A/N: I have absolutely nothing to say. Except that I really hope you guys enjoy this one. It was one of my favorites to write. Oh, wait, I do have to say something important: Things here get pretty gory. Just a little heads up. I should have probably warned you about the excessive swearing in the previous chapter, but oh well. We're all adults here ( mind-set wise, that is (: )

Disclaimer: RAISE YOU HANDS IF YOU HATE DISCLAIMERS BECAUSE IT IS BLANTANTLY OBVIOUS THAT WE ON THIS SITE DON'T OWN ANYTHING!

Chapter Thirteen: Dying?

The nine hours Morgan spent in the forest that weekend were the highlight of her school year. Even though most students considered it a slow form of torture, (why spend three hours each day in the dirt when you could be discussing upcoming galas and balls?), Morgan considered it a blessing. Her and Hagrid had spent hours finding new trees to climb and talked about any subject that popped into their minds. It was refreshing. Especially since Morgan was very fond of the school's future caretaker.

For that reason, the next week passed by with an agonized slowness for her. Each minute seemed like an hour, and each hour a day. Even though James often walked her to her classes and spent afternoons arguing about Quidditch with her, Friday just couldn't come fast enough.

Tom Riddle had disappeared again. And the only time she could recall seeing him was when she ran into him in the hall. He had been in a rush, and brushed off their collision without a second glance.

Weird rumors were circulating around the school too, ones about James courting her, whatever the hell that meant. When she asked Darley about the whispered conversations regarding them, he shrugged the topic off without a word. The Slytherins were particularly nasty to her now because of it, and more times than not she would find Gryffindors conveniently gathered around her. She suspected that Kayden and Charlus were responsible for the situation, though she couldn't say she was opposed to it.

The weather was ferociously cold, and she found herself dressing in thick sweaters and stockings. Because of this, her stored supply of the concealing potion was being subjected to neglect.

It had been nearly a month since she done a Metamorphmagus transformation, too. And soon she stopped anticipating the sudden rush of jitters that accompanied one. The fact that she could get used to such a thing terrified her beyond belief, scared her so much that the thought brought frustrated tears to her eyes. How could you stop being a part of yourself? It didn't make sense.

All of that, coupled with piles of homework, caused Morgan to be overcome with happiness when Friday night finally rolled around. Giddy with excitement, she threw on thick sweaters and slacks as soon as classes ended. She didn't feel the need to bring Dumbledore's leather jacket with her anymore, since she and Hagrid hardly encountered anything dangerous.

As soon as darkness fell, Morgan rushed out to the edge of the forest, her wand already out and lit. Hagrid stood waiting for her, Professor Kettleburn a little off to the side of him. When she finally reached the two they offered her warm greetings.

"Ready to search for that injured Hippogriff, you two?" Kettleburn winked.

Morgan smiled, "Oh yes, I believe there was a particular tree that I am sure the Hippogriff passed by."

"Then you better go check it out!" The Professor chuckled heartily before stealing off towards his cabin. Morgan tugged Hagrid's sleeve and towed them both into the trees.

"How's yer week been?" Hagrid wondered, matching Morgan's large steps with some of his own.

"Pretty bad," Morgan answered back honestly. "If you haven't been able to tell, I'm eager to get lost in here."

"Good ter hear," the half-giant supplied. The duo began to steadily dig through the trees, climbing large oaks and pausing by small streams to catch their breath. A half-hour into the duration of Morgan's detention, Hargid caught sight of an especially fat oak.

"I think she can hold me weight," he muttered out, a bit embarrassed. Because of his size, the expelled Gryffindor usually watched Morgan jump from tree to tree, even though she encouraged him to try and climb as many as he could.

Morgan studied the tree Hagrid pointed out, noticing that it was extremely wide— her arms would not have even come close to fitting around the trunk—and that its braches were thick. "Go for it," she smiled, brushing the dirt off her hands and onto her pants.

The half-giant nodded, "Right," he murmured apprehensively. "I'll climb this thing, and you go look fer a stream fer us to sit at when I'm done."

"Okay," Morgan waved him good luck and wandered into the thicket. The impending silence of the forest encompassed her as she pushed through deeper and deeper. The trees around her were mostly bare, autumn having stripped them of their leaves, so the moon gave her a decent amount of light. She pulled her hair into a high pony-tail and cocked her head to the side, listening for any sign of a stream.

