Chapter 9: What Even is Balance?

"As we are nearing the end of class, it's time for our bonus material. If you'll turn your attention to the board, I have a graphed function displayed." Professor Vector points to the aperiodic, oscillating graph that hovers about the Jera axis. "Can anyone tell me what this is?"

No. Not aperiodic, quasiperiodic perhaps? Irene scrambles through her mind trying to remember the abnormal shape. Her mind flashes through the hills and valleys of other phenomena until she comes to a match. She raises her hand albeit unwillingly. She doesn't want to speak up, but this is one of the few classes she can receive points in to make up for all the accidents that occur in her other courses. Irene nervously brushes her hair back.

"Yes, Miss Hill?" Professor Vector says.

"It's…a graphed quasiperiodic function modeled from Sa'di Farouq's theory on balance. Some countries have used it for predictive divination. It is said to determine one's unbalanced and balanced years or days."

"Perfect as usual. Five points to Gryffindor for knowledge above and beyond expectations." Vector lowers her measuring stick towards the bottom equation. "This class is the closest equation we have to predicting—divining—our change in balance. These points." The tip of her stick dances across every crest. "Are considered moments of overabundance. While these." Her ruler dips to every trough. "Are what the Japanese call yakubi or yakudoshi depending on your scale."

"For extra credit, I want you to find your unlucky days or unlucky years and their inverse. You can find all the information to solve this with what I have written on the board." The professor pulls at the curtain to show another board covered in mathematical scrawl.

A third of the class groans in response.

"Don't groan. The bonus won't be due for another three weeks. Muggle-borns, please remember that we run x through the symbol of the Jera and therefore your y is Eiwhaz." Professor Vector walks to her desk and sits. "Next week we will discuss series and the theory behind predicting the limit on one's luck or unluckiness in life. Dismissed."

Irene's quill is already hard at work copying the information on the board through her orders. She'd received the charmed item early this month as a gift from Evan in hopes that her studies would improve. Fortuna's blessing can only do so much. She sighs and begins to pack up her things. When the quill stops moving, she stows that away as well and leaves.

If it were a Tuesday or a Thursday she'd have tutoring at this time, but with Minerva in Care of Magical Creatures with Iris and the rest Irene is left all by her lonesome self. Well at least she can make use of the time. After her date with Cadwallader, she's spent a fair amount of time in the DADA classroom decompressing so there's no real need to expel her magic. But too much practice is never a bad thing.

She stops her walking and brushes a hand through her hair. It would be a good time to check out that room she's been eyeing.


"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," that's what they say. At least that's what Carrow always prattles on about in some vain attempt to soothe herself.

A child born with defects. A curse they had called it when Amedeo had bothered to listen in to the whispers of the adults. His unfortunate cousin Agnes Carrow had been born deformed with a face only a mother could love. A mandibular prognathism they called it—said to be a side effect from lack of magical power amongst purebloods. Yet, through the miracle of modern magic, she'd been saved from the shame of wearing that deformity, instead growing up average with a pampered life that supplied every spoil she could wrap her spidery hands around.

It did nothing to help what was buried beneath.

The plain truth is that her past disfigurement is not something easily overlooked as Carrow's ugliness festers underneath the physical. Her soul is marred and distorted, only serving to weaken the mind she carries.

Amedeo charms himself in a silencing spell. His feet soundlessly tap against the stone floor as he follows his target from a safe distance. Long inky hair flows like silk around the corners of the castle—a cloak of blackened night. The pulse of his heart pumps in steady beats.

"Stunning," he thinks.

And this is true beauty, not just on the outside as her pale skin warms to the afternoon sun and blush red lips darken like the evening's closing, but on the inside as well. He can feel it just as he can feel the cold callous power in Tom Riddle, just as he can feel the tainted envy that stains Carrow. She's unbearably warm. Being next to her is like swaddling oneself in the sun. Warm from a distance but scalding in its brightness as one gets closer. He can see it in her obsidian eyes and fluttering lashes. Everything she holds as hers is pure, untainted, innocent. A star in the night sky.

