The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more hopeful. There had been no more attacks since Cassandra had gotten hold of the diary and Madam Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood. No one was more anxious for the plants to reach maturity than Argus Filch.
Cassandra looked down at her hands, watched the hot water coming out of the tap wash over them. She'd spent the morning in Herbology harvesting nettles for Professor Sprout, and her skin was puffy and irritated. Despite Filch's nasty attitude, even towards purebloods, she did feel for the school's cantankerous caretaker. She'd long suspected Mrs. Norris to be his bonded familiar (Squibs might not be able to practice magic, but their blood was still magical enough to be useful in a number of rituals), and she could imagine how distressed the man was by his familiar's petrified state.
"Yet another problem that could have been avoided had you not let me die. I was brewing a batch of Mandrake Restorative Draught that day, do you remember?"
It was her grandfather's voice, but it didn't sound as if it were coming from inside her mind, as it'd been doing as of late. Holding her breath, she slowly raised her head until she was looking in the large oval mirror suspended above the sink.
For a moment there was only her own unnerved face staring back at her, and then Cygnus Black III was standing behind her, wearing the same robes he'd died in, appearing exactly as he did in her memories, but looking jarringly out of place in the second-floor girls' lavatory.
Cassandra reached out to touch Cygnus' reflection, but as she did so, werewolf-shaped shadows shifted and stretched, biting and clawing him, wounding him and pulling him into the darkness.
Impassively, without uttering a sound, her grandfather receded into the shadows and disappeared.
She stood there, unmoving, for a long time. It felt as if someone had reached inside her chest and was squeezing her heart in their fist. In order to get a hold of herself, she took a deep lungful of breath and then another, counted down from one hundred by intervals of seven. It was an old Arithmancer trick to refocus one's magic.
Of course, she knew it was the diary, knew Riddle was trying to weedle his way through her mental defenses. He'd latched onto the catalyst for her current emotional fragility and was trying to use it to shatter her. Presumably, so he could do as he pleased with the pieces.
It should've scared her.
It really, really pissed her off.
Eight years training as an Occlumens, so that a self-starting half-blood trapped inside a notebook could run amok in her head? She'd eat the Sorting Hat before she'd let that happen.
Cassandra rolled her shoulders and defocused her eyes until her vision was blurry. Close your mind. You're in the ocean and your mind is the ocean. The water is freezing cold and no one can access your thoughts swirling at the bottom, not even yourself, because all there is to see are the crashing waves and all there is to hear is the whistle of the wind and everything smells like salt and ozone. And the movement of the waves gets more and more violent until the intruder is drowning, desperate, impotent to do anything but breath in salt water that burns their lungs and sink, deeper and deeper until there is nothing but darkness.
In her robe pockets, the small black diary, like a live thing, shuddered.
Feeling much lighter, Cassandra bent over the sink to splash some water on her face. She was patting herself dry with a towel (conjured, not one of the ones they left lying around, she wasn't an animal), when Adrian entered the bathroom, looking as if he'd been searching for her for some time.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Adrian's shoulders were tense and he was fidgeting with the strap of his satchel. There were very few people Cassandra knew who disliked confrontation more than Adrian Pucey, which meant he must've really reached his tolerance limit with her, to have decided to accost her in the girl's lavatory.
"I enjoy the smell of urine," Cassandra said.
"Me too. We need to talk."
The door opened and a young girl walked in, blonde and in Ravenclaw robes. She was startled by Adrian's presence and paled when she recognized Cassandra.
"Use the boys' loo." said Adrian.
The girl abruptly turned and fled. Cassandra watched Adrian close the door, realizing she wouldn't be getting by without conversation.
"How are you?" she asked.
"I've been snogging Marcus Flint for the past two weeks, but my best friend's been avoiding me like the dragon pox since she almost got killed, so it's kind of been a mixed bag. And I'm pretty sure I'm failing Transfiguration."
"Marcus Flint? Really?"
