A/N: Yo broski(s). So this whole "Three Days" chapter was turning out to be WAYY to long if I included all of the days. So I am forced to separate them. Days 2 and 3 will come in the next part. Anyways, thanks to all those who reviewed and fave'd and alert'd and all that jazz. There are a few reviews I would like to reply to right here, because they made me giggle.
To i(dot)am(dot)weasley(dot)fred(dot) -!1111
To Elysia Mador-Thank you for the brat comment. I read it while drinking Pepsi and nearly choked because I was laughing so hard.
To PurpleMonkeyDishwashers-Your wish has been granted, ha ha.
To flyingcrispi-Thanks for holding off on murdering me. Consensual contact? Check.
To Leah or grahamcracker-xx-Hmm, good guessing. You just have to wait and see (:
To an idiosyncratic-Nice job catching onto the innuendo. I salute you :D
To TogsTwilightFans-Your review made me laugh, while your dedication to finishing the story in two days made me smile. I hope your eyes didn't hurt too much after a night of all that reading!
So yeah, those are the reviews I wanted to reply to. And I have one more thing to say THAT IS VERY VERY VERY IMPORTANT BECAUSE IT IS TOTALLY AWESOME.
WE HAVE FAN ART!111
Yes, that's right, CrackedLips was so UBER amazing that she drew me a picture that literally took my breath away. It's of Morgan fighting against Billy, the arcomantula. The artwork is simply amazing, and I'll encourage everyone to go check it out because it's awesome. SO. AWESOME. I LOVE THIS GIRL, ha ha. Here's the link
http : / / brittster0709 (dot) deviantart (dot) com / # / d2vjlvz
Take away the spaces and replace the (dot)s and there you have it!
Jeesh, this is a long ass note. I'll wrap it up now and only say this: Thanks to HanaIRL, my best friend in real life AND the internet, for helping me out.
Best read with a hint of lime.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Three Last Days—Part One
"Hold still."
"Easier said than done, hag."
"It'd be wise of you to respect the hand that keeps you alive."
At Morgan's slight scoff, the medical witch hissed, "Brat!" and delivered a swift blow to the younger woman's head.
"Ow!" Morgan protested, rubbing her sore appendage. "Wasn't that a bit counterproductive to the healing process?"
Banheart gripped her patient's collarbone and applied a decent amount of pressure. The girl was able to strain against the hand for half a minute before her sickness took its toll. The breath was yanked from her lungs with a wet and sticky sound as she fell against her pillows tiredly. "Better. You're getting stronger. But for the love of all that is holy, stay still!"
Morgan took in the concentrated pull of her healer's eyebrows, cataloguing how the wrinkled skin sank in deep pockets under the blunt bones of her cheeks. Banheart had most definitely seen better, younger days, yet she still slaved over Morgan with all the vigilance and determination of the most lively of healers.
"Sorry," the girl ground out, the single word conveying all the frustration her body-language hinted at. "It's just…very hard."
"Understandable," Banheart remarked. Things hadn't been easy for the girl. Constantly drugged to bring her into states of awareness and unawareness as per-Banheart's needs, the past three days were not much more than a blur of suffering for Morgan. She hadn't had the voice to scream when something particularly sore was prodded, but she was sure tears had burned permanent trails down her cheeks, cutting through the grime.
Morgan and her pain-tolerance weren't the only things being put to the test, either. Banheart was elbows deep in an assignment many would consider pointless—and indeed, in a way it was. All of her work, hours upon hours of work, wasn't even to ensure her patient a long life. It was to secure the girl a mere three days of vibrant living.
The girl's insides were an absolute mess. Organ tissues had to be stimulated to grow, muscles had to be repaired and gradually enhanced, blood had to be replenished, and lungs had to be periodically cleaned out.
Banheart had spent the past three days ripping and tearing her way through each of these problems, and soon found the next hurdle to be crossed more delicate than its predecessors.
While stimulating the regeneration of Morgan's body, it was discovered that the body didn't want to be healed. Repaired tissue would dissolve at a rate twice as fast. Lungs would fill with blood twice as quickly. Muscles would wither away twice as easily. Each step forward would bring the duo two steps back within minutes. It was disheartening to say the least, and all the hopelessness in the girl's two blue eyes suddenly made a lot more sense.
But Banheart had been prepared for such complications—it'd been the first thing her patient told her upon entering the apartment, and had been the reason both knew death was inevitable. Anything healed would become undone. Simple as that.
There were several spells common among the Dark Arts that carried similar effects. Counter-curses for bones that would break each time they were healed, for organs that would burst each time they were regenerated; they existed, though they were hard to find.
Banheart could recall several patients who had suffered such curses, and could also remember seeking ways to slow down the spell's effects in time to find the counter-curse. Because that was what you did when you dealt with something that wouldn't stay fixed—you slowed the breaking process. It was messy, it was painful, and it involved a hell of a lot of trial and error.
No one could say it didn't work, though, and Banheart's current patient was a testament to that. Three days ago, she could barely move, and now she was gathering her strength to stand. Unfortunately, having an insubordinate patient wriggling around while you prevented her liver from collapsing was quite distracting.
"Be still, you insolent twat!"Banheart yelled, her concentration slipping from her grasp. The organ was pulverized.
Morgan cried out in agony as the skin just below her breasts turned a sickly color, blood weeping under its taut surface. Waspish words were spat in quick succession, binding her body into stillness as the pain seared through her nerves. Calm breaths turned to gasping pants while the girl's vision spotted white with pain.
And then it was done.
"I hate that," Morgan whined, "what is it? Like the third time!"
Banheart bared dirty teeth, "I told you to stop moving! Just like I told you the other three times! When are you going to accept that this isn't something I can do over night?"
"I have things to do! Important things to do! Things that must be done before Christmas vacation is over. I—" here the girl fumbled for words, "oh never mind." Her voice trailed off and bright eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Ah hell," she admitted after a moment of silence, "I have no idea what I'm doing. But that doesn't matter, does it?"
"That all depends on the matters you speak of," Banheart replied guardedly, slumping in the wooden chair pulled up beside the bed. With the necessary charms in place, all that was left to do was wait. It was the fourth set of spells she'd tried using to slow down the illness' effectiveness, and only time could tell whether it would work or not.
Morgan harrumphed with a displeasured attitude that had become habitual. Not that Banheart minded, for negative feelings were better than no feelings at all. The elder witch propped her feet at the edge of the bed and tipped her head backwards.
"Matters of the heart, perhaps?" the healer inquired. "Matters having to do with the gentleman you swore feels nothing but disinterest for you?"
"Maybe," Morgan hedged.
"Do you wish to discuss it?"
The sun continued its steady descent from the sky. Morgan picked at her blankets and studiously avoided Banheart's eyes. "You'll think it's stupid," she warned.
"The heart often is," Banheart rebutted.
"Okay, fine. So let's say there was a guy, a guy you knew was terrible and bad but you ended up caring for nonetheless. Now let's say this guy didn't give a prat's ass about you, and you discovered you only had three days to live. Now tell me, how would you spend those three days?"
