A/N: Wow. So this is late-by like four months. Whoops. But what can I say? Junior year is SUCKING. THE. LIFE. OUT. OF. ME. I can't promise that updates will be more regular, only that this story WILL BE FINISHED. So stick with me, if you will. I appreciated all the awesome reviews, and also the kick in the butt my best friend Hannah gave me. Without her, this chapter would still only be 2/3rds of the way done.
Hope you guys enjoy! And don't forget to drop a review to let me know what you think :)
Chapter Twenty-Three: Three Last Days—Part Two
December 31, 1943—Day Two
Morgan felt the hefty weight of the water soothe her aching muscles. The torrent of heat seared riveting paths down the planes of her neck and back, sometimes wandering over the curve of her chest. The steam made it hard to breathe, lent a drowsy air to the peach-tiled bath, and condensed in the empty bottles resting on the other side of the shower curtain.
Exertion pulled at the young witch's limbs, which shook every so often. The tremors were a constant reminder that death would not be delayed forever.
'How unfortunate,' Morgan mused, a slight smile softening the stiff guardedness she had adopted over the past few days of pain. Face upturned to catch the water across closed eyelids and delicate cheeks; she shuddered with the memory of aching touches, hot breath, and cool sheets.
When the stuffiness in the small room became too much for her small body to bear, Morgan capped the shower off and reached for a nearby towel. The terrycloth scratched irritably at her skin, and swallowed her so completely that momentary disgust flashed through her mind. 'So skinny,' she grouched.
She swiped a hand over the bathroom's foggy mirror, perhaps to get some sick masochistic enjoyment at the sight of her deteriorating body. When it became possible to make out the reflection studying her, Morgan nearly didn't recognize it. Thin cheeks, dull hair, bony arms, disgusting collar bone, prominent shoulder blades…who was this pathetic creature? She didn't look deserving of living; rather, she looked five minutes from death.
Life was not meant to be lived in such a state.
The eyes were unrecognizable, too. They were distant, miles away. Their spontaneity was absent, as death was deserving of thoughtfulness. There was no hate, either. Her brow was abnormally smooth, and when had she started looking so old?
Morgan turned away from the stranger and drifted onto the closed toilet seat. Beads of water danced down her twig like legs, gathering between her toes and melding with the cool tile floor. Gaze to the wall, Morgan tapped her chin with a single finger, allowing her mind to wander to the boy on the other side of the door.
Tom Riddle had been aggressive last night, taking from her with fervor she found hard to keep pace with. The quick neediness had breathed life and passion into her, so she found it hard to complain about the too-harsh bite marks upon her pale flesh. To have someone fill your mind so completely, to cast out all thoughts but of how they smelled and felt against you…it was heaven.
She could remember the feel of his chest under her lips, the breathless quality of her voice when she spoke, accentuating each kind word with a frantic kiss.
Reality was so much harder to face after that. When waking up in the morning, the difference between then and now was blaringly obvious. Then was heat and security and promises for tomorrow. Now was empty and cold and too real for Morgan's tastes. The rising sun had found her alone in bed, with Tom sitting at a newly acquired desk, his back to her. Very few words passed between them as she tip-toed to the bathroom.
Worry chilled her veins. Was the coldness a result of Tom's displeasure? Had last night been bad for him? Had she been…bad at it? Morgan twisted her bottom lip between her teeth, a growing ire building in her chest. How dare he treat her so dismissively when she had only days left to live!
A reckless curiosity and the desire to forget inevitable death spurred Morgan to her feet, the towel clenched in tight fists. She thrust the door open and stepped into the hotel room, fully intent on expressing her current displeasure.
"Why are you ignoring me? Was the sex that bad or—"
The sight of Tom talking to a blond man with slicked back hair and a two-piece suit brought her up short. She floundered for words, heat flooding her features as she choked on unspoken thoughts. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Both men had turned to her out of politeness, and the blond man raised a bemused brow in Tom's direction.
"Fuck." Heart pounding, Morgan pivoted sharply and fled back to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She sank to the floor soon after, and smacked her head backwards against the wood repeatedly.
There was the sound of footsteps leaving the room, then of a door closing, and finally of someone approaching the bathroom.
"Leah?" Tom called for her, a kind of lazy calm coating his dry tone.