It took a few minutes, but soon enough the tall-tale splashing of running water led her back to the right, closer to the castle. Her footsteps echoed loudly on the dead leaves beneath her feet, and she casually picked her way through winter brushes.

Five minutes later, her feet guided her into a clearing. It was roughly circular in size, the leaves in the area worn down with many footprints. The sight puzzled her, she was sure Hagrid had never been here, or else he would have told her to find this particular stream. So who had been?

Morgan cautiously strolled along the stream running through the clearings perimeter, her thoughts frazzled as she dully fingered her pocketed wand. She would have to tell Hagrid about the clearing, something might be wrong, really, or—

She barely registered an out-of-place whooshing sound before she felt the pain. It stemmed from her arm, shooting through her entire body in spasms. Another whistle of air and the pain doubled.

Morgan's vision swam, and ringing sang through her ears. She blinked rapidly and pulled her arm closer to her chest. It was a bad idea.

Two arrows jutted right out of her arm. One of them struck into the tender flesh of her left elbow-joint, pushing clean through, the other was jammed into her forearm. Blood spilled from her wounds, blood and a curious clear liquid. Whoever had attacked her had been specifically aiming for her left arm, her arm with the Dark Mark, her wand arm.

"Human," there was the clattering of hooves. "We have warned you to cease coming to this clearing. It is sacred to us."

The words sounded like gibberish to her, and she weakly looked upwards. A collection of centaurs circled around her loosely. All had their arrows cocked and ready to fire again.

"I-I-I" it was a struggle to get the words out. The burning in her arm increased, it was turning the skin on her arm to ash, it felt, searing through her nerves. And worse yet, it was slowly traveling to her chest. "Never been here before," she finally choked out.

She rubbed her head with her right hand. Panic began to set in. Fuck, why did it hurt so badly?

"The arrows have been fatally poisoned," the biggest centaur revealed. "You will be dead within hours. We warned you this would happen."

No you didn't! Morgan felt like screaming, but she couldn't. For some reason an utter and total sense of calm was overcoming her senses, dulling them out. She lost all feeling in her left arm.

"It's not the same human!" Another centaur suddenly gasped. "Anon! It's a different human."

"Humans are all the same," the centaur named Anon growled. "It was her foolish choice to come in this clearing."

"Perhaps uneducated is a better word," a calmer centaur tossed in.

Morgan was seeing stars. The arrow was still pumping poison into her system. She glanced at the two arrows woefully. They had to come out, fast.

"Don't do it, human girl," the wise centaur commanded. "You will black out from the pain, and then all will be lost."

"Let us leave her," Anon growled. "You could all smell the dark magic soaking the pores of her skin. She reeks of evil."

"That could mean nothing," the calm voice said back. "She is from Hogwarts, we have a treaty…"

"Damn the treaty to hell. They've been taking our land. We leave the girl to die. That is the final order. No one will find her body; it will burn up before the sun rises." Anon stomped his hooves with authority, no one objected.

One by one, the centaurs filed out, leaving Morgan in the middle of the clearing. She had long since lost focus of the conversation the horse-men had been having. Her entire attention was concentrated on preparing herself for pain. The calm-voice said she would black out. She was willing to test that.

Because if she left the arrows in, more poison would continuously flow into her body. Besides, arrows were hard to hide. She couldn't very well walk up to Hagrid and lie to him if they were bulging out from her arm.

She had already decided she wasn't going to let the giant know she was injured. The arrows were buried in the flesh of her left arm, the one with the Dark Mark. If anyone were to find out about it, she would be in deep trouble. So she would just have to run up to the Room of Requirement, grab a vile of the concealing potion, and then go to the Mediwitch. Simple.

But first…

She eyed the arrows, her vision blurred. Her arm felt like nothing. She couldn't move it even if she tried. So it shouldn't hurt that bad…

She gripped the first arrow, the one jutting straight through her elbow, down by the arrowhead. It would be easier to pull the wooded shaft all the way through her arm then to pull the metal tipped arrowhead back out.

Morgan took deep breaths before grabbing a nearby stick and biting down on it. If the pain was as intense as implied, she didn't want to bite off her tongue screaming. Her ears were still blaring. One…two…three.