"I would spend my days with the man who doesn't care for me."
Morgan gaped at her healer. "But why! That's completely illogical. If he doesn't care about you, why would you spend your last precious days of life with him? Why not with someone who deserves your company?"
"I believe death allows us some selfishness. The world deems those who do not appreciate my company undeserving of it. If I were dying, I would determine who did or did not deserve my companionship."
"But what if you had friends who loved you? And would miss you. Shouldn't you say goodbye to them, if only because they'll remember your farewell?"
Banheart sighed and withdrew an apple from the long pockets of her dark robes. "You aren't using your heart, brat, you're using your head. Where death is concerned, there is no room for logic, only room for feeling. Now tell me, how do you feel? With whom do you want to be with?"
"Him," she said with an air of defeat. "After everything he's done to me, after all the pain and doubt, it's only ever going to be him. He isn't good for me—in fact, if I weren't already dying, I'd say he was a bad influence on my lifespan. And I know I should hate him, and I know I should be terrified of him, but I can't stop this feeling that's literally burning me up inside."
"Hmm, are you sure you're not feeling your spleen dissolving again?"
Morgan shot Banheart a withering glare and turned her thoughts inwards. "No, it's nothing like that. I know pain. Pain dulls over time; wounds are sealed and sewn shut. But this pain doesn't go away. I've felt it for quite awhile, and I recognize it well enough. It's self-loathing and a warm feeling blended together."
"Self-loathing?"
"Yeah," Morgan replied easily enough. "You have no idea how many people I've hurt in the space of four months." Her thoughts skimmed over James before thrusting deeply into her true Hogwarts family. The Dark vs. Light war was still ongoing (or was yet to be waged) and she could never really deny the thought that danced along the edges of her mind: 'Traitor'.
Worse—she could never bring herself to care enough to crush her feelings.
"Love," Banheart declared with all the authority in the world, "is not eyes catching across the room, gentle caresses under the moonlight, bodies moving together in perfect unity, darling children, or happily ever after. Love is dark and twisted and scary. It's loss of self-assurance, defenselessness, alienation, fear! It changes people—makes them selfish, ugly shadows of what they once were, makes them enjoy it, too."
Morgan waited for the healer to tack on the inevitable, 'But…' wondering when love was even brought into the conversation. When it was clear Banheart wasn't going to add a good word about the emotion speculated to be the epitome of all goodness, she spoke. "Someone sounds a bit jilted."
Banheart chucked her apple core into the garbage can. "Maybe, but you see the truth in the words. You're love for that boy has changed you, and you can't bring yourself to do anything but enjoy it."
Trying to salvage what was left of the original topic, Morgan interrupted. "So you would spend your last days with the boy you have unrequited feelings for?"
"That's what I said, wasn't it? Not that my words have made much of a difference. You were only asking me so I could justify the decision you already made. You knew the moment you left the boy you were going to go back to him."
"How did you know?"
"Because I know love."
"It's terrible, isn't it?" Morgan asked, because the elder witch had been right about her preordained decision. She'd always known exactly who she would spend her last days of life with.
"No," the healer disagreed, her eyes fluttering shut, "it's absolutely breathtaking."
The sun fell below the horizon. Morgan rubbed her eyes, body still aching with memories of previous agonies. "You were right," she said, almost as an after-thought. "This feeling inside me, it makes me terribly selfish."
"How so?"
"I had something important to do, a very important task entrusted to me. It's one that could save thousands of lives. And you know what? I'm throwing it away."
"Love is dangerous." Banheart acknowledged, "It can make the strongest of us forget our honor and obligations." Bones creaked as the healer began stretching worked muscles, "Perhaps if this task is as great as you make it out to be, I should dissuade you from going back to your boy."
"I'm not sure anything can change my mind. Even now, even after admitting to myself that ignoring my mission is wrong and dangerous, I can't help but think, 'leave the problems for the living'."
"You are indeed, a very selfish young lady."
"I'm in love and dying," Morgan protested.
"Same thing."
A light knock at the door ended the patient-healer repartee. Banheart lumbered from her chair with all the grace of a confused bear, her footsteps heavy against the wooden floor as she left the room. Mumbles of, "who the hell comes calling at this hour?" and other aggravated mutterings led the healer to the front door.
"Yes?" the woman demanded darkly, filling the doorway with her thick hands on even thicker hips. Very little light leant itself to the apartment's tenants, so it was a few uneasy moments before Banheart sighed, "Oh, it's you," and ushered the guest inside her home.
"This place is just as charming as I remembered it to be," the blond haired witch remarked, though her voice lacked its usual dry humor and emotion. Her face was pinched and stretched tight, the ever-present frown marring her features abysmally. She looked like an aggrieved and battered housewife, and the tight bun that pulled the hair from her face did little to dispel the image. Neither did the dark clothes. "It needs a good cleaning up."
"The runt's in the back," Banheart said as a greeting, ignoring the upturned nose of her patient's visitor. Far be it from her to bend to the whims of an uppity witch. She shuffled to the rusted and moldy kitchen, cranking the sink and waiting the usual minute before the cloudiness in the water cleared.
Violetta Fanding recognized a dismissal when it was being shoved in her face. "Very well," she said. Retracing the healer's steps, she found her way to the door that separated the rest of the apartment from the sick. It was opened with little preamble.
Watching your most head-strong best friend struggle to lift their upper body was almost like getting kicked in the stomach. All the air left Violetta in a sweeping sigh, and the tears she promised she wouldn't shed tingled at the corners of her eyes. Her friend made for a truly pathetic sight.
"Leah," Violetta said softly, at a loss to do much else.
Morgan's frown was feral as she fought against the dead weight of her limbs. She whined slightly, like a dog that'd just been punted off the couch, before giving up and lying flat on the bed. She addressed the ceiling, "Good evening, Vi Vi."
A head of blond hair loomed above her, and Morgan was given a very unflattering view of her friend. Violetta looked ill and very severe, something Morgan disliked seeing. She tried to lighten the mood, "You look like you're going to attend a funeral."
Violetta snorted back her tears in a very unladylike manner. She settled her hands under Morgan's arms and gently helped her in a more comfortable, upright position. "I thought I might be."
The words were so morbid, and said in such a monotone, that Morgan knew Violetta believed them. The sick witch grimaced. "I'm sorry."
A disbelieving scoff was all Morgan got in response as Violetta peeled back the curtains in the room, illuminating the space available. It was just as downtrodden as the rest of the apartment, though Banheart made the effort to dust in the vicinity of her patient.
From her perch on the bed, Morgan watched her friend cast a disapproving eye around the abode, wrinkling her delicate nose every now and then. "This room is horrendous," she decided at last.
"I think it's quaint."
"You're delirious, the ceiling leaks!"
"How else am I going to bathe?"
The nose wrinkled again. "Oh dear, you stink!"
The sentence was so abrupt and impolite that Morgan guffawed. She laughed until her chest heaved with the effort, and through her watering eyes, she spied a small smile plastered on Violetta's face as well.
"You're so complimentary, Violetta," Morgan finally choked out, swatting at the laughter-induced tears that danced down her cheeks.