And it's a mercy that Cadwallader's date with her went awry.

For Irene Hill is compassionate, patient, fierce, tenacious, brave. All things good and proper. All things weak and unappreciated by his house. But that is where her beauty lies. And it's a pity they can't appreciate such a marvel. Someone that holds a softness so comforting one worries they'll smother it. And thus, she is worth far more than what that whelp of a Hufflepuff can offer.

It's good that he'd shown his unworthiness.

She begins her ascent towards the upper floors. Her skirt bristles with every step up the stairs, ivory white peeking out from the ends of her long socks. The flesh of her thighs dip as her stockings cling to skin. Merlin. He knows she'd be so soft underneath him. Amedeo's tongue darts over his lips as he follows carefully behind.

Over the last week, he has posited different methods in which to approach Irene.

He was tasked to watch her, but wouldn't that be more efficient from a closer distance? With Irene's hours split between her busy schedule and house common room, that leaves too much time unaccounted for. Therefore, inserting himself amongst her closest confidants would only be wise. "A tactical decision," he could say if ever asked why. Even though he knows there are nothing but impure motives that urge him on. His pulse hastens.

Perhaps a peace offering as a Slytherin who empathizes with her filthy blood? His fingers tap against his robes. What better introduction into her life other than a display of humility and kindness?

Then again, he could also offer to help in Potions. Her consistent failures have often left her expression dimmed, dismayed. And although just as charming as her other reactions he'd much prefer a smile pointed in his direction. To see her bright black eyes filled with that gentle gaze she grants her closest confidants, on him and him alone would be everything.

His hands pull the fabric beneath taut as his breathing accelerates. To be with Irene in a classroom empty aside from the two of them.

Amedeo shudders—face a deepening shade of rouge.

Irene exits the stairway and stops in the corridor. He pauses to take a step back, allowing shelter behind a wall. She looks around. Her eyes trail the halls and corners. He pulls his head back just as their eyes meet.

Did she notice?

Amedeo's heart drums erratically. A raucous beating in his chest. It feels thunderous in the quiet of the seventh floor. His pupils are blown wide, stuck in a state of heightened sensitivity. Is it the act of watching her, following her, or the mere closeness of her presence?

He's not sure. Amedeo's never felt so lost in something so intoxicating as she.

It reminds him of when mother had presented him with a boomslang—a gift for his excellent Potion's performance in first year. The tanned snake had edged out of its box then curled around his arm affectionately, possessively. Amedeo had felt the tinge of fear—as all dangerous things provoke—travel through him as cold brick red scales shifted against his heated skin. Its sick bitterness coated the back of his tongue and brought the hairs of his arms to stand.

Yet that wasn't the only sensations that seized him. A profound excitement had all but consumed his senses. This snake was paralyzing as its white stomach slithered up his arm and coiled in rings, red scales shimmering in the low lights of his room.

And that treacherous, beautiful thing was his.

Biting his lips, he peaks around the corner.

Irene is already down the hall—her long doe-like legs striding confidently to turn the corridor. So animated, alive.

And that's why when Amedeo sees her, he wants.

Because unlike the snake, Irene is human—is magical. And yet also a mudblood. It's cruel. A betrayal of all his family expects of him. He covers his mouth in a laugh. His eyes curve in his elation. It scares him how little that matters in the face of something so covetous as she. A shiver of heat slithers down his spine. Salazar. The desire he has, it burns.

Amedeo steps out, but not before spelling himself with a notice-me-not and follows, a smile pulled ear to ear.

As he tracks her, steps soft and light even with the spells weaved over him, he notices this isn't the way to the Gryffindor common room or even the Astronomy Tower. His eyes follow her, and Irene passes a familiar tapestry. He takes a step back into the safety of the shadows and watches, curious. Her robes flutter about as she paces, and paces, until….

Oh?

His head tilts, owlish. Dark eyes bore into her. An ornate door materializes against the once blank wall. Irene takes one last glance about then opens it to step inside. It shuts with a soft click.