She yanked with all the conscious strength in her body. The wood splintered a few times in the joint, getting stuck, so she had to pull again and again. When the arrow finally popped out, pieces of broken tissue and bone poked through the gaping hole in her arm.

The pain was like nothing she had ever felt before. It literally pulled her arm to pieces before traveling straight to her heart. It compressed her ribs together, sliced through to her head, pounded in her ears. Tears streamed down her face and her vision danced. She blinked and opened her eyes. Only this time, when she looked at her wound again, she saw maggots crawling out of it and pieces of her flesh falling away.

She forced back a scream. Hallucinations, the clear part of her brain yelled. Get it together.

"No, no, no, no," she moaned around the stick. She didn't want to do it again. She didn't want to pull the second arrow out. She couldn't!

But even as she thought this, her hand moved to the wooden arrow, not caring how much pain she was already in. She gripped the metal tip steadily. And then…pulled sharply downwards.

She was going to die. That was it. The pain was simply beyond words. She spared a glance down and saw bugs of all sizes squirming underneath her skin, pinching and biting, slicing and burning. She spat the stick out of her mouth and let out a hoarse scream. She had to end it, now.

She stumbled to her feet and blindly stole through the forest. She crashed into trees and fell down, but always found the resolve to get back up again. She had to move. Had to get out of there.

When the castle came into view it took all of her strength to stay on her feet. Her head was in two pieces, her vision was teetering on the edge of oblivion, and her arm…she closed her eyes. Can't think about it. Room of Requirement.

Clipped thoughts gave her the blind guidance she needed to make it to the seventh floor. She was lucky in the sense that everyone was at a late dinner, so when she stumbled into walls and stemmed the flow of blood from her arm with her torso, no one was there to notice.

When she finally reached the Room of Requirement, she thrust the door open, gaining entrance to her sanctuary. The delusions were too much though, and she forgot why she had come there in the first place. Wasn't there something she needed?

It didn't matter. The burning in her arm only intensified. It had to have been on fire. Nothing could ever possibly hurt that bad. Her whole body was slick with a fevered sweat and she blindly began throwing all her layers of sweaters on the floor. One by one, she could only focus on the task at hand. All other thought abandoned her.

When she finally lay in only her bra and slacks she collapsed. There was no more energy left. This was it.

Her head hit the carpet and she stared at the ceiling. Something told her she should feel sorry this was happening. That she couldn't just die. But why not? She couldn't remember.

Vibrations rattled through her head, and she knew someone was in the room with her. But then there was only darkness.

---

Morgan's eyelids felt heavy, way too heavy to be doing any opening anytime soon. She was comfy, anyways. So why should she move? Her body unconsciously snuggled deeper into the blankets and pillows. The bed was way better than the one she had in the dorms, and definitely better than the couch in the Room of Requirement…

Her eyes flashed open. Memories of pain flashed through her head and she sat upwards quickly. She went to rip up the sleeve of her shirt when she realized…she wasn't wearing one. She blinked.

She was dangerously uncovered and vulnerable. And she noticed two wide scars adorning her left forearm.

What the hell happened?

Her eyes scanned the room quickly and she instantly reached for her wand, only to find she didn't have it.

A real shame, too, since there, sitting on her couch with his feet propped up against a small table, Tom Riddle sat, his eyes scanning the pages of an open book.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was a weak whisper, but Tom heard her regardless. He snapped the book shut deftly before standing up and stretching. He was taking his time.

Morgan noticed the condition he was in. His school tie was long forgotten somewhere, and the sleeves of his button-down shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His hair no longer sat neatly parted on his head; instead it was in a state of disarray.

"I was reading…"— his prolonged answer caused Morgan to grip the blankets of the new bed anxiously— "A rather interesting diary…about an artifact collector, whose last entries seem to be about a necklace." He looked at her critically, "So I do not have to ask why you were in the Chamber a week ago, though I must say I have tons of new things to inquire to you about."

"Get out." Morgan wrapped the thick blanket around herself tightly before rolling out of the bed and standing up. Her bare feet touched the carpeted floor.

Tom Riddle leaned against the fireplace in the room and put his hands in his pockets, "Is that any way to treat someone who has saved your life twice now?"

"What do you mean?" Morgan said, trying to put as much power as possible into the words. She looked around the room through narrowed eyes, seeing that it was just the same as ever minus the addition of the bed.