"Compliment or not, I meant it!" the witch answered back, her own gaze lightening under the friendly banter. "Doesn't that healer take care of you?"
"Sure she does. I'm not dead yet, am I?" Morgan gave a snarky grin of her own. She knew she'd stepped too far, however, when Violetta's features fell. "Erm, ha ha?"
"Oh Leah," Violetta exclaimed, equal parts amusement and despair lacing her tone. She pulled out her wand, "I think I would like to fix this place up properly."
"Uhm…" Morgan started, because Banheart liked her mess just the way it was.
But there was no stopping Fanding when she was on a roll, and she quite coolly rolled her eyes at Morgan's expense before getting to work. Dust was sucked into oblivion, a cleaning spell had the stained floors looking shiny and smelling like pine, the cracks in the window were mended, the light bulb in the lamp replaced, and the sheets of the bed opposite Morgan cleaned and patted down.
Morgan had watched the display of magic with thinly veiled admiration. She would never get over the fact that the Underage Magic Law only applied to those between the ages of eleven and sixteen—it was a good year off from the age in her time.
She threw an approving eye around her surrounds, discovering that the only relatively dirty thing in the room was herself.
"Your turn," Violetta declared with flourish. The sleeves of her black blouse were rolled up tightly, and a wave of her wand summoned a huge metal tub filled with steaming water. After another half-circled flick, a collection of sponges and soaps fell from the ceiling.
"A sponge bath!" Morgan wailed in despair, "What am I? Some kind of invalid!"
Her friend raised a well-groomed brow, the, 'well no shit,' expression clear on her face. "Leah, you're covered in your own sweat and dirt. Your bed is starting to look moldy, and your hair is two shades darker than I remembered. Now, I'm going to give you a bath, and lord help me, but I'll knock you unconscious if I have to."
Morgan quivered in fear. "You're going to make one scary mother."
This was taken as a compliment, as the other witch smirked wickedly and advanced upon the bedridden patient. Morgan squirmed all the while, until at last she was stripped and sinking into the depths of the water. Aching muscles melted as she slipped further in, until only her eyes were visible above the surface.
The feeling paled in comparison to Violetta's skilled hands pounding soap into her shoulders and back, kneading grime away with every stroke of her knuckles. The stomach and abdomen were areas that Violetta took more caution with, as pressing too hard would draw strangled cries of pain—along with a colorful collection of swear words—from Morgan's gritted teeth.
It was only when Morgan's hair was lathered with soap that the two friends spoke again. "You look…better," Violetta remarked hesitantly, her fingers brushing against Morgan's scalp.
Head tipped to observe a particularly large crack on the wall, Morgan replied. "I'm feeling better, and not just physically."
"Mhm," Violetta hummed, "I've noticed. The first two days you were…" there was a considerate pause, "…scary."
"I imagine I was," Morgan acknowledged, dashing the blonde's fears that she was offended. "It's hard to explain, but…those two days were the days I gave up. I was so afraid. There was no room inside me for anything but fear, and it left me empty. Not to worry, though, I feel like myself again."
"That's good, very good. But physically…?"
The reply came from a clenched jaw. "I haven't thrown up on you, have I?"
"No."
"Ah." Morgan fought back her guilt. She wasn't exactly lying, but she was certainly exercising her skills in misdirection. But how could she not? Morgan didn't think she could handle another woefully depressed episode with Violetta.
Her nice view of the wall was obscured by a wave of water that crashed into her eyes and up her nose. "W-what the fuck was that!" she demanded, spitting warm water, her body rigid with indignation.
"Surprise, Hume," Violetta smiled, dropping a towel on her head. "Get yourself dried off while I work on cleaning your bed."
Growling, Morgan said, "I can't, woman!"
Violetta snickered before lending Morgan support, acting as a crutch as the ill witch exited the tub with a splash of dirtied water. One hand trembled, unused to such exertion, as it worked to keep the towel around her body. Morgan scowled at her shaking appendages.
A few wand waves later, and the bed Morgan had been confined to for the past three days was cleaned. "Holy shit, the sheets were white? I thought they'd always been gray…"
Violetta grinned, summoning a clean shirt and pair of shorts for her friend to wear. She helped Morgan into the loose cotton clothing without objection or complaint. Only when Morgan was resting back in bed, smelling and feeling much fresher than before, did the blond haired witch settle into a chair.
Morgan rolled her eyes and reached for Violetta's hand. "No, sit up here with me."
The request was fulfilled when the two friends sat against the bed's headboard, shoulders brushing and hands locked together. The touch was reassuring for the both of them. Morgan took strength from Violetta's hand, while the blonde was content to let the contact remind her that her friend wasn't dead yet.
"I'm not sure where I would be without you," Morgan said after a comfortable silence. "You're my truest and greatest friend, and I'm terrible with touchy feely stuff, but there you go."
"How un-Slytherin of you," Violetta observed coldly, though her voice struggled to keep its aloof and indifferent tone.
Morgan grinned at the awkwardness of it all, at how they were both determinedly staring at everything but each other. How very Slytherin of them. "Yes. I owe you for doing this."
"You do."
"I wonder if there was ever something I could do to repay you."
"There is."
"Oh? You thought of that fast."
"I only require one thing in return."
"Do tell."
"Just," the grip on Morgan's hand tightened, "get better. Please, please, stay alive." Violetta's voice cracked and she sniffled, desperately trying to regain her composure. "Please don't leave me."
"How un-Slytherin of you," Morgan mock sighed.
Violetta gave a strangled laugh that was thick with tears. "Screw you."
"Oh my, I'm a bad influence!"
Violetta's hand detached itself from their embrace and hurriedly swiped across her face. When she reached for Morgan again, her skin was slick with tears. "Yes you are, Hume. And you need to stick around, because who else is going to influence my children in the same way? And your own children, they're going to need someone to set a good example for them, too. So don't you see? We must stay together. You aren't allowed to—" her words broke off in another choked breath.
"To what? Kick the bucket?" Morgan tried to grin as carelessly as she used to. "Jeesh man, don't waste your tears. I'm not going anywhere."
"You have not changed a bit. You are still a terrible liar."
Morgan was somber when she replied, because if there ever was a time for seriousness, it was now. She didn't want to hurt her friend, not anymore, and while she'd thought she could skirt around the issue of her death, it was apparent that it was unavoidable.
"Violetta, I—I can't promise anything, it would be empty and that's not fair to you. I'm sick, and I'm trying to fight it, but—" she grimly bit her tongue. "Well, anyways, I don't want to die, I don't want to leave you and everyone else behind, but—ugh." Why was this so hard? Goddamn, they weren't even looking at each other! "Just know that, well, I love you, you proper-up-tight-aloof-Slytherin, you." She returned Violetta's tight grip and lightly knocked their shoulders together.
Emotions sucked. Expressing them sucked even more.
Violetta gave one last sniffle before her throat cleared. "'Everything dies. Not everything grows old.' Or so St. Augustine of Hippo says. It's not fair, but I suppose it's true."
"Suppose so," Morgan agreed.