My, isn't that surprising? How did she know of the Come-and-Go-Room? He taps his finger across his pulse point.

It's elevated.

His chase has taken on a new urgency. Amedeo straightens his tie and turns back for the stairs. He'll have to report this to his Lord. Another dangerous thing that makes Amedeo shudder at the thought of him. But maybe this news can wait a few weeks? That sounds wonderful as he'd like to keep his new findings to himself.

As he walks the halls, he thinks of his beloved pet. A pity the snake didn't survive the week.

But his love isn't a gentle kind. He hopes Irene lasts longer.


It's after dinner, while Irene's sitting next to Iris and laughing, that Minerva approaches her in the common room. It's a surprise to see. Although Minerva is perfectly kind to Irene, and Irene the same, she usually avoids Iris like the plague and so therefore Irene as well. Strange to see her approach the group of her own volition and more surprisingly without a look of disdain across her face.

"Minerva," Irene says while lowering her head. "Is there something you forgot during tutoring?" She tilts it to the side.

"No. The Headmaster wants to see you. I'll take you to his office."

"Oh? Not here to stay and talk Minerva?" Iris cocks a brow. "Irene here tells me you're an absolute tyrant when it comes to studies."

Irene gives Iris a dubious look.

Minerva sniffs whilst raising her chin. "Well, she clearly needs someone to help her in Charms, Fawley. She can't very well rely on your brains."

"And she can't very well survive yours." Fawley glares.

Minerva rolls her eyes. "Oh, please if you had half the intellige—"

"—Didn't you say the Headmaster wants to see me?" Irene's on her feet and ready to go.

She gives Iris a stern look and luckily her friend gets the message. She lets relief breathe out as Minerva and her leave the common room and head for the Headmaster's office. While they breeze past the painting and sconces, Irene thinks about the Arithmancy problem Vector has given them for the week. She's actually having a fair amount of trouble with this one. It should be easy with the plug and chug idea behind it, but it seems the Professor has added several red herrings and side equations to work through. Irene rubs her neck. She'll figure it out eventually.

The pair come to a stop in front of the gargoyle statue.

Minerva hesitates and sighs before offering the password. "Irene, you know," she says, "I don't like getting involved in this petty drama, but you should know Cadwallader really is apologetic for the whole evening. Frimley has been chasing off any women that come within ten meters of that poor boy."

"I see." Irene cocks her head. Is that what it looks like from the outside? She's not really mad about the whole incident, but she can clearly see there's something more going on between the two students.

"Yeah, I thought you'd say that." She sighs again. "Listen, just talk to Cadwallader by Monday. Make peace with him. The poor oaf's walking around like the end of the world is upon us. You don't have to date him, hell, everyone knows just how terrible that date was. If you tell him off, I don't think anyone would mind. But Cadwallader is a good lad and needs some sort of absolution." Minerva pats Irene's shoulder. "And remember before Monday."

Removing her hand, she turns to the statue and says, "I am young; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another." Then leaves.

That's the password? Fucking hell.

Irene blinks as the stone wall rumbles and opens to a stairway. A bit dark, isn't it? Her brows pinch as she ascends the stairs.

What greets her is a room of simple design and simple decor. There is no clutter, there is no excess. And maybe that's the real reason Dippet and Dumbledore didn't see eye-to-eye. Irene stops her gawking and walks to the desk only to see familiar red hair and freckles.

"Prewett?" Irene asks.

Evan turns around and smiles. "Am I Prewett now after two and a half months?" He cocks his head.

Irene beams.

And Dippet coughs to bring her back to the matter that brought her there.

"Headmaster." Irene bows her head. She frowns. Is something wrong at the DoM?

"Miss Hill," Dippet says. "Sir Prewett is here on business related to the Department of Mysteries. I have been told is a matter of great discretion so I will not pry into the subject. If you do not mind, he will accompany you to another location in the castle to discuss whatever concerns brought him here."