Adrian blushed. "He's no Lockhart, but at least he's…"
"Age appropriate?" Cassandra offered.
The two friends shared a tired smile.
"What about you? How… are you?"
He seemed so nervous asking the question that it made Cassandra bite back whatever attitude she might've wanted to give him. "I have no idea," she answered honestly, instead.
"Well, that may change soon. I didn't want you to feel ambushed —"
"Is this an ambush?"
"No, the ambush is later. Immediately later, anytime now. When Cedric arrives, consider yourself ambushed."
It didn't take very long for Cedric to sweep into the room. Slowly, Cassandra took in every detail of his appearance, meticulously taking note of the details that didn't belong. There were dark circles under his grey eyes, his lips were set in a worried line, and there was a deep frown between his brows.
"You found her," said Cedric.
Cassandra glanced at Adrian, who apologized with a look.
"He did," she said.
Cedric seemed torn between pleased and apprehensive.
"You've been skipping classes."
"They stare. It's inappropriate."
"You've been skipping meals too. And Quidditch training."
"I don't care much for Quidditch these days."
"I want you to be well, more than anything, but I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon if we keep letting you close yourself off like this," said Cedric. "Something's gotta give, Cassandra. You have to talk with someone about what happened."
She crossed her arms defensively. "Are we starting now?"
"It doesn't have to be with us," said Adrian quickly.
"I've seen you talking with Fred and George Weasley," said Cedric. "If you'd be more comfortable with them…"
There was something about the slightly flattened tone of voice in which Cedric uttered Fred and George's names that told Cassandra that he was jealous of the twins. Cassandra felt a sudden upsurge of affection for her boyfriend.
"I'm not going to be comfortable having that conversation with anybody," she said conciliatingly.
"You've never killed someone before, Cassandra. It's a lot to deal with."
"I'm a Lestrange and a Black. I had a thorough education on the subject."
"Don't pull that card. You hate the things your family did," Adrian interjected. "Please, Lestrange. So I can get some sleep at night."
Cedric stepped forward, three long strikes until he reached her. "I know talking about it is not easy. Of course it isn't." He cupped her face gently in his hands, stroking her cheekbones softly with his thumbs. When he spoke again, his voice was no louder than a whisper, so only she could hear him. "I know what you went through. I was there, in the end. I held you, and I begged you not to die. Please talk to me. Please."
Cassandra closed her eyes and leaned forward until her and Cedric's foreheads were touching. She was so tired of it all — avoiding this conversation, being sad, being angry, stressing out about Riddle's diary by herself.
"Come on, I need my beauty sleep, Lestrange," said Adrian.
The only way to resist the diary is to make yourself mentally stronger. Stop being a coward and say yes.
"Fine," she breathed out. "But not right now. I need to get out of here, I've decided I fucking hate this bathroom."
Not right now turned into not today, and Cassandra was able to postpone the conversation for three days, until February fourteenth. She kept away from the diary in the meanwhile, too wary after the vision of her grandfather.
On the morning of the fourteenth she dressed particularly carefully. She forwent the uniform's standard black knee socks in favor of cream-coloured acromantula silk hosiery, donned the delicate silver raven pendant Cedric had gifted her for their first holiday season together, and loosely tied her long hair back with a velvet ribbon. She got to the Great Hall slightly late, thanks to Peeves blocking a crowded corridor singing something called "Oh, Potter, you rotter..." with a dance routine to match.
Cassandra thought, for a moment, that she'd walked through the wrong doors. The walls were all covered with unnaturally large pink roses, and heart-shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. She went over to the Slytherin table, where Adrian was sitting looking amused, and Draco seemed thoroughly disgusted by the whole thing.
"What is this?" she asked them, sitting down and blowing confetti off her drop scones.
Draco sneered, raising his chin in the direction of the teacher's table. "Lockhart's idea of a morale booster."