Another silence descended, and the two friends remained still for a very long time.
"Huh. That went better than I thought it would."
Morgan observed Banheart through half-open lids, "And why do you say that?"
"Your insides actually held up. I was prepared to hear that pretty blonde shriek up a storm when all your organs burst." The healer approached the bed with her wand pointed towards her patient. "It appears the spells worked."
"W-what!" Morgan spat, fury clouding her mind. "You let my friend in here, even though you believed my organs would spontaneously collapse and begin dissolving again? Do you have any idea how terrified she would have been!"
"Stop mouthing off to me, idiot. It didn't happen, so there's no need to speculate on all the 'what-ifs'. It is a waste of time."
The scowled remained carved in Morgan's features.
"It was a good test," Banheart said with an air of finality. "And now that we've found the correct spells to slow down your illness, the only thing left to do is give you some potions. A couple of muscle-mass potions, strengthening mixes, and the likes should keep you in working order."
"Should," Morgan scoffed.
Banheart cuffed the side of her head. "One would think you'd show some more respect, considering I'm going to work well into the night to ensure you're ready to see that boy in a day's time."
Morgan stiffened. Then, she groaned. "What in the hell am I going to say to him?"
Banheart shrugged. "Be yourself."
"He's going to kill me."
"Why?"
"We didn't part on very good terms." And that was putting it lightly. She'd been furious at him for letting her get tortured. He'd been pissed about her dismissing what he'd done to save her life.
Morgan was still a bit sketchy about his anger. Sure, it was easy to see his point after her fury ebbed away. Tom had tried to save her on the bridge, prevented Matthew from killing her, and had seen to her injuries. And okay, maybe he could have a viable reason for letting Matthew torture her for a few minutes. That all made sense. What didn't make sense was why he was mad. Who cared if she decided he wasn't good for her? Who cared if she tried to stomp out her romantic feelings for him?
Why did Tom care if she left?
She was bitterly confused, and filled with further unease about their impending meeting. She wouldn't die without letting him know her feelings, but at the same time, she felt an immeasurable amount of apprehension about what would follow her confession.
"You could start over," Banheart suggested.
Impossible. Maybe she could put the past behind her, but Riddle would do no such thing. His pride wouldn't allow it.
"No," she muttered, "not start over. I'll just do what I do best—wing it!"
Morgan pondered her familiar plan while Banheart summoned a handful of potions. "You'll have to drink all of these tomorrow morning. It will give you the strength you need. I'll impart upon you a bag filled with potions for the following two days as well, but bear in mind that their effectiveness will dwindle as time passes."
Nodding carelessly, Morgan was attacked by another harrowing thought. "Oh no," she cried unhappily, "what the fuck am I going to wear?"
December 30, 1943—Day One
Morgan saw him on accident.
She'd been pacing the streets of Diagon Alley, relishing the way her limbs brought her from Point A to Point B without tremors, when she spied the hunched-over figure of Tom Riddle. It was hard to tell under all the layers he wore, but the mop of dark hair was a dead giveaway.
He was sitting on a bench in one of the small parks, scuffing his shoe back and forth along the pavement. His fine hands were stuffed inside the pockets of his jacket, and Morgan could tell the cool afternoon air was catching up with him, for the tips of his ears were bright red.
There wasn't park amidst the cobbled streets of the Diagon Alley in her time, so Morgan was left to wonder at the beauty the outdoor getaway held when it wasn't hidden under a thick layer of snow. Lifeless trees served as constant companies, close enough on both sides of the narrow and winding pathway for her to reach out and touch. She imagined their canopies would cast cool shadows during the summer, and nibbled her lip when she remembered it was a sight she would never see.
Taking a seat at the opposite end of the bench, Morgan burrowed further in her coat and shot Tom curious glances from the corner of her eyes. A scarf was wrapped around the bottom half of his face, but Morgan didn't have to see the small frown that undoubtedly abused his lips to know he was deep in thought. His bent head and jittering leg were good enough indicators.
He looked…unwell. Usually immaculate, his dark hair was in disarray. Large chunks of his locks defied gravity, sticking upwards and outwards at unusual angles. Morgan personally thought it made him look badass, but knew that wasn't the consensual conclusion of others who lived in this time. From someone else's perspective, he probably looked like a crazy person.
How could Morgan ever convey that in the future, people spent copious amounts of time trying to get their hair to look as messy as possible? It was a lost cause, and as such, it meant that Morgan was the only one who found Riddle good enough to eat.
The silence continued. Either Tom hadn't noticed her, or thought her beneath acknowledging. The former was more likely, and it made her the slightest bit angry.
"You're gonna get frostbite, you know," she said, trying to broach the gulf of unspoken words and hidden feelings that separated them. "I don't think your poor ears can handle much more neglect."
Nothing. Silent and stoic as ever, Riddle didn't even tilt his head to let her know he was listening. His shoe never stopped the beat it struck against the ground.
What a prick.
She should just leave him outside to freeze. He'd make a great icicle.
Tom sighed, the cloud of vapor billowing from his mouth the only sign of his discontent. He still kept his gaze firmly affixed to some distant point, yet Morgan felt it was as good a greeting as any other.
"Hello to you too," she grumbled, and reached for her wand. "I'll just cast the warming spell then, considering you're being too stubborn and dumb to do it yourself." She lifted her wand and pointed it towards her companion.
In a motion that was far too fast and elegant for her tastes, Tom had his own wand out and digging into the curve of her neck. Her mouth popped open in a small 'o' and Tom finally lifted his gaze to meet hers.
Huge clouts of darkened skin had taken up residence under his eyes, making him look eerily sick. Was her appearance as terrible as his was now, when she was sick? God, she hoped not.
Momentary surprise and uneasiness battled for control in his eyes before he threw up the metaphorical wall. Expression closed off, he cocked his head to the side, slowly withdrew his wand from her neck, and slapped her hand away from his person. "Leah?" he asked curiously.
Pursing her lips, Morgan replied with as much ire as she could work into one word. "Yes."
"Oh," Tom said tonelessly. "I didn't recognize your voice. It doesn't sound like a cat's dying screech anymore."
Morgan's mouth opened and closed repeatedly, like a fish out of water. Of all the words she expected him to say upon their meeting, those were the last. "Uh, is that like some backhanded compliment?"
"No. It is simply the truth." Tom sighed again.
It then occurred to Morgan that she was witnessing an episode of depression from the Tom Riddle, the future Dark Lord and Evil Overlord Of All Things Evil. She took note that he really didn't look well.
She scooted closer. The bench suddenly seemed a hell of a lot longer.
"What are you doing here?" Tom asked, fiddling with his hands in his pockets. His foot resumed its task of wearing down the park pavement.
"You know, the usual," Morgan waved her arm in an exaggerated arc, and not necessarily because it illustrated her point. She was still having a hard time getting used to her returned strength. "I was just walking around when I saw the park, and then I saw you, and then I was like 'Huh, what the hell, let's go say hi!' and then I sat down, and then I tried talking to you, and then—" she realized with a huff that her companion had stopped listening. "Schmuck," she grumbled under her breath.