"Go away," Morgan whined. "I'm too busy trying to decapitate myself." She abused her head on the door again, for emphasis.
A snort. "Open the door."
"Go away."
She could hear Tom lean heavily against the wall while his knuckles slid along the wood. "Leah?" his tone dropped several octaves, "is something the matter?"
Morgan snorted, embarrassment keeping her cheeks aflame.
She heard Tom's hand reach the doorknob. "You know," he murmured slyly, "last night wasn't bad. Not at all. In fact, I think I'd like to show you just how much I appreciated it."
The young witch smirked at his boldness, but couldn't allow herself to forget the cold shoulder she'd been subjected to. "You have a funny way of showing it."
"I apologize for ignoring you. I was distracted this morning." He jiggled the handle.
"Is that because today's your birthday? Or does it have something to do with that mindless minion of yours that just stopped by?" Morgan heard a sharp intake of breath following her questions, and wondered when Tom would stop being surprised by the fact that she simply…knew stuff.
Grinning slightly, she rose to her feet and popped open the door, so that she could lean on its frame with one hip. "So what were you and that grease-ball talking about?"
Turning to lean against the opposite side of the frame, Tom appraised her. "Nothing to concern yourself with." He reached over and ran his long fingers through the wet hair bunched along her shoulders. He traced her cheeks and jaw before outlining her shadowed eyes. "You're looking thinner today, and paler. Are you feeling sick?"
Touched by the concern in his voice, Morgan shook her head. She gripped his hand to her face and willingly stepped to him, caged in by the arms that rose to meet her. The terrycloth towel fell to the ground, forgotten.
Content was a strange and foreign emotion. It bubbled under his fingertips and sparked up and down his skin. It didn't burn or cool, but rather built solidly in his veins, so that it was almost tangible.
The source of his content curled tightly against his side, the sheets pooling near the dip of her waist. He ran a single finger up the arching bones of her spine, grinned at the shiver that followed his ministrations, and sighed when he felt her clutch at him all the more desperately.
Her arms hugged him close, her nose tickled his neck, and her toes curled near his calves. Tom swamped Leah's tiny body in a way that was almost frightening. When he lifted her limp hand to his face, made her thumb brush across his cheeks, he frowned at the lightness of the touch. She was like a bird with hollow bones, and while the delicateness of her frame gave him something to protect, it made her more breakable.
Those feelings had softened his affections earlier, when he had backed her towards the bed and fell into her arms. There had been the aching thought in his mind that if he pressed too hard, bit too roughly, or moved too fast, that she would shatter beneath him.
The activity had drained her and her sleepiness made him suspicious. Hadn't she been cured of her ailments? Last night she was fine, and at school she had certainly been different—a tight ball of energy that could hardly settle for rest. The stillness was…worrying.
It was easy to admit, now, that he needed Leah to some extent. To have her love him…it felt too good to ever give up. She stared deep into the sin of his fractured soul and loved him all the more. Never before had anyone done so. They all threw themselves at his feet for the charming, albeit, quiet and brilliant boy. They never knew the monster.
Tom's thumb smoothed over her closed eyes, and lashes fluttered in response. "Hmm?" Leah murmured, stirred awake.
"Hello, Leah."
"Shut up and go to sleep," she begged in response, smothering a yawn into her pillow.
"Sleep? It happens to be past noon."
"Your point?"
"Stop being lazy."
Cool blue eyes studied him through narrowed lids. "That's not nice to say to the girl you just spent an hour or so ravishing."
"This girl should know how impatient I can be. Wake up."
Leah grumbled nonsense mockery under her breath before acquiescing to his wishes and sitting up. She clutched the sheet to her chest with one hand while the other mussed through her tangled hair. Tom found the sight endearing in a way he would never admit, and instead said, "What a wonderful birthday present."
The mention of his birthday dashed the last traces of drowsiness from her features. A small furrow distorted her smooth brow, and Tom just knew he was about to suffer some form of interrogation or another.
"Why don't you enjoy your birthday?"
He sighed. "My birthday doesn't bother me."
"Yes it does."
"And if it does? Why should I tell you?"
"Because if you don't, I won't kiss you." To illustrate the threat, she clawed her way past the sheets and blanket to the end of the bed, where she reached over the edge and began picking through the pile of clothes littered on the ground.