As a matter of fact, Lockhart, who was wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for silence. The teachers on either side of him were looking stony-faced. From where she sat, Cassandra could see McGonagall's eye twitch. Snape looked as though someone had just made him swallow a slug.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" Lockhart shouted. "And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all — and it doesn't end here!"
Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.
"Merlin's beard," Adrian laughed.
"My friendly, card-carrying cupids!" beamed Lockhart. "They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn't stop here! I'm sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you're at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I've ever met, the sly old dog!"
"Fifteen galleons to the first person who asks Professor Snape for a Love Potion," a fifth-year called from down the table, making every Slytherin in earshot laugh. Snape was looking as if the first student to make such a request would be force-fed poison.
Cassandra lightly kicked Adrian's foot to get his attention. "Professor Snape's Love Potion, that's my boggart, called it."
Adrian snorted, before registering what she'd said and turning towards her with a shocked expression.
"You just made a joke. One of our inside jokes."
"I've been known to do that on occasion," she said.
"Well… all right," said Adrian dubiously, but he was smiling.
"What are you doing today?" Cassandra asked, arranging a perfect bite of scone, honey and fresh berries on her fork. She'd been eating porridge in her dorm room left to her by some Hogwarts elf every morning for weeks, instead of coming to the Great Hall for breakfast. This was so much better.
"Going to class?"
"I meant for Valentine's Day. Are you and Ma —"
"Don't say his name!" Adrian whispered nervously around a piece of bacon, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention to their conversation. "You know we can't go public with it."
"Sorry! Are you and your friend doing something today?"
"No. We're not there yet. A few snogs under the Quidditch bleachers does not a relationship make. What about you and Diggory?"
"Cedric's still hounding me to talk about my feelings," Cassandra said, pretending to shove her finger down her throat to make herself gag. "Thanks for that, by the way —"
"You're welcome."
" — so I'm probably going to spend the day trying to distract him."
"How are you going to do that?"
"I don't know, I can always put my hand down his pants."
"Don't do that," said Adrian, lightly shoving her with his elbow. "Don't be so… flippant. I'm glad you're behaving like yourself again, but…"
"I know," Cassandra sighed, shoving him back, then resting her head on his shoulder. "Trust me, I know. I'm trying. I'm really trying."
"That's all we want. You don't have to be anything other than here, with us, instead of locked up in your own head," he said. "It's fine if it takes a while for you to feel ok. It's fine if you never do. Just don't shut us out."
Cassandra nodded. There was a renewed feeling of ease in the way they said good-bye to each other shortly afterward. Adrian departed for Divination and Cassandra, after checking her hair on the back of a teaspoon, proceeded alone to the entrance hall to meet Cedric, feeling very apprehensive.
He was waiting for her a little to the side of the oak front doors, floating on a cloud of physical perfection. It annoyed Cassandra sometimes, how much it affected her — the pretty face, his muscular frame, the easy way he occupied space as if he owned it. He had a way of distractedly brushing the golden brown hair back from his forehead that made you want to do it for him. Cassandra's life would be a lot easier were she immune to it.
"Hi," said Cedric, slightly breathlessly.
"Hi," said Cassandra.
They stared at each other for a moment, then Cedric said, "Well — shall we go, then?"
"Oh — yes. Where are we going?"
"I thought about cutting class, if you're up for it? I have something prepared — we don't have to —"
"I'm fine with it," said Cassandra.
They sneaked past Filch and dodged a few dwarfs on their way to the Clock Tower Courtyard, occasionally catching each other's eye and smiling stiffly, but not talking to each other. Cassandra was relieved when they reached the fresh air, finding it easier to walk along in silence than just stand there looking uncomfortable. They crossed the Wooden Bridge and took a turn, finally arriving at the Sundial Garden.
It was a fresh, breezy sort of day, and the garden had been perfectly set up for a date. There was a thick blanket laid out on the grass, a picnic basket with what seemed to be a bottle of Elderflower wine, and the trees and bushes were softly illuminated by dozens of glow bugs.
