a moment you were going to just watch me die."
He snorted. "If I wanted you dead, I'd do it myself." He smiled with chilling confidence. "Without failing, of course."
She bared her teeth very slightly, and hissed, "Next time I'll drop a rock on your head, see if that spell works."
He didn't blink. "You'd probably miss."
Amalia glared. "If I make it through this holiday without at least trying to seriously maim you, it'll be a miracle."
"It's Christmas Eve, Amalia," he deadpanned, waving off her comment like it was an annoying insect, "Stop being so dramatic."