Tom leaned back, tossing his arms behind his head. He debated, for a moment, whether or not to voice his thoughts on the matter. Feelings weren't something he spent any time talking about, least of all thinking about. Dissecting them was troublesome, and could lead to conclusions he'd hate to stare in the face.
Case in point—admitting that this stupid day bothered him meant that in some way, his disgusting Muggle father had a sick effect on his life. The dark smudge in his heritage shouldn't be worth more than the dirt beneath his feet, and to say that it troubled him meant acknowledging that it was.
Leah shrugged on a sweater that hugged her sides, and was forced to hike the sleeves up to her elbows before beginning the hunt for a skirt. When she found a suitably clean one, she slid it over her tiny legs and pursed her lips. "You…don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," she said slowly. "You're a private guy, I get that. I won't push. I was just curious."
"And why were you curious," Tom asked the ceiling, his voice a smooth, blank slate.
He felt the bed shift and found Leah worming her way into his line of sight. She straddled his torso and leaned over until their noses touched. She kissed him lightly once, twice, three times, before finally speaking again. "I want to know everything about you, Riddle, so sue me." She rolled off him and snagged a summoned brush from the bathroom, tugging it through her hair.
Tom began dressing himself, contemplating her words. "You already seem to know so much about me. Why don't you speculate?"
"Speculate on why your birthday annoys you?"
He nodded, pulling on a shirt and pair of slacks.
"I think it's because you're lonely, to some extent. You've never had a family to celebrate your birthday with, and I bet that it bothers the hell out of you that you actually care."
"Maybe," Tom conceded, begrudgingly admitting that the guess was at least halfway true. "But I'm not alone anymore."
Leah froze in the act of slipping on her shoe, a grimace crossing her features. She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. He filed the expression away to think about later.
"Yeah," Leah spoke, softly. "Not anymore."
They did a lot of walking. Pointless wandering that gave them no more pleasure than to simply being doing something. Leah would always trail a few inches behind him, skipping ahead every once and awhile to peer into this shop or that, resting her hands against the glass and breathing just a little bit heavier. When he would reach her side and ask what had caught her attention, she would grin and peel away instead of answering.
She didn't hold his hand, or make any move to touch him whatsoever. Space was kept between them, no matter how fast they traveled, or where. Tom realized that the distance annoyed him, and even that he found it slightly insulting. When he reached over to grab her flighty fingers, Leah looked nonplussed.
"People will see," she warned, shuffling her foot in the light layer of snow coating the cobblestoned street.
"Does that matter?" Tom asked, holding the door open to the shop where they had gotten hot chocolate yesterday.
"I never took you for a PDA type of guy," Leah admitted. "PDA—Public Display of Affection," she continued when he rose a confused brow.
His smile was small and understated, but it was enough to get Leah to reach over and curl her fingertips hesitantly around his. When they grabbed a small table near the back, dodging around eating patrons, she stared at their hands. "What are we, exactly?" she mused, almost-amusement laced in her words.
Tom studied the messy waves of brown hair curling around her gaunt face, how disproportionately skinny she'd had become, with shoulders seemingly too big for her body. She wasn't pretty anymore, not in any sense of the word, except for maybe her eyes.
Tom Riddle was on his way to becoming something, something no one would be able to ignore. He wasn't a nobody. He refused to be fade with time, he refused to be forgotten. One day soon, people would look up to him, unable to decide whether they feared him or loved him. He was on his way to perfecting the magical race and eradicating the filth that muddled its pure lineage.
So what was this hollow-boned witch to him? A mark against his perfection?
"I'm not sure," he replied steadily. And he wasn't. All he knew was that without her, he was, to some extent, lost. He thought it much more preferable to keep Leah with him, rather than learn how to cope with her away from him. Public image be damned. Besides, no matter how ill she looked, there was still something in those eyes that refused to leave him alone.
He was happy now, or as happy as he could be without manipulating someone or gaining some material possession. Why spend so much time analyzing it?
"Me either," Leah agreed. "I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that you like me, in the sexual way, ya know. I'm still waiting for you to use me and leave me."
The admission was spoken bluntly and without embarrassment, like a statement of fact. Leah tightened her hold on his fingers in the silence, and said, "I don't want you to leave."
"I'm not going to."
Leah grinned at him and ordered two hot chocolates without breaking their gaze. "A girl could get used to this."
Tom thought she better, because this was exactly what he wanted. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and enjoyed the interlude that followed.