Cassandra looked around and saw Cedric watching her apprehensively. "You did this," she said softly.
"Yeah," said Cedric. "Do you like it?"
"I do."
"So… do you want to sit down? I'm just going to cast a few spells, so no one can interrupt us."
"Sure."
Cassandra took her shoes off and placed them neatly on the grass before seating herself on the blanket. She dug her stocking-clad feet into the soft material and hugged her knees, waiting for Cedric to be done with the bit of spellwork.
Once he was satisfied with the Repelling and Imperturbable Charms he'd cast, Cedric sat down in front of her, also taking his shoes off once he noticed she had. They were very close to one another, his legs caging her in on both sides, near to but not quite touching her.
"Hi," said Cassandra again.
"Hi," said Cedric. They shared a hesitant silence for a few moments. Cassandra could think of nothing reassuring to say, and Cedric, slightly flushed, was watching her every minute movement. It didn't take long for her patience to run out.
"Kiss me."
"What?"
"I said, kiss me," Cassandra repeated.
Cedric was looking at her as if she'd started speaking in Gobbledegook.
"Why not," she continued, "because I have no idea what to say to you. So we kiss now and melt away some of this tension, and then we can talk like normal people."
"Oh. All right," said Cedric.
"Okay?"
"Yeah, okay. Do you —"
But the rest of Cedric's words were lost against Cassandra's mouth when she grabbed the front of his robes and pulled him to her. He kissed her gently, once, twice, but it wasn't gentleness she wanted, not now, not after the past few weeks, and she buried her hands in his hair, yanking at the roots. He let out a soft gasp and then his hands were on the back of her thighs, pulling her on top of him, urgent and greedy, and they were rolling on the grass, tangled together, still kissing.
It felt amazing — like a relief. Like the pressure was being let out. They kissed, and kissed, and kissed. When they finally broke apart, he rested his head against her sternum, breathing hard above her. His hands were still digging into the soil on both sides of her head, as if he'd needed to bunch something — anything — into his fists as they melted into each other.
"Merlin," said Cedric, breathy and bashful. He rolled off of her, and she immediately missed his warmth.
"Yeah."
They lay on the grass, side by side, long enough to feel the day cooling around them. But the truth is that Cassandra only noticed the afternoon drawing in because Cedric started pulling his clothes all the way back into place. He'd lay there that long, in comfortable silence and outdoors to boot, with his tie crooked and his belly on display where his shirt had ridden up, untucked from his slacks, and his hair sticking out everywhere as if a Niffler had burrowed into it.
She started giggling, giddy and buoyant, and when he blushed, her giggles turned into full-blown laughter, and she laughed until her stomach hurt and there were tears streaming down her face.
"Yeah, laugh it up," he said, and laughed too, not as giddy as her but even so. And even better, he looked happy, enchantingly, so slyly happy.
"You should see what your hair looks like," he said, and she shrugged, completely unashamed.
The hopeless fondness with which he looked at her pleased her a great, great deal. As did the feel of his fingers, lacing through hers.
"Do you really feel better, Cass? You're not just trying to distract me?"
"Are you secretly a girl?"
"I'm serious, Cassandra!"
"Do you think I'm incapable of acting without subterfuge?"
"No, come on. Just —"
"For all I know, maybe you're trying to distract me."
He shook his head with exasperation.
"Now you're just trying to be difficult."
She glanced at him, side on. Smiling wickedly, but meaning something else with her eyes.
"No, I'm not. Maybe I floated the idea, just for a little bit, but I couldn't fake this."
Cedric looked happy to hear that.
"I do feel better. Being with you makes me feel better. Even if I forgot that for a while."
He closed his eyes, briefly, on those words. "I thought distance was what you needed. You made it clear it was what you wanted."
"It was," she said, and he noted the past tense.
"You scared me. It's fine if you do need some distance from me, but you were torturing yourself."