Morgan slid another inch closer to him. Their knees were almost touching. Tom's eyes had long since returned to the floor. "You know, you really need to help out your poor ears," the appendages had become redder, if that was possible.
Tom Riddle didn't answer, so Morgan took the liberty of raising her wand again. A scathing glare from Tom froze her hand centimeters from his shoulder. "Okay, okay, be that way."
She bit her lip and considered the situation. Tom was definitely in a funk. She wondered why. She also wondered how much longer his ears would last. Morgan decided she rather liked Tom's ears, and before she could speculate on the consequences of her actions (possibly the removal of her poor fingers), she reached her hand forward and cupped the ear closest to her.
Tom stilled immediately, though thankfully didn't start ripping the offending fingers from their sockets. Morgan took this as a good sign, and hesitantly began rubbing the curve of his ear between her warm thumb and pointer-finger. He let out a small hiss of pain.
"Sorry," Morgan mumbled, and she reached her free hand behind his back to relieve his other ear. "You know, we used to do this at the orphanage, because not everyone got hats or ear-muffs for the winter. I remember one time, this short kid named Allen begged me to rub his ears for over an hour when he went to play in the snow. I cuffed him on the side of the head, called him an idiot, and gave him my hat. Brat looked at me like I was crazy, then took off like a bullet before I could change my mind." Morgan bit her lip, wondering why she felt so compelled to relay stupid childhood stories.
"Similar actions occurred at the place of my childhood," Tom replied quietly, not turning to look at her. "But never with me." He let out another breath of pain when she began warming his earlobe. "That hurts."
"I would imagine so."
"It's your fault that it hurts," he said more firmly, and at Morgan's raised brow, continued. "The cold never bothered me before, when I knew nothing of warmth. Now that I know how much it hurts to be without it, I don't think I'll ever be able to stand being cold again."
Morgan thought he was being awfully general and strangely dramatic about a pair of cold ears, but replied nonetheless. "I could always take my hands back."
He leaned closer, tipping his head into her touch. "No," he mumbled.
Morgan sighed, expelling her exasperation into the cool air. "Come on, you goof," she said, "You need hot chocolate."
Tom didn't resist as she gently tugged him to his feet, and he grabbed at her retreating hands quickly. He gripped them tight before releasing her and allowing a few inches of space to expand between their bodies. Morgan wasn't sure what to make of the strange behavior.
"What were you so lost in thought about, I wonder," Morgan mused aloud, matching Tom's pace.
"I was thinking about why I cannot seem to think properly," came the enigmatic reply.
Morgan scowled. "No need to make sense, or anything," she grumbled darkly, finally dragging her companion to a stop outside a nice café. "This looks good, right?"
Tom was too preoccupied with his reflection to answer. He groaned, patting at his hair in slight dismay.
Morgan almost giggled at the vain display. "Yeah, you look like shit."
He glared at her in response, but before he could retort, she was pushing him through the doors. The inside of the shop was homely, with small and creaky wooden tables lining the wall. Opposite of them, a large counter stretched from the front of the store to the back. An aging witch lounged behind the cash register, a smile stretching her face when she spied her first customers of the day.
"What can I get you?"
"Two hot chocolates," Morgan answered with a bright smile, "extra marshmallows—we've got some cheering up to do!" She thrust over the Wizarding currency, nodding in understanding when the witch said their order would be brought to them shortly.
Morgan led Tom to the table in the back, and furrowed her brow in concern when he melted into the chair. "When's the last time you slept?" she demanded.
"A few days ago."
"Jeesh, Tom, I leave for a week and you fall apart," Morgan teased.
Tom's dark eyes searched Morgan's with a startling intensity. "Hmm," he remarked, revealing absolutely nothing.
The witch sitting across from him glared, but was saved from replying when two steaming mugs floated onto the table, separating them. Each cup was atrociously big, a mountain of marshmallows nearly tumbling from its sides. Morgan eyes grew wide in delight, and she unceremoniously devoured the treat with flourish.
Tom followed her example at a much more subdued pace.
All was silent, save for the occasional slurping sound (Morgan was at fault for this), and soon both patrons found that their mugs did not hold all the answers in the world, and were therefore forced to return their gazes to each other.
"Why are you here?" Tom asked.
"This question feels familiar."
"Not as in 'why are you in this shop,' but as in 'why are you with me'?"
"Oh," that inquiry made much more sense.
"Last time we spoke, you said you wanted nothing to do with me. I expected you to follow-up on that statement and stay away." He was studying her intently, and the back of her neck began to burn.
This was happening too fast. She didn't want to spill her guts to him over a cup of hot chocolate—that hardly did her feelings justice. But she couldn't avoid answering the question. She decided to put her brilliant skills of misdirection to work…again. "I was just angry," she muttered, "You've been pissing me off lately."
"Yes, I figured that out."
"Yeah, yeah," she growled at his sarcastic remark. "You know I was mad, but I bet you don't know why I was mad."
Tom fingered his wand in his pocket before casting a silencing charm. "Let me guess," he said once he knew their words would be between them and them alone. "You are angry because I manipulated you into helping me and watched while one of Grindelwald's henchmen tortured you to near-death."
"Good guess, but wrong." Morgan enjoyed the slight widening of his eyes, and trudged on. "I've been manipulated before," she thought of Snape and Dumbledore, "and I've been through torture that was far worse, and lasted for much longer than what Matthew did to me," she thought of the Death Eaters at Hogwarts and of Lord Voldemort himself. "That wasn't why I was mad. I was mad because you don't want to be friends."
Tom choked on his drink and coughed a few times before he was able to answer. "W-what!"
"You heard me. I'm mad because you don't want to be my friend, even though I want to be yours, and even though I actually thought we were friends at one point."
"You are being slightly more ridiculous than usual," Tom wheezed, "Where did you get that idea from?"
"Well," Morgan began ticking the reasons off on her fingers, "when you're friends with someone, you know you don't have to manipulate them. You can trust your friend to do you a favor, even if you don't explain why the favor needs to be done. You manipulated me to get me to distract Matthew. I know your plans are all hush-hush, and that's fine with me. You could have just told me what needed to be done, without revealing the grand scheme you plotted."
She waited patiently for him to absorb that before continuing. "Secondly, you watched me get tortured. Friends protect each other; they don't let each other get hurt by crazy people in ugly cloaks. Oh, and I've just thought of another reason. You deceived me. Friends don't deceive each other. You should have just told me that you were disguised as Anthony, or given me a sign, or something.
"Anyways, it was from all of this that I concluded you didn't think of me as a friend, but instead as another mindless follower, which is an insult in itself. I really want to be friends with you, and you have no idea how much it hurts when an extended friendship gets thrown in your face.
"So that's why I said those mean things to you. I was very angry, and needed to vent my feelings, and more importantly, wanted to end our fake friendship on my terms, before you could do it. I didn't think my dignity could survive you explaining to me that I meant nothing." She shrugged good-naturedly.
"But if you thought all of those misconstrued notions were true, why did you find me again?"
"Because I decided that even if I wasn't your friend, you were still mine, and I enjoy your company and I care about you."