"What are you going to do with the necklace?" his companion wondered sometime later, when the cream piled on top of her beverage found its way onto her nose.
Tom shrugged. "I'll keep it. Use it. The circumstances surrounding my attempted manipulation of the necklace were not ideal. I will be prepared to try again, soon."
A storm brewed over Leah's tiny features. "Use it again? Are you that stupid? Just leave it alone, Riddle. It almost killed you."
"Don't patronize me, Leah," he cautioned in return. "I've searched too long, sacrificed too much, to give up on it now." He paused. "It almost killed you, too. In the cave. You nearly died for it. How can you give up on it? There is so much…power, just begging to be tapped into. Who better to learn the secrets of the founders than me?"
Leah mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "egotistical bastard" before dropping the issue. She withdrew her hand from his and took to analyzing the world outside the café.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, watching the darkness in her gaze steal her thoughts from him.
Blue eyes darted in his direction briefly. "You mean besides what a dumbass you are?" she snorted, and plowed on before he could reply. "I'm thinking about what to give you for birthday."
"I've gotten very few birthday gifts throughout the years; I wouldn't worry too much about measuring up against other presents. Regardless, I thought this morning—" his eyes darkened, "was a great gift to begin with."
Leah's cheeks warmed, but the determination in her eyes was not to be taken lightly. "That doesn't count, pervert."
"So what ideas are you considering?"
"I'll let you know when I decide."
They spent a lot of time talking, and a lot of time staying silent. A strange peace surrounded them as the day gave way to evening. Honesty was something neither had come to expect from the other, but it was what they got. There were no ulterior motives, no topics they skirted around in conversation. It was unnaturally pleasant.
Tom didn't find out his birthday gift until the sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon. They had returned to the Leaky Cauldron and sat facing one another on their bed. Leah shuffled a pack of cards with lazy flicks of her wrists, the contemplative look she had adopted in the café coming back with a vengeance. Tom reclined backwards and watched her through the dim lighting, enjoying the lethargic completeness he found in her companionship.
"I think I know what I want to give you for your birthday," she remarked blandly, splitting the deck with a half-smile.
Tom stretched his hand to the ceiling light, admiring the thick ring on his finger. "And?" he prompted, "What's my gift?"
A cautious silence permeated the air. "Uhm, I was going to give you…well, my name, actually."
Tom froze, his fist slowly clenching until his knuckles stood out sharply. "Oh?" he remarked, his tone dangerous.
Leah nodded, dropping her cards in favor of fiddling with the hem of her sweater. "Leah…it isn't my real name."
"You've been lying to me," Tom concluded blandly.
"Yes." She waited, on edge, for his reaction.
There were two ways for Tom to handle the situation, two ways of viewing the current events. On one hand, Leah—no, whatever her name was—had been deceiving him from the very beginning. No matter how many times he had bested her in their fights, she had been a step ahead, always holding a piece of herself back. It was infuriating, insulting, and the idea of it mocked him.
On the other hand, the fact that she was opening up to him now, that she wanted to tell him the truth…it had to say something about her feelings. About how much she trusted him and wanted him.
If he let the anger consume him and his need for retribution take over, he would hurt her again. No doubt about it. He'd be pushing her away. Tom already knew the consequences of those actions, and had no desire to repeat them. He wasn't stupid.
"So?" he asked, propping up on his elbows to watch her, whoever she was. "What's your name?"
A large grin split her mouth open. Delight danced in her eyes and the laughing lines at their corners. "Morgan," she answered with a laugh.
"Morgan." He mulled the foreign name over his lips, found it hard to associate it with the girl who loved him. He thought the subject might warrant more thought, but then Leah—no, Morgan—was tackling him from the other side of the bed, pinning him beneath her hollow bones and kissing him with a burning ferocity he could find no reason to deny.
He swallowed every single giggle, smile, and happy murmur from her lips, taking it and claiming it as his own.
Morgan's hands swam through his hair, messing it up before smoothing it down again. She hugged him close and listened the beating in his chest, while he told her of everything that was to come. The overwhelming release they found in each other loosened their tongues and opened their minds to ridiculous promises.
"You make me happy," Morgan told him, "stupid as that sounds."
He rubbed her back in a reassuring way and smiled just for her. "Then stay with me."