"That's fine." Irene nods.

Dippet dismisses her and she follows Evan down the stairs to the corridor.

Irene's mouth is open before they can make it to the end of the hall. "Did something happen? Is there something wrong at the department? Or is this about—"

"Relax, Irene. Nothing has happened other than what has been discussed." He turns, unbothered and continues walking.

She follows after him dutifully. It doesn't take long to understand their destination. The Astronomy Tower? How Ravenclaw of him. They ascend an absurd amount of stairs ending in an empty room after they break in. Evan locks the door with a few spells then removes a silver box from his coat pocket. Irene watches as he sets it in the middle of the space. A shimmering gold barrier expands from it, eventually encasing them in its dome. At the center, the box itself remains open—its lotus-like cover spread like petals.

"A device we recently had commissioned from the aurors. It's enchanted with various protection wards," Evan explains simply and in probably the best way that Irene can understand.

She plops herself down on a cushion next to the singular round window in the room. The chamber is a circular space with windows spanning each compass direction. Telescopes and other strange artefacts lie organized against a shelf near the entrance, while the cushions and chairs remain placed in disarray about the room.

"So why are you, with that, to talk." She gestures to the glowing container at the center of the chamber.

Evan sits himself by her looking out the round window. "The meeting with Ramhart Hewitt was this Wednesday. We have much to discuss." He curls one knee up while letting his other leg lay out flat. "However, let's discuss your schooling first."

Irene groans.


As Evan sits near the window, he listens to the excuses Irene seems to think necessary to blurt out. He's not upset, and he's fairly certain no one but Fontius would be with her academic performance. She tells him that she's been set up with a tutor and her grades are steadily improving. Frankly, Evan's not particularly concerned with those matters. It's to be expected that Irene's grades would be less than exceptional. Cramming a half decade worth of studies in seven months is impossible despite what Fontius insists.

At the moment he's particularly bothered with the information funneled from Merrythought on the subject matter of Irene's social and emotional well-being.

It's easy to forget how prejudiced children can be.

"…So I'm making an effort. Minerva says I'll likely be able to bring up my semester results to at least a C in most courses. Which is much better than what I had before," Irene continues.

"Irene. I'm not upset about your grades." Evan tilts his head. "How are you adjusting? You mentioned everything is fine, but Fontius's sources say otherwise."

She blinks. "Just how are you…. You know, never mind that isn't important." There's a long sigh that breaks her thought. "I'm doing well enough like my letters said. You can stop sending those books. I haven't even finished reading through The Art of War you sent me, better yet the three other texts. I'm in Gryffindor, remember?"

It's Evan's turn to sigh. "I heard about the bullying." This sparks a laugh out of Irene and all he can do is stare with a frown. This is hardly a laughing matter.

"I wouldn't call it actual bullying." She shakes her head with a smile. "It's more like attempted bullying. Iris has been guarding me like a dragon would to treasure since the first incident in the courtyard, and the other Gryffindors have picked up her habits." The casual shrug of Irene's shoulders does nothing to quell the worry that has built in Evan's chest.

"The attempt still qualifies this as bullying," he pointedly says. "And what have the professors done about this?"

She cocks her head, her eyes looking up at the ceiling. "Now that you mention it, I don't think they've done much apart from detentions and points taken. But I guess there isn't much they can do. I made more pureblood students mad than I thought when I said those things to Lestrange. Comparing her to a muggle probably wasn't the smartest decision." The grimace she makes tells him Irene regrets whatever she said in her heightened state.

Merrythought mentioned as much. Headmaster Dippet prefers not to punish children if he can, the belief that all students must not be removed from opportunity through punitive measures. Evan isn't sure if he can completely agree with that methodology. Children are creatures that must make mistakes to grow, and yes, that much is true. But aren't there times that things go too far?

Memories of the cruel pranks his peers would pull on the muggle-borns cycle through his mind. They spark fear and worry. A crushing blend of emotions that tend to blind rational thought.

He shakes his head.