"I'm sorry. My head was all screwed up. I'm getting better now. I'm trying."
For a moment she thought he was going to say something else, but then he let out a big sighing breath. Rolled his head back against the grass.
They lapsed back into silence, after that – but again, there was nothing uncomfortable about it. Even after a conversation like that everything just felt lax and easy. Like they could fall asleep, just like that.
So it was something of a shock, when Cassandra took a big leap beyond silence or casual conversation or something boring. She did it without warning, too, with her face turned away from his.
"I wasn't kidnapped. Grandfather set up a meeting with the werewolves."
Cedric jumped, as if she'd hit him with a Shock Spell. He hesitated only for a moment, before digging further.
"Why did he do that?"
Even with her face half turned away from him, he could still make out the expression on her face — an almost-grimace, as though she'd just tasted something bad.
"He thought to recruit them as allies, for when the war comes. So that they would be loyal to me, before the Dark Lord. It was a good plan."
"How did it go wrong?"
She shrugged, ever so slightly. A tight nudge of her scarred shoulder.
"Werewolves aren't particularly sensible."
"So they just… attacked?"
"The pack representative we were meeting with set up an Anti-Disapparition Jinx, Portkeyed out, and then they attacked."
Cassandra sat up, keeping her hands busy brushing bits of grass and leaves from her robes. Her back was fully to him now.
"Grandfather sacrificed himself so I could get out. I summoned Mimi once I remembered house-elves aren't restricted by Anti-Apparition or Disapparition charms, but one of the werewolves latched on to me and hitched a ride back to the house. He killed Mimi, and I killed him."
Cedric put a hand on her back. He felt her unsteady breaths, and kept still, offering the one thing he could — his presence. She still wouldn't look at him, but kept talking.
"I killed three or four of them trying to escape, I think, but him, I forced into his human form first. I did it because of Lockhart, can you believe? That stupid bit on Wanderings With Werewolves he reenacted in class."
"When he uses the Homorphus Charm."
"Yeah. Isn't it funny? In a way, Gilderoy Lockhart kind of saved my life."
He embraced her from behind, wrapping his arms around her middle. "I'll send him another forty-six cards exalting his brilliance."
"Can you imagine? Maybe you could pay one of those singing dwarfs."
"I'll cut the middle-man and serenade him myself."
Turning to face him, Cassandra made one final confession. "There is a lot I haven't told you yet. My thoughts on what happened, how I've been coping… none of it is at all pleasant."
He kissed her forehead tenderly. "You can tell me those things, or not. I don't mean to uncover every secret and be privy to your every thought, Cass. All I want… is for you to have a way out of dark places when your mind sends you there. I would be that for you, if you let me."
The simplicity of that struck her.
"Yeah," she said after a while, bringing his arms tighter around herself, feeling cared for and safe. "I think I would like that."
All things considered, Cassandra was able to keep away from the diary for much longer than could've been expected. After her reconciliation with Cedric and Adrian, she threw herself into bettering her own mental wellbeing, quitting the potions she'd been on since the attack, cultivating her relationships with the people who mattered to her once again, and catching up on the copious amounts of homework and late assignments she'd ignored during what she'd taken to calling The Month She Lost Her Mind. It was now nearly four months since the last Petrifications, and she rationalized that as long as she had the diary, the castle was not in any significant danger, and there was no reason for her to rush into going up against Tom Riddle.
Unexpectedly, she even had a very positive interaction with Neville Longbottom during the Easter holidays, when the time had come for the round-faced and timid boy to choose his subjects for the third year. She heard via the Weasley twins that Neville had been sent letters from all the witches and wizards in his family, all giving him different advice on what to choose. Confused and worried, he'd taken to lingering after meals reading the subject lists with his tongue poking out, asking people whether they thought Arithmancy sounded more difficult than the study of Ancient Runes.