Her hands stilled in his hair, and he thought the idea of such commitment might be overwhelming. Tom would just have to ease her into it, because no was not an answer he would take. Instead of pressuring her now, when the warmth between them condensed in his chest, he asked, "Will you ever tell me the truth? About how you know everything there is to know about me?"
Morgan relaxed against him, the interrogation so familiar and safe that she knew exactly what to say. She laughed, "There is so much about you I don't know. No file could ever do you justice." He promised to think upon the idea of her having files, when she continued, "And who knows. I never did get you a Christmas gift."
They were melded together so seamlessly that Tom couldn't tell where he ended and she began. Perfectly content to watch the world pass him by, he kept her clutched against him and cast off the lights with a wandless spell.
But happiness was not something Tom Riddle was destined for.
It was well into the night when it happened.
A shudder first, a shiver that distorted her chest with frantic breaths. She twisted away from the embrace, buried her face in the blankets, breathed heavily. Her body shook and quaked, and Tom, jolted awake, stared straight into the darkness, his arms empty and cold.
Next came the coughing. A horrible wrenching sound, almost like dying. He thought maybe she was crying, too, because it sounded so damn painful. But she wasn't. She coughed and coughed and coughed, and when there was no more breath in her lungs to misplace, she gasped.
The bed shifted. Morgan rose, panting, reaching for the blankets she had smothered her fit with. She gathered them in her hands, rubbed at them, felt the wetness of them and sighed. "You're a damn liar," she moaned, rubbing and rubbing at the bedding, willing the wetness away. "You said three days."
Stumbling, coughing again, she left the bed for the bathroom, collapsed somewhere near the tub, stopped moving, never stopped panting. And Tom, alone in bed, reached over with one hand. He felt the soaking sheets and blanket, doused his fingers in the wetness and warmth, rose them to the window. The moonlight flashed red against his flesh.
Blood.
January 1, 1944—Day Three:
Banheart's joints ached in a way no potion or spell could ease. It gave the quiet residence a sense of foreboding, which had been abnormally empty since the brat left. Heavy footsteps preceded the woman's arrival into the kitchen, where she began opening cabinets and staring at the multitude of filled potion bottles.
She closed them moments later and moved into her living area, where a molted arm chair lay. Sinking into cushions, she sighed, relishing and hating the silence. Banheart had just summoned a cup of tea when the door to her apartment was kicked down.
"Here we go," she grumbled, and remained blank-faced when the wrath of Tom Riddle bore down on her.
"You were supposed to fix it," he said, and a chill cut Banheart's spine to pieces, not because the youth was yelling, but because his tone was silky smooth. He slashed downwards with his wand and the broken door came together.
"Is this about the brat?" Banheart asked, stoic even when the wizard dragged a chair from her kitchen, letting the legs of it trail behind him and scrape the wood of her floor. He peeled it forward, his eyes dark and intense and stone-cold. It was disconcerting, watching this young man.
"Yes, the girl I sent to you. I told you to fix her, and yet, for some reason, she's coughing up blood. Your skills are quite underwhelming."
His words froze her old joints together, and she forced herself to remember that this boy was years younger than her, a child she could curse ten ways to Sunday before he rose his wand.
"So it is worse than I predicted," she growled.
"You're predictions aren't worth much to me now," Tom said, lowering himself to the seat in front of her. He lounged in it with the building power of a predator, and had yet to release the wand he twirled in one long-fingered hand.
He carried an intimidating presence, but Banheart refused to be affected. Besides, there was something altogether odd about the situation. Realization crashed over her aging features. "She hasn't told you."
"Oh? Told me what?"
Banheart held his flat stare, and only allowed a minute amount of compassion to lessen the gruffness of her voice. "The kid's sick, and she isn't going to get better. She knows it, I know it. When she turned up on my doorstep, we agreed that I would work to give her as much time as possible. She wasn't looking to be cured."
The young man thought over the words for a few moments. He leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees, and his chin on his open palm. "So she has a sickness beyond your abilities to heal, is that it?"
The way his eyes had closed when he spoke told Banheart he was aware her abilities weren't the problem. Nonetheless, she spelled things out for him. "This has nothing to do with what I can and cannot accomplish, kid. The girl is terminally ill. What she has, no one can cure. From the sound of things, she'll be dead in a week or less. Though, all things considered, you might want to do her in before that. It will be a slow and excruciatingly painful death."