He's no headmaster, no professor, no—what did the muggles call it?—child psychologist. How can he have any hold over what those experienced judge as truth? But the balance between bullying and assault is always teetering.

With another exhale, he turns to Irene. "Promise me you'll be careful, Irene."

Her expression freezes, perhaps it's the tone of his voice that takes her aback. He's not sure, but Irene grants a stiff nod in reply. "So…mind telling me what brought you all the way here? I thought Fontius would just floo call regarding the Samhain meeting."

And that effectively snaps him back to the reasons for his visit. Hewitt's cold, calculating eyes haunt his thoughts. "Yes. Well, it went well." He swallows. "We have found some promising information in respect to your unique magic. I read through the manuscript Hewitt provided. Out of the several Ancient Magics mentioned there was one group that drew Fontius and I's interest. The Qian Enclave."

Evan draws the characters using his wand. The air lights in red flamed script forming three parallel lines and what looks like a house with a man in it. Oracle bone script. He should probably start learning Chinese runes to familiarize himself with it.

"This group existed around 1600 - 1045 BCE. We know that they specialized in something Hewitt claims as Vitality Magic—though he said that was a redundant moniker. They were rumored to be able to bend the vitality of other things or beings. So it could be related to blood magic or soul magic."

"Uh, what?"

"Unfortunately, there wasn't more Hewitt could offer in his book. According to his records, the enclave was eradicated by neighboring groups and so were most of the historical texts. I'm under the assumption that vitality is the term for magic in this enclave. Perhaps I should take up Chinese in my free time," Evan mumbles and shrugs.

She threads her fingers through her hair. However, the action does more to tangle her locks then straighten them. "So then is that it?" her voice is curiously high pitched.

"No. Now we have a name to add to our investigations, and we can begin researching more into the phenomena. Bending vitality magic is a very loose description, but perhaps the addition of the enclave name and characters will assist with narrowing down our inquiries." He turns back to the window. "Once we have a better picture, we can work out some tests during the summer for you."

Irene's nibbling on her lips. It's a sign of anxiety. Evan furrows his brows. Why would the answers make her nervous? Wouldn't knowing be more reassuring? But when they make eye contact, her gaze quickly darts away.

Very well. He won't discuss the matter now. However, he has the feeling it'll come up some time or another.


"So tell me again, why we are in the east wing while we could be back in the common room playing exploding snap with everyone?" Iris exhales heavily.

It's the beginning of lunch. Thanks to an absent Professor Kettleburn—due for some sort of international Magical Creatures convention—Care of Magical Creatures has been cut short. The replacement substitute prefers a hands-off style of teaching according to Iris. And so, class was brief, and most students took the time to eat a bit earlier than usual.

The extra time has opened the window of opportunity for Irene.

"I have some business to handle. You can just wait for me here." Irene peers down the hall.

The students have just been excused for their noon meal. There's a collection of blue and yellow that gather in the wide corridor. She pushes off and onto the balls of her feet as she leans to see over the cluster. Her target should be easy to spot out.

"Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs?" Iris says with a frown. "Godric. Don't tell me you're here to see Cadwallader?"

Irene shrugs. "Yeah."

She grabs Irene's shoulders and spins her round so they are facing one another. With a serious and stern expression, Iris breathes out. "Have you been potioned? Is this how you are on Amortentia?"

"No, I have not. And how would I know?"

"According to Witch's Weekly nearly one out of three witches have been dosed with some love potion in their lives."

"God. That's horrible." Irene blinks. Glancing about, she spots Idris. He's standing and talking with a few other Hufflepuffs.

"Yes. Be careful with your drinks. I'll teach you a detection spell later so that you can keep yourself safe." Iris nods sagely before dropping her hands. "Now, since you're rather sane, I'd like to know why you are trying to see that blubbering oaf. And just to let you know, if you're here to do anything other than hex him, I whole-heartedly disapprove."