Waiting expectantly, Morgan watched Tom, trying to will him into responding. When the silence lasted for more than five minutes, and he still hadn't replied, she began to worry.
Tom broke the monotony of the moment when he stared at a point above her shoulder and rubbed at his head roughly. "I'm tired," he declared. "I'm going to sleep."
Morgan gaped at him, unable to form a coherent sentence as he abruptly stood from the table and stalked out the door. "You've got to be kidding me," she worried her bottom lip between her teeth, "if this is how he reacts to me wanting to be his friend, what will he say when I tell him I want to jump his bones!"
She let out a pained-sounding grunt and dropped her head on the table. A few moments later, when she felt she'd graciously collected herself, she went after him. She caught up to him before he closed the door to his room at the Leaky Cauldron, and tsked in disapproval when he didn't even notice her slip inside.
Tom went straight to his bed and dropped on it without any preamble. Morgan continued to worry from afar. Something was not right, and it went beyond depression. Cautiously, she approached his sprawled body, her eyes drawn to the hand that was still stuck inside his coat pocket.
Carefully, she tried pulling it out. She met little resistance, and soon detangled his arm from all the cloth.
"Goddamn it," she said worriedly, "you are such an idiot Tom!"
His hand was locked tight around a pulsing pendant hanging from a gold chain. It had to be the Founders Necklace, for nothing else could be that powerful. Morgan bit back a gag when she tried peeling his fingers away from the artifact and found the gem seared into his palm. The skin of his hand was bubbly and blistered, burned from the magic the Founders created.
"Assholes," Morgan cursed them darkly. She had to get it away from Tom. It was quite obvious that the waves of raw magic were doing nothing good for his health. But she herself was loath to touch the thing. It felt wrong, and the power pouring from it felt tainted.
She peeled her coat from her fingers, using it as a fabric barrier. Blessedly covered, she gently grabbed at the gold-encrusted jewel. Its magic was seated deep inside Tom, and Morgan had to put as much force as she could behind her arm to rip it from him. It came away in a flurry of blood and skin, and Morgan had to close her eyes to prevent herself from throwing up.
Tom groaned in pain while the blood began pouring profusely from his injured hand. Scowling, Morgan flung the necklace across the floor and reached inside the enchanted pockets of her jacket. Despite their small appearance, they held an abundance of items. Morgan retrieved a small flask of strong alcohol (your last resort pain reliever, Banheart had said) and poured it on Tom's hand.
He thrashed weakly, and his wound bubbled grossly. Taking out some bandages, Morgan cleaned the wound before dressing it snuggly. Only when she was satisfied that she could do no more for the injury, did she move onto her other problems.
Tom was sweating, and his skin felt slightly feverish. Groaning and swearing under her breath, she pulled off almost all of his thick layers, until he was bare-chested and clad in only trousers. She preformed a transfiguration spell, and changed the thick material of the pants to an airy and cotton cloth. Next, she cleaned the blood from the bed, and settled her unconscious companion against the pillows. Once that was done, she turned her attention to the source of her problems.
The Founders Necklace.
A voice in the back of her whispered that it was the best time to steal the thing, and finally complete the mission. Another voice, a louder one, despaired at the thought of being separated from Tom when she only had so much time left with him.
In the end, she tossed her jacket over the forgotten gem on the floor and summoned a comfy arm chair. She did something she couldn't afford to do—she waited.
Phantom fingers fought to hold him tight, to bring him under a pool of darkness. Flashes of scenes, blurry and vague like half-forgotten dreams, teased his other senses. A light scent of citrus, a brush of rough skin over skin, a smooth soprano voice, the taste of chocolate—they all came together to illustrate a beautiful and far too realistic hallucination.
It seemed no matter what he did, he could not escape Leah.
Coarse sheets chafed along his chest, and Tom wondered if the Founders Necklace was screwing with his head again. Reality and fantasy had become impossible to differentiate between. He was losing himself to madness.
Leah had left him, her last words striking deeper than anything he'd ever experienced before. Listlessness and anxiety had grasped him around the middle, because Leah was gone and he was alone, and how silly was it that he had never noticed much that hurt.
Nothing drew his thoughts from her and nothing kept the loneliness at bay, for it was an enemy he had no experience fighting. The hours turned to days. He kept track of every single miserable second, because the clocks were no longer keeping time. For him, they were counting down the moments before he would wipe Leah's memory for good. She'd be lost to him then.
But, as he'd already determined sometime ago, there was no other way. He refused to bend, to be molded to the whims of a single witch. His principles would change for no one, not even himself.
Sadness and regret were two emotions Tom had never done well with. They made his stomach feel two times bigger, filled to the brim with molten hot metal that coursed through his veins. Anger was so much better—familiar, cold, small.
So he became angry, and with no one else to blame for his predicament, he became angry at himself. When had he gotten so weak? So terribly weak that even a simple girl could disrupt his thoughts. It was unacceptable. He couldn't even focus on experimenting with the Founders Necklace!
The torrent of emotion made him careless and the necklace all the more powerful. He allowed its magic to lure him in, unable to bear the whispers of stability when his life was suddenly anything but.
The necklace had taken a hold of him and refused to release its grip. The road to madness was surprisingly smooth, and filled with pleasant hallucinations. It was much better than dealing with the fact that he, the great heir of Slytherin, was useless in the absence of some girl.
At this thought, he speculated that the Founders Necklace was losing its touch, because surely if one was able acknowledge they had been going mad, they were not as far gone as they believed.
All in all, his thoughts disgruntled him. They did nothing but remind him how utterly far he had fallen. Driving himself to insanity because he couldn't deal with the fact that his hormones had caught up with him? He banged his head into his pillow. Whatever sanity he lost had most definitely been returned to him. And though hallucinating of Leah had been nice, had driven all other problems from his mind, he was quite grateful.
Tom Riddle had been alone before. He never minded it, but then Leah made him want. Days after he accepted it, she dashed any hope he had of keeping her. It hurt. But just as he'd been alone before, he'd been hurt before, he would get over it. He had to get over it.
Easy in theory. Hard in practice.
If only he could go back to that nice hallucination for a few moments longer—the one where Leah brushed her hands against him, said she didn't hate him for his transgressions, said she accepted him, said he was…a goof? Oh yes, that was quite like her. Tom groaned into his pillow.
"Shut up. I'm trying to sleep."
He groaned once more, this time in pain, as his arms smacked into the side of the dresser in their quest for his wand. In that moment, he changed his mind, he hadn't regained his sanity.
"Stop being a baby." There was a shuffle of footsteps, hands pulling at the blankets tangled around his waist. He didn't dare lift his head.
"Another one?" he grumbled. He'd been so sure this was real, too.
"Another what?" the voice, much smoother than he ever remembered, asked suspiciously.
"Hallucination."
He was promptly cuffed on the side of the head. The force of the blow left his ears ringing. "For someone who's supposed to be smart, you're acting like a dumbass."
Head finally hovering over the pillow, he cracked an eye open. There she was; hair distinctly mussed, her blue eyes searing holes through his skull. "Leah?"