"Should I do something?" Cassandra wondered out loud, staring at the boy from across the Great Hall. She was propping her face with her hands, her head tilted, looking as though she were observing a strange magical creature in the wild.
"Why would you do anything?" said Adrian.
"Well, when your parents orphan someone, it comes with certain emotional obligations."
Adrian glanced at her over his copy of Quidditch Times. "Do you feel obligated?"
"Sure. When I'm not too busy with something else."
Choosing to entertain the wayward impulse, she approached Neville under the guise of wanting to make casual conversation, and although he initially seemed to find it hard to make perfectly articulated words, by the end of their talk they had discussed what each elective subject entailed, and scaled the professors by order of niceness (Pomona Sprout and Severus Snape helming each end of the scale), per Neville's request.
The decision to speak to Tom Riddle again came after a nightmare. Or rather, the fifth consecutive instance of the same nightmare. Intense and unsettling dreams were an expected side-effect of weaning yourself off Dreamless Sleep Potion, but she was aware enough of her own inner demons to recognize the ones that did not belong to her. So it wasn't very hard to follow the breadcrumbs back to the diary when she started waking up night after night shivering and dazed, recalling the same cave at the edge of a great black lake; a monstrous, amorphous presence slithering behind her; and a pair of cold, dark eyes boring into her soul. And the hissing. She couldn't get away from the sinister hissing.
But the dreams didn't feel like a violation. They were one, objectively, but they lacked the pointedness and detestable personal quality of the vision of Cygnus the diary had created before. It felt to her as if Riddle was trying to tell her something. To communicate.
Maybe it was the compulsion, or the challenge of understanding magic she had never encountered before, or perhaps mere arrogance that led her to it. But Cassandra talked back.
She greeted him with two simple words (I'm ready), but they were more than enough.
"There you are," wrote Tom Riddle. "I've been waiting."
And before she could write anything back, or even have time to regret what she'd done, the room tilted, her body was pitched forward, and Cassandra fell.
She landed in what seemed to be a fine dining establishment. The jarring banality of the place in comparison to the Chamber of Secrets — pristine white tablecloths and the sound of silverware clinking against porcelain instead of damp, dark tunnels and creepy statues — immediately dulled the sharp edges of her anger at being wrenched out of her own reality without the courtesy of a warning.
Tom Riddle had a prescient smile tickling the corners of his mouth as he sat across from her. It struck her again, how handsome he was. Nothing like Cedric, with his rumpled and golden looks, the very picture of healthy athleticism. Tom Riddle was tall and trim, and his features were all right angles. He looked very proper and well put-together, with his coal-black hair side-parted so perfectly, she could've used the white stripe of his scalp to rule lines in her essays. It was like a uniform — like someone had filed down all of his imperfections, wiped away anything that could single him out. Who are you?
"Hello, Bellatrix."
It only took her a second to remember why he'd called her by her mother's name.
"Tom. This is awfully civilized. Where are we?" said Cassandra.
"A secret room at Hogwarts, that will take whatever form one wishes it to."
The location was significant to him, then, even if it was only a facsimile. She studied the floating chandeliers, the plush, old-school decoration, all dark wood and red velvet, and the bespoke artwork carefully arranged on the walls.
"And you wished for… Rules?"
"You recognized it," said Tom, with a glint of approval in his cold eyes.
"The oldest restaurant in London, that happens to be the place to be seen by anyone who's anyone? Yes, I've been. My family never stopped patronizing it, even after Mad Thomas opened the lower floors to Muggles in 1798."
"How scandalous."
"Oh yes. My 5th-great-grandaunt Capella never forgave him for that. If family gossip is to be believed, she was the one who Imperius-ed him into killing his family. Payback for having to share her favorite eaterie with the mudbloods."
"And they still welcomed your family's patronage?"
"Of course. What was the alternative — publicly accusing a Black of casting an Unforgivable with scant proof? Besides, great-grandaunt Belvina performed a ritual to forcibly send Mad Thomas' wife and daughter's spirits into the light a couple decades later, which smoothed things right out. Little Elsie Rule's ghost loved to drop hot soup on the guests' laps."