Tom Riddle left his seat to pace around the old healer in dangerous circles. "I'll take her somewhere else. Someone will fix her."
He was trying to convince himself, more than inform her, that much was obvious. Still, it was best to get those damn delusions out of his head. "No one can cure her. She will die."
Something tense in her guest snapped. "SHE IS NOT GOING TO DIE, SHE—" he paused, breathed deeply, contained his anger, lowered his voice, continued—"I won't let her." A dark, solemn promise.
Did that stupid, stupid girl really believe this young man didn't care for her? The same man who was currently walking a trench into her floor? Ridiculous. The concern was stitched under the very fictitious, very shallow cold front he hid behind. It would be terribly sad if he wasn't such a brat.
"Avoiding the truth won't make it go away. She. Is. Going. To. Di—"
Before Banheart could continue, she was thrust against the wall by an unseen force. Her bones creaked in protest against the suffocating hold, and a wand dug deep into her neck. In the boy's free hand, Banheart recognized the gnarled wood of her own wand. How he had managed to snag it without her noticing was beyond her.
An angry scowl mauled the attractiveness from his features. "What sickness does she have?"
Banheart tried to speak around the choke hold. "Her body is deteriorating at a rapid rate. Have I tried to heal it? Yes. But the goddamn annoying thing about her condition is that anything healed gets undone in a matter of minutes. Nothing will keep her healthy."
"What does she have?" He was furious now, his voice downright icy.
Banheart wheezed for breath. "T-t-time…t-traveler."
The pressure disappeared immediately.
"Impossible."
"Exactly," Banheart croaked, rubbing her neck. "No one is meant to travel through time. Even with magic. If someone stays in a different time for too long—"
"Quiet," he hissed. "I have looked into time travel, as little information as there is on the subject. But Morgan—she—"
"Think about it," Banheart insisted, "the way the brat speaks, her attitude; they're all quite unusual, out of place."
He didn't respond. His hands shook and he clenched them irritably before beginning to pace once more. Banheart smiled the wicked old grin that made the wrinkles lining her face scrunch together.
"Ah, you see now."
Silence.
"If you want my advice: go to the girl. Do not waste anymore of her precious little time questioning me. She cares for you a great deal, and I fear would give you anything you asked."
Tom threw a scornful glare in her direction, snorting with disdain. "Hardly."
The old healer worked her stiff bones to a crumbling book case pushed up against the wall. She retrieved a dusty tome with frayed edges, patting its cover affectionately. "I have encountered three time travelers in my life, including the brat. I know this is hard. Take this book; it details all my notes on the sickness privy to those who travel outside their time. If anything, it contains concoctions that will make her passing easier."
Tom considered the proposition and shook his head.
"I shall take you, rather than the text. You will come back with me and you will treat her to the best of your abilities while I look for a permanent cure. It is nonnegotiable." He calmly pocketed her wand and stood near the door expectantly. There was an anxious air about him that no icy demeanor could belay.
Banheart's refusal to move sparked a tension between the two. Her dark eyes narrowed with contempt. "I am retired, and certainly not at your beck and call. I will not go with you."
"You dare refuse me?" he shot back mildly. His tone mocked her, as if to say, you silly girl, you know nothing and Banheart's annoyance locked her jaw in place.
"You spoiled, worthless, bastard!" she howled. "I dare refuse you?" a bout of condescending laughter punctuated her words. "You child! Do you believe I can be ordered around like a filthy mongrel? Your ignorance is outstanding!"
Tom Riddle paled. He had been treated as an inferior many times before, in the orphanage and during his first two years at Hogwarts, but oh how he loathed it! He had battled such behavior with unparalleled cruelty and violence, until all who thought him to be dirt could no longer look at him without flinching. To be spoken down to again, after so many years and so many victories…
The healer could be useful; one more chance would be given. "Leave with me. Now."
"I refuse," Banheart retorted coldly, a snarl curling her lips. "I will not watch another die. The first traveler I met…I watched him rot before my very eyes. No matter what I did, no matter how many times I tried to piece his organs back together again…he would always get sicker and sicker. He lost all the muscle in his body. His skin turned gray, the nerves and vessels in his eyes burst; his tears were red with blood. He never stopped screaming or thrashing. When he stilled, it was only because he had become little more than a decaying lump of blood and bones and waste.