"Expecting other female company?" she teased in reply.
"Hmm," he mumbled unintelligibly, as his stare quickly skittered around the rest of the room. There was a big arm chair that hadn't been there before in one corner, and a coat on the floor, but besides that, things seemed to be in working order. He brought his attention back to Leah.
Concern had dashed away the mirth in her gaze, and she very hesitantly felt his forehead, ruffling his hair in the process. She bit her lip, "You had a fever. I'm terrible with magic, you know that. I definitely wasn't going to try messing with your body temperature. So I did as the Muggles do. It appears to have worked, but…"
"But what?" he asked, happy to let the hallucination play out. Her hand was burning feeling back into his skin.
"But you're being very strange. Hallucinations? Get a grip. No imagination can do me justice," lips stretched tight in a humorless grin. She kept her hand where it was. "Can't you feel this?" she said softly. "Can't you see I'm real?"
No. He could not. It was too good to be true. He pressed his head further into her touch to prolong the contact.
Leah sighed. "Oh dear, the necklace sure did a number on you."
Now that was new. In all of his other hallucinations, the Founders Necklace was never mentioned. It was almost as if it didn't exist. Maybe…
Leah removed her hand, rising from her kneeled position and rocking back on her heels. "We're quite the pair, aren't we? Getting beaten up, having some stupid magic fuck with our minds. But, we have each other. You took care of me, and now I took care of you."
Tom struggled to sit up, slightly shocked when two extra arms aided him in the effort. He was physically weakened and sore, more so than he was comfortable with. It was another new aspect to his hallucinations.
"Hey, look at me," the same hands that helped him were now lightly slapping at his cheeks. "I know what the Founders Necklace was doing to you. I saw you in the park; you looked like a dead man walking. You were disorientated, had bags under your eyes, spewed nonsense, all the signs were there. And then you walked out on me and I followed you back here to see you passed out. One hand was still in your pocket. I pulled it out and found the pendant burned into the skin of your palm. The wound is still there. That should be all the proof you need."
Tom lifted his hands in front of him, marveling at the fact that there was, indeed, a bandage wrapped around his left one. It stung with a dull ache, and for a long moment, he allowed himself to believe she was really there.
"Do you believe me now, idiot?"
"I am not an idiot."
"You're acting like one," she said, but she was smiling.
"This feels real, but so do all hallucinations."
"Well, shit, what do you want me to do to make you see that I'm really here?"
"Give me your arm."
Leah was weary, and Tom supposed she had a reason to be. Her mark had never given her pleasure, but nonetheless, she offered the expanse of her forearm to him.
The long and pale fingers of his good hand wrapped around the snake dancing through the skull. The skin underneath his grip sizzled, the sensation tickling him. He had never been able to recreate that feeling in the hallucinations. This was real.
With a quickness that bellied his sore appearance, Tom reached forward and fisted Leah's shirt. He flipped her over and onto the bed beside him, rolling to hover above her while his teeth ripped through the bandages confining his hand. The wound was ugly, the skin torn, burned. A muffled healing spell fixed that soon enough, and then he used both hands to leverage himself.
Leah sputtered at him indignantly, her teeth chattering as anger and fear battled in her eyes. "W-what are you doing?"
Intensity unlike any he'd ever felt settled in his stomach. Leah was there. She was real, and that meant the half-remembered conversation in the café was real as well. What had she said then? 'I care about you.'
And even better yet, she had come back. The tortured countdown until he wiped her memory clean was terminated. As long as she stayed where she was now, with him, then he wouldn't dare mess with that head of hers. No one would.
Bare legs grappled with his through the thin pants he wore. It was electrifying, almost as addicting as the way her hair tickled his chest. Her eyes were wide, and he wanted to reassure her, but couldn't. Not yet.
"Leah Hume, with whom do your loyalties lie?"
She sneered in response, jerking her head to the tattoo marked upon her arm. "I think you know exactly where they lie."
"No," he corrected her gently, leaning all his weight on one elbow so he could free a hand. He peeled her hair from her forehead. "Not who you're forced to be loyal to. I want to know who you choose to be loyal to."
She was confused. "What are you talking about?" Her detached tone tampered into a soft and exhausted sigh, her pink lips pursed together. "Perhaps this conversation is better fit for another place?"
Tom gave her that boyish grin he knew she couldn't resist. "I rather like the bed," he murmured, instincts driving him to lower his head into her neck. She flushed beneath him and squirmed.
She could fidget all she wanted; he wasn't going to let her go. Not now, when hope squeezed his heart into a stutter. He wanted her more than anything. But he wanted all of her, and for some reason his mind kept drawing back to the cavern, when she had been prepared to die.
Who had she been protecting that was worth her life? Because that was who had her loyalty.
He refused to be second to anyone. He would get everything she had to give, or none of it. Whoever the person was, he'd replace them. She may deny him now, may push him away and cling to others, but that only meant he had work to do. Tom swore he wouldn't be the only one to suffer ridiculous dependency in their dynamic.
The hot breath on her neck caused Leah to shudder. "You didn't answer to question," Tom said into her skin.
It took a few breathless gasps before she could gather the air required to ask him for clarification.
"Who sent you to the cave," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Who were you stealing the necklace for and who were you protecting from Grindelwald."
She gave a slight gasp when he put his lips to the juncture where jaw met neck. "I-I can't think when you—oh!" her back arched lightly and a free arm locked around the back of his head. His lips quirked upwards when their bodies were pulled flush against each other, before Leah suddenly jabbed her hip into his.
The action caused them to switch positions. Straddling him now, she put a finger to her lips. "You know, I certainly didn't think this would happen when you woke up—getting questioned and felt up at the same." Her thighs squeezed his hips and heat gathered between them.
"You aren't enjoying it?" he asked through dark eyes.
Hands trailed along her calf, all the way up to the hem of her skirt. They slipped under, grasping her thighs, fingers kneading her skin.
Tom noticed when he lost her. Blue eyes dimmed, no longer hooded, and she turned her head to the left. Her voice was harsher, "Riddle, why are you asking me this?"
"Why do you think?"
The breath left her in a swooping sigh and her finger jammed into his chest. "That's an easy one. You're trying to exploit my attraction to interrogate me." The force behind her repeated jabs lessened. Her shoulders slumped. "You know, I thought I was okay with that, but I think I'm not. Of all the things I've lost and of all the things I've yet to lose, I think I want to keep my pride. Man, I'm starting to sound like Ginny."
Tom thought as much. Manipulating her to get the information he needed certainly fit his profile. But not this time, and he was getting rather tired of stalling the inevitable. He allowed her to keep a lot of secrets, but her feelings will not remain hidden from him.
"Anyways, I meant what I said when we had hot chocolate—you're still my friend, and I won't stop caring about you, but I refuse to give this part of myself up for…for information. Shit, that would make me a whore, wouldn't it?" Leah huffed and began pulling herself away. She would have succeeded, had Tom not kept her anchored to him.
"Does that mean you won't answer my questions?" he wondered, curious.