"So you are a Black as well. On your mother's side, I assume. You do bear a resemblance to Walburga Black, but the eyes… might as well have been plucked from Druella Rosier's face. I had wondered. Who did Druella marry, Cygnus or Alphard?"
"Cygnus."
"And Alphard?"
"Never married."
"What a waste. It's unfortunate, when a child from a proper wizarding family refuses to do their duty, don't you think? There are so few of us as it is."
She was at a loss. Riddle had been so intense during her first incursion into the diary, this casual chit-chat was throwing her in for a loop.
"Why are we here?"
"You called for me."
"No. Why are we here?" she said, gesturing to the pretend-restaurant around them.
"I thought you would like it." he said, and his tongue touched his upper teeth. He had neat little pointed incisors that should seem vampiric, but didn't. "It is somewhere a wizard would take a witch of your standing, were he trying to impress her, is it not?"
"Are you flirting with me?" Cassandra asked incredulously.
"Nothing so vulgar as that, Bellatrix. I have been trapped in this diary for a long time, and before you… let's say Ginny Weasley is no great conversationalist. I merely want us to become friendly."
So I can do your dark bidding and go around killing teenagers? Not likely.
"Of course."
He flashed a smile at her, and she took a leap.
"Why a diary?"
"Excuse me?"
"I've been thinking about it. Why did you choose a diary and not a ring, or some other object that would only need to be touched once for the curse to be triggered?"
"You tell me," said Riddle, sitting back on his chair. For the first time, Cassandra felt that he was well and truly interested in what she had to say.
She considered his words, debating how to answer him.
"I haven't been able to figure it out yet. It seems counter-intuitive to me. You've been trying to get me to talk to you for weeks."
"Your mind is exceptionally well-fortified. And I haven't been entirely unsuccessful."
"No, but the conversation has been rather one-sided so far."
This time, when he smiled, it showed off his sharp little incisors. "What did you see? In your dreams?"
"A cave. What I suspect to be Slytherin's monster, but I felt its presence more than I saw it. You."
"I've never encountered a mind like yours before, Bellatrix. Looking at you, I can almost see it… The darkness, the ferocity. It's all in there, somewhere behind your eyes. I get flashes of it. But when I try to get closer… I hadn't thought I could experience what it was like to drown, in this form."
Cassandra didn't answer — she couldn't. Had no idea how to. The notion of someone knowing her thoughts had always scared her. It was her worst fear when it came to Cedric, that he would discover all the worst, most twisted things in her head and be repulsed. Leave. But Riddle almost seemed longing. He wanted her darkness. The thought sent a shiver, electric and anxious, rolling down her spine.
"Most people just build forts," he continued.
"If you're trying to scare off an intruder, you don't just lock the door," said Cassandra. "You unleash the hounds, so they know not to come back."
"I went back," said Riddle, barely concealing the smugness in his voice.
"Why did you? Because you were mad?"
"Mad?" Riddle laughed incredulously. "Maybe for a moment, but your little trick, with the water… It was the first time I felt in fifty years."
"The first time you felt what?"
"The first time I felt, Bellatrix. I have been non-corporeal since I made this diary. I can see and I can speak, but I don't feel. But you drowned me and I felt it. I felt you drowning me."
He made it sound almost sweet.
"Oh."
"I didn't think that I would miss it. I didn't care much for feeling, before. But fifty years is a long time."
She had a million questions, so she asked the only one she could. "What are you?"
"What am I?"
"Yes. At first I thought you were a tangible manifestation of the curses the real Tom Riddle placed on the diary. An echo with an above-average level of sentience. But you're not."
"No, I'm not."
"So what are you?"
"Oh, Bellatrix…" said Riddle, overflowing with amusement. "I couldn't possibly spoil the fun of letting you find that out when the time comes, now, could I?"