"What do I mean? I mean that had I not been out of the Great Hall during dinner I would have never seen you stumbling up the stairs bleeding. Nor would I have seen you come in this room—speaking of which, one of my questions is how you know about it—and then I would have not healed you. And then you would be dead. Another hour or so and the poison from the centaurs arrow would have killed you."

"How do you know about the centaurs arrow poison?" Morgan demanded.

"That's a question for another time. And believe me, we'll have time. But right now, you see, a very confused half-giant is still looking for you in the Forbidden Forest and very unpleasant inquiries will arise if you do not find him in the next 40 minutes."

"How long have I been sleeping?" Morgan sat back down on the bed slowly, testing out her balance.

"I would say about an hour. I healed everything rather easily, considering the poison in your arm wasn't technically fatal. It's designed to cause hallucinations and pain, but not kill, so I was able to withdraw it from your blood stream. You pulled the arrows out neatly, so there wasn't that much blood loss."

"Right, well then, I better go find Hagrid." Morgan precariously jumped from the bed, letting her feet touch the ground again as she searched for her sweaters.

Seconds later, though, she felt Tom's hand gripping her shoulder, "While some questions can be answered another time, some need to be answered now."

There was something in his tone that petrified Morgan to the spot. His hands, without asking permission, went to grip the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and pulled it off quickly. The strength in her arms had not yet returned for her to sufficiently fight back.

Tom dropped the blanket to the floor without a word. Morgan instantly crossed her arms over her chest, feeling far too uncovered in only slacks that hung off her frame and a bra. But Tom Riddle wouldn't have any of it. He gripped her forearms and peeled them away from her body, pushing them down to her side.

"Don't move," Tom said seriously, his tone dark.

His free hand darted to her collarbone, and lightly traced the blunt scar there. His fingers stretched all the way over to her shoulder and back again. Then, he trailed it down to her chest, where the cold hands passed over the scarred top of her breasts, down her stomach, and to her hip bone. He pressed down on the end of that scar sharply, where it sunk deeper into her skin, before letting his whole hand skim across the surface of her stomach.

Had it been any other man, Morgan would have freaked. She would have kicked and screamed and fought until she was dead. No one was meant to touch her in that way. But that was the thing; there was nothing remotely intimate about Tom's hands. Even when they curved of her breasts his eyes were dark and calculating, simply interested in the scarred tissue and nothing else. He didn't care that they were carved onto a personal space in her body, it didn't matter.

But even so, Morgan felt the need to tell him to keep his hands to himself. They were way too cold. "Had your fun, Riddle?"

Tom looked up to her face, though his hand stayed on her stomach, "How did you get these three scars?" He wondered aloud. "They were made with dark magic, and after so much time, can't be healed. Whoever cursed you wanted to kill you."

Well that was definitely the truth. Amycus did want to kill her.

"Do you remember the spell?"

"Yes," Morgan answered back coldly, shifting uncomfortably. "Something like that is kinda hard to forget."

"Tell me," Tom's eyes shone. "That spell, it must be amazing."

Morgan didn't answer for a long time and Tom's fingers grew impatient, digging into the scarred tissue of her torso instead of smoothly sliding over it. "Sectumsempra."

The spell slid through her lips without any consequential thought, besides the one urging her to get out of the room. Giving Tom what he wanted seemed to be the quickest way.

"Good." Tom pursed his lips. "Ingenious, really." Morgan went to pick up the blanket from the floor again when Riddle pushed her backwards into a wall. "No, no, no, one more important question."

Tom's dark eyes flickered to her left forearm.

No! If there was one thing he couldn't know about, it was that! She hugged her arm to her chest tightly and shook her head. "Hell not, back the fuck off." She jumped from the wall and searched the area frantically for her wand, but Tom's strong hands pulled her back.

"You should really learn to cooperate," Tom grumbled, as if the whole ordeal was annoying. He held her to the wall with one arm spread out against her whole waist, while the other one forcefully ripped her left forearm from her side.

He straightened her arm out and examined the Dark Mark. It moved slightly under his scrutiny. "This mark…it's a binding mark," Tom muttered, "Very powerful. Whoever you swore your allegiance to…they own you."

That was also basically true.