Twisting her legs and giving him a stern glare, she said, "I'll still answer them. You're not going to be happy with the answer, and I'll probably be mortified, but hey, what else is new?"
Her response earned a smirk from Tom, "By all means then, tell me."
"You."
"Hmm?" he said absently, his fingers still dancing across her skin. "Me what?"
Interestingly enough, her cheeks colored red. "The answer to your question, you prat. You wanted to know who I went to the cave for, who I was protecting—you!"
He flipped her instantly, crushing her between the mattress and his body. "Impossible," he said, his tone shades darker and infinitely more dangerous. "You are lying."
Leah scowled, despite their closeness and the tension. "I wish."
"The consequences of lying to me now would be very great Leah," Tom warned, the threat lingering behind his words.
Through the streaks of fading sunlight slipping through the window, she smiled bitterly. "Let me show you."
Well. She was letting him go through her head again. How wonderful. Showing her most intimate thoughts to a prick who'd been trying to seduce the answers from her.
Thank Merlin she got a hold of herself. She really did care for him, more than what was healthy for her, but she at least would die with her body's dignity intact!
Morgan hadn't wanted to tell him like this, though. In her head, things had gone differently. They walked through a park while she whispered her thoughts against the wind. He leaned to hear her more closely, and she jumped him, kissing him senseless for a few precious moments before he could extract himself from her grasp and murder her.
Ah. True love.
She shouldn't have been surprised. Things never went the way they were supposed to around Tom Marvolo Riddle, so of course he was digging through her head.
Morgan wasn't giving him much—mostly flashes of emotions as opposed to actual memories.
The fingers of his probing mind dug through each offered item with a ruthless precision as he took everything she offered.
She showed him the scene inside the Room of Requirement, when he'd began kissing her. She forced him to feel as torn as she had then—how she ached to return his touch, yet felt honor-bound to James.
Next, she gave him the epiphany she had one early Monday morning in November: 'He's not bad, underneath it all. Okay, maybe he is a murdering bastard, but to me, he's not bad.'
Then, she relived the hurricane of negative emotions that had hung over her like a cloud. Morgan thrust every angry, sad, desperate thought she had about his deceptions upon him.
The best parts came next, though. When she stood in front of the blue brick, finally admitting that things had stopped revolving around her mission and what was safe. Instead, she was drawn to him, and didn't that just suck for her life-expectancy?
Her irrefutable conclusion after she had been caught by Matthew came next. She wouldn't tell them about Tom. She was adamant, and no pain could change that, because pain was something she could endure. Losing him was not.
Ah ha, the final thought. The last words she thought she would ever mull over in her head. They hadn't been about the mission, or Dumbledore, or her non-existent family. No, instead they'd been: 'I can't believe I'm dying for that stupid prick.'
And that was it.
Morgan pushed against his invading mind, satisfied when he withdrew quickly. When her eyes refocused, Tom was giving her that unfathomable stare—the one that pierced through her soul, and man, were his eyes dark!
Sighing, she indulged herself in one last touch. It was innocent, a simple patting of his cheek and a small smile, because he was beautiful, and the only thing she could ever bring herself to regret was her lack of time.
"Tom Riddle," she said, "I knew you were a murdering asshole even before I laid eyes on you, and I hated you for it. It was just my luck that the attractive one was a jerk!" She held his gaze steady, "But then I spent time with you, noticed things about you. Like your insulting sense of humor, and the small considerate things you do, like not letting me die.
"You have everyone at Hogwarts kissing the ground you walk on. They think you're handsome and intelligent and kind, and they worship you for it. They love what you hide behind. But not me, I know who you really are. You're angry and passionate and hateful and manipulative and afraid. There's more to you than anyone sees, and for some ungodly reason, I actually like you for it. Not for what you pretend to be, but for what you truly are.
"I just wanted to let you know," Morgan said steadily, her heart in her throat, "that there was one person who cared about you, murdering tendencies aside." The wry grin stretched one corner of her mouth up. "Right, you can kick me out of your room now, and get that restraining order you're no doubt itching to sign."
Legs gently tried to buck Tom's away as Morgan went to shimmy off the bed. It took her merely a second to realize the heir of Slytherin had no intention of letting her go anywhere.
He'd been silent throughout her tirade, his eyes burning her to the core. He continued to stare, his lips pressed tightly together and his body tensed. Finally, he said, "This better not be a damned dream," and then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss set her nerves on fire, and somehow her hands hand tangled in his hair and her legs around his waist. Tongues, teeth, and lips fought. Hands, legs, and chests collided. It was rough, nowhere near gentle, and it was all she could have ever hoped for.
Had she been ready to deny him, moments ago?
Surely not! Not when his lips drew to her neck and his fingers ripped the buttons of her shirt away. Not when her own limbs reached to destroy the barriers holding them back. Pesky clothes.
She gasped and moaned and twisted. He bit and soothed and grabbed.
It was the collision of two wills that were still learning to give and take, and the result was a fumbling tangle of bodies and feelings and heat—delicious heat that branded every touch forever in her skin.
Then, he was inside her. Stretching, tearing, burning—it simply hurt. But pain was familiar, and pain could be waited out. It had to be waited out. Because this night was hers, and nothing was going to tarnish the way his hands felt on her skin, or the way his tongue kissed circles around her heart.
So she stilled, resisting the urge to cry out in pain when the slightest shift tore at her. Instead, she froze beneath his gaze, nails digging into his shoulders, forcing a strained grin to warp her features. "Are you sure you're doing this right?"
He muffled a groan into her shoulder and bit at her ear. "Insulting as ever," he murmured huskily, hand tightening around her waist, easing her forward, moving inside her.
She grasped him close, melting when he ran his hand along her spine, gasping when he pulled her leg higher over his waist. Slowly, the fire began anew in her veins, and had there ever been pain to begin with?
They moved together. Jerky, awkward, new; the sensations grew, devouring them with growing strength and leaving them breathless.
And when it was all said and done, when the panting breaths had died into the night air and the sweat clung to them like a second blanket, it was then the doubts crawled into her mind, the regret and the guilt.
It was also when arms circled around her middle, chasing the fears away with a single whisper in her ear. "Mine," Tom breathed, the newly risen moon reflecting in his eyes.
The word meant something different this time around, so she twisted in his arms and kissed the hollow of his neck, the one spot she learned drove him crazy, and whispered, "Mine," right back.
And neither could ever remember feeling so content.
A/N 2: In case anyone didn't get it-yes, penis was inserted into vagina. I think it's about time, don't you? Oh, and because I have a feeling someone is going to complain that it happened too fast, I'll just point out a few things.
1. Morgan believes she will die in two days time. She doesn't exactly have the luxury to do things properly via dates, first kisses, foreplay, etc, etc.
2. Tom is, well, Tom. He takes what he wants. Dur.
Moving on. I'm also going to assume someone will point out me alternating uses of the term "blond" and "blonde". I'm just going to point out that they are two different terms. "Blonde" is an adjective to describe a female with light hair. "Blond" describes the hair itself. So there, throwing that in, just in case.
Yeah. I think I'm done now. Hope y'all enjoyed. Until next time.