"You cannot ask me to watch this happen to that girl. You cannot ask me to hold her as she dies. I will not make her suffer by healing everything, only to have it burst.
"I gave up healing a long time ago, so yes, I refuse."
Tom stalked towards her with light steps, his face unreadable. When they were inches apart, he slowly pried her aching fingers from the book she held, never once breaking their gaze. "Then I am afraid…Miss Banheart…" his words were soft and intimate whispers along her flesh, "you are of no longer use to me."
She faced the jet of green light with fearful eyes and a wordless scream. The only burial rite she was given was the luxury of holding her wand—the very same wand that had been used against her—as the walls burned around her.
The newspapers would call it an unfortunate accident. A terrible consequence of one of the numerous air raids London had been subjected to throughout the years of the war.
No one would ever know better.
He found her playing cards with herself on the bed, the deck spread out before her as she sat cross-legged, clothed in just a white, button down shirt. His shirt. When the floorboards beneath his feet creaked as he crossed the threshold, Morgan tilted her head to watch him, a soft smile warming her lips.
It was one of the most inviting sights he had ever seen in his life, and he froze, stuck to the spot, because something in his mind told him to commit the scene to memory. How long will you get to enjoy such things?
His fury returned tenfold.
The cracked leather book flew from his hands, hitting the wall at the other side of the room. Morgan's eyebrows rose uncaringly.
"When we're you going to tell me?"
Morgan's attention returned to the game. "Hmm? Tell you what? You'll have to be more specific." She selected a card, examining it with a tiny ounce of displeasure.
Tom slammed the door behind him, hating that she didn't flinch, that she wasn't afraid. "Oh, I don't know where to begin. Should we start the time traveling part or the part where you forgot to tell me you're dying?"
She stilled. "Ah, those parts..." a long pause, "well. Yeah. I'm a dying time traveler. Care for a quick game of Go Fish?" The words and tone were nonchalant—dismissive, even—but the bone-crushing grip on the cards, the knuckles straining against her skin, they spoke of tension and turmoil.
"The truth, Morgan."
The witch quickly lifted her stare from the bed to Tom, and back again. Her brow furrowed as she thought, and while her hands continued moving the cards, her mind drifted elsewhere. The fact that she had to even consider answering added to the rage boiling in his veins.
He jabbed his wand in her direction, causing the cards to explode into finely shredded pieces. Amidst the destruction, Morgan appeared indescribably sad and confused, reaching behind her back to retrieve a tissue to smother an oncoming fit.
Tom stayed near the door, certain that if he strayed any closer he'd either hurt or comfort the girl. Neither option was welcomed.
Morgan finished coughing with a gagging sound, her face pinched tight with pain. When it passed, she crumpled the red tissue into a tight ball, suddenly very wary. A moment of silence drifted between them, and Morgan took the time to study Tom's uncompromising position.
Finally, she spoke. "There is…very little I can tell you, but what I do tell you will be the truth. I can't risk messing the timeline up, though. So if there is a subject I say I cannot speak about, then you must not push me. Please."
"We shall see," Tom ground out in response.
Morgan flinched.
Good.
"Okay," she sighed. "Okay." She bit her bottom lip, adding pressure until it became painful. "Erm. So. I guess the best way to start is to say that the time I come from is very…chaotic. There's a war going on. Lots of people are dying. Hogwarts isn't safe anymore." A shadow passed over her face.
"The people who sent me wanted the Founder's Necklace. They said it would make things better, so I had to retrieve it. My assignment was crucial to ending the war…or some shit like that, I can't really remember."
"They sent you? Out of every possible candidate, they sent you?" Black humor softened the biting edge to his tone.
Morgan laughed, because she could see the humor too. "Yeah, pretty funny, right? The resident heroes were out on their own important mission. Every other student brave enough to stay at school was too precious to lose. They had families, they had friends, someone who cared, I guess…
"And then there was me: Morgan Caldwell. The girl with no family, the one who mouthed off to teachers and didn't complain when they fought back. They starved me, beat me, cursed me, and I kept coming back for more. I suppose that's why I was picked." Morgan shrugged her bony shoulders, a faraway gaze blanketing her eyes.
Tom's features arranged themselves into a contemplative stare. "You said your name was Morgan Caldwell. Are you related to Braxton?"