"So tell me, is it Grindelwald? Are you one of his spies? Everything would make sense then, but it doesn't seem right. You're either the best spy out there, or the worst one." Tom paused in his musings before looking up at her, expecting an answer. "Well? You can either tell me, or I can make you tell me." He released her forearm and picked a bottle from his pants pockets. A clear liquid glistened in it, "Truth Serum, since we're on a time limit. Normally, using this isn't any fun. But under the circumstances…" He smiled thinly.

Morgan's options were severely limited. She had to answer the question, or else he'd hit her with the serum and she'd blab about the whole future, which was against Dumbledore's orders, not to mention the time traveling laws. As for what answer to give…She couldn't say she was allied with Grindelwald, that gave Tom the option of turning her in to the Headmaster. So who? Who could she say she was undoubtedly tied too? Who could she say she swore her loyalty to without raising suspicions?

Suddenly, she had her dreadful answer.

She turned her head away from Tom and looked at the wall. She could feel his breath on her neck. "The heir of Slytherin."

It made perfect sense. She could pretend she had once been a Pureblood maniac who swore loyalty to Salazar's heir. And that heir, though she would have had no way of knowing it, happened to coincidentally be Tom. It was a shaky, illogical, and dangerous plan, but a plan nonetheless.

"Look at me," Tom's voice was dead serious, mingled with something she couldn't place. But she didn't disobey the order. When she turned her head to him she saw that he had slipped the Truth Serum vile back into his pocket. He picked up her hand and leaned over the marking, and then, very cautiously, he touched it with the pad of his thumb.

Instantly the mark moved rapidly, the snake ingrained on her skin twisting itself around the skull. The skin of her arm lightly hissed with a burning sensation.

Tom looked up at her, his eyes flashing red, "Me," he said, a grin pulling across his face. "You're mine." He was the happiest and scariest she had ever seen him, his eyes bright and signs of fatigue gone, his smile like that of a child's on Christmas.

"No." Morgan spat out, "I did this before I knew who the heir was. I don't want it anymore. It doesn't count."

Tom's hand shot down to the mark again, it sizzled. "This says differently."

"I don't care if my skin burns whenever you touch it. You don't get anything from me."

Rage burned in Riddle's black and red eyes. In that moment he was Voldemort, "I can get whatever I want from you," he said darkly, "Even if you don't want me to take it." He pushed her further into the wall, pinning her up with his own body, leaving his hands free.

Morgan pushed against him with her hands, "Get off me," her voice, distorted with panic, came out like a wounded squeak. Their conversation from the previous week flashed in her head:

"No. Touching," she growled almost incoherently.

"Does that bother you?"

"Keep your hands to yourself, and maybe I'll allow you to keep them."

Tom smirked in spite of himself, "Good to know." Though Morgan was pretty sure he wasn't referring to her comment about letting him keep his limbs.

Tom's pale hand gripped her chin, and before she could do anything else, his lips crashed into hers. The kiss was a bruising and controlling one. There was no affection, no happiness, only anger and the need to prove something.

Pride kept Morgan from opening up her mouth, even when Tom bit into her bottom lip. It wasn't until seconds later, when his free hand dug into her Dark Mark—causing her skin to burn with his anger—that she gasped in pain. That was when Riddle deepened the kiss, pushing her against the wall tighter, as opposed to holding her like she was used to seeing in romantic movies.

Anger and humiliation built up in her, and she locked her arm around Tom's neck to give her more leverage. Pulling herself up to his height, she bit down into his lip sharply, fighting for control. Tom fought back harder, and pretty soon she felt as if her whole body was going to crumble under the pressure he was exerting on her.

They broke apart then, and even though Morgan felt the kiss had lasted hours, it could have only been thirty seconds. She turned her head away, disgusted, and spat some of her own and Tom's blood out of her mouth. Her lip was bleeding and so was his.

Tom didn't move, his head bowed over onto her shoulder and neck, his heavy breathing warming her skin. She tried to regain her bearings. She could never remember having been kissed that way before. Sure, there was a Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw or two, but nothing like that. Nothing that painful.

A strong hand grabbed her cheek, and slowly turned her towards Tom again. But unlike the past ten or so minutes, the touch was softer and gentle. When Morgan looked at Riddle she saw his lips were coated with a very small amount of blood too, and that she had disheveled his hair even more when she kissed him back. His eyes had dulled down to their normal dark color and he looked at her very seriously.

"Mine," he annunciated clearly, his cheeks flushed with red. "Remember that."