Morgan smiled, "I'm not sure. But I suspect I might. That's why I was in such a hurry to meet him, that first time I had breakfast and you introduced us."
Tom nodded, satisfied with her answer. "You told me before that your file on me didn't do me justice. What were you talking about?"
Morgan grimaced, as if reprimanding herself for letting such a thing slip. She answered though, in an apologetic voice: "They gave me a file that contained all the known information about you. They figured that if anyone was looking for the necklace, and could find the necklace, than it'd be you."
"So that's why you hung around," his voice chilled, "you were just doing a job. Is that why you came to the cave? Is that why you're here now? You're doing your job?"
Morgan didn't panic under the growing force of his anger. Instead, she gave him a pointed look. "Don't be stupid, Tom. You know that isn't true. Fucking hell, I let you into my head. You know why I went to that cave; you know I was prepared to die for you."
"Then by all means, please explain further because there certainly are some things I don't get."
A shrug. "After awhile, the mission didn't seem so important anymore. Eventually I decided to give up on it all together."
"Why? What changed?"
"I started to like you. Finding the necklace became a second priority."
A pause.
"When did you find out you were going to die?"
"I knew about the possibility for a couple of months. All those muscle spasms I started having, and how tired I was getting…it worried me. I asked Dumbledore about time traveling, and he told me what to expect. It wasn't until after the cave that I learned I had no way of getting back to my time…that I was going to die.
"I gave up on the mission after that. I figured if I only had a small amount of time left, I was going to be happy. I've already given up so much for them…they couldn't take anything more from me. My last few days, I decided I was gonna live them on my terms."
"Your terms," Tom echoed in a monotone.
Morgan nodded. "My terms. I found Banheart, had her fix me up until I was good to go for a couple days, and then I looked for you." Her cheeks tinted pink.
"And now you're going to die."
"And now I'm going to die."
Tom let her resignation sink into the marrow of his bones, found that it made him furious, and stalked towards her. "You—" he tried to swallow his despair, but failed. "You don't get to do this," he said lowly.
Mildly uncomfortable, Morgan left the bed and rose to her feet. Her calves and thighs shook with exertion; she had to grip the bedpost to stay upright. The weakness did nothing to negate the worry in her eyes.
The sight of her rapidly weakening body destroyed any control he had left. In a few steps he closed the distance between them and anchored Morgan to the wall, strategically placing one forearm across her neck.
There were more important things to worry about—surely! He should be drilling her about the future, questioning her about everything she had unloaded upon him. But Tom found he couldn't focus on that. The only thing he could think about was the feel of her body against him, the thundering pulse beating under his arm, and how he would have to say goodbye. Tom would have to live with Morgan's absence, and the idea was suddenly the scariest notion he had ever considered.
"You don't get to make me feel this way," he enunciated desperately, "you don't get to kiss me, touch me, sleep with me, and then leave. You can't use me to satisfy the selfish desire to be happy for once in your life. I won't be used. You—you are not allowed to do this!"
Morgan clutched at his smothering arm, tears gathering in her eyes, the mask of her indifference shattered into a million pieces. "I don't want to leave!" she cried, "I don't have a choice!"
He pressed tighter. "But you did," he growled, "you could have left! I was going to get over it! I was going to get over you! But then you came back, and you told me your stupid feelings, and you stayed!"
"You weren't supposed to care!" Morgan struggled, "You weren't supposed to give a damn about whether I lived or died!"
"Surprise," he snarled cruelly, inching closer. "You wanted me, Morgan, and now you have me—all of me. You can't take it back and I won't give you up. You think you can escape me through death? No," he growled, "you don't get to leave."
Morgan cried all the harder. She cried because the arm against her neck was too tight, the heart beating in her chest too large, and because Tom Riddle never would.
The fire in his eyes burned brighter. "You are not going to die." He leaned forward and locked his lips against hers, the kiss bruising and punishing and a promise of a forever they didn't have.
Even when Morgan's lungs burned with another fit, he didn't release her. He kissed her even as her lips trembled and her chest heaved, even when she tried to break away to cough. He kept her still under his touch and swallowed every gut-wrenching sound of agony.
When he was finished, both of their lips were coated in her blood. He said again, "I won't let you die."
Morgan's face softened, and she tried to smile. Her eyes spoke for her. We'll see.