Irene's not quite sure how to tell Iris. It's not exactly that she's keeping it a secret, it's that she knows her friend won't like this, but she's giving this some thought and—

"I'm here to make peace and apologize for leaving like that. Idris is the type that needs a conclusion apparently," she blurts.

"What!?" Her voice carries down the hall and Irene shushes her. Iris lowers her voice with a glare. "I was wrong. You aren't sane. Clearly, you've lost your mind. Shall I bring you to Madam Weber?"

"I am perfectly cognizant."

"I doubt that," she hisses. "Please explain why you should apologize when he is the one who made you a third wheel on your date? And I say let him suffer. It's not your job to make him feel comfortable with his horrible decisions."

And Iris has a point, but Irene's given it some thought over the week. She owes nothing to him. Yet at the same time she knows that the shy giant will likely ask out another series of girls before he learns his lesson. "That's the point. I should have talked or even argued things out, rather than leaving upset."

Iris is rightfully a spluttering mess after hearing her explanation, this gives her the perfect chance to step away to handle other matters. She hears heavy steps echo behind her and an angry grumble of, "I'll curse the height off that oaf," under Iris's breath.

They continue down the hall crowded with students to accost the giant Hufflepuff that's more slippery than she'd have thought. After two days of trying to flag him down during her rare free moments she's taken to figuring out his schedule as well. Bobbing up and above the sea of students, she sees him at the end of the hall. He's in a hustle, stopping and stepping around the tinier students.

He must have heard Iris. She sighs.

And Irene knows he has a free block after this, which only proves one thing she's thought. He's avoiding her.

"Idris!" She shouts.

And he hesitates, his back facing her. She hurries on through the crowd, taking advantage of his moment of weakness. When Irene makes it over to him he doesn't say anything, but his shoulders are pointed inward and posture slouched.

"Do you have a minute? I wanted to talk about Hogsmeade."

Idris the meek giant he is, nods while biting his lip, eyes nervously glancing to and away from Iris.

"You try anything, and I hex you." Iris points two fingers at her eyes then his.

Irene just shakes her head and urges him away from the staring crowd and to a quiet area of the castle. They find their rest in a walkway that borders the side of the castle. Here the windows are nothing but open archways allowing the chill of late fall to rustle under the weight of their cloaks. And luckily her friend is willing to give them a dozen meters distance to talk in semi-private.

"I wanted to apologize for leaving suddenly on Saturday." Irene bows.

"Oh. Uh, no! I-I sh-should have warned you about Catherine. I forget that she can be r-real mean with people." He swallows.

And that confirms her thoughts regarding Catherine's permanence in Idris's life. "That's not your fault. You aren't responsiblefor her behavior," she pointedly says.

Idris winces.

"No, I get it. You can't help but feel accountable for people you care about." She offers a half-smile. "Tell me, that friend of yours that you were talking about during the date, was it Frimley?"

He shuffles from one foot to the other. "Yeah."

"Do you guys often go to Honeydukes and Penelope's Pies together?" She cocks her head.

"We're good friends." And although his tone isn't defensive, it gives Irene a good picture of what might be going on.

She laughs, not at him—well maybe a little at his obliviousness—but not meanly. "That clerk at Honeydukes, what did she ask?"

"What?" He stares blankly at her until it clicks. His face turns bright red in embarrassment. "She s-snuck in an extra bonbon as a Samhain tradition for couples and a-asked if you liked ap-apples. But the gift, it wasn't… You weren't…."

And they both know where he's going—she wasn't his intended—so the words are left unfinished. Irene stares out of the arches and to the forest below. A thin blanket of white dusts the peaks of evergreen trees. A new season will soon arrive. She wonders how long Catherine will remain single.

"I-Irene." Idris says, and they meet eyes. He bows low and apologetic. "I am truly sorry for my discourteous behavior during our outing. It was entirely within my chosen actions that the day ended in such a way. I would not fault you for regretting our outing and finding me detestable."

It's good to know she hadn't misjudged him when they first met. "I don't regret the date. It was a good experience to have, since now I can tell if someone truly likes me or not."

He winces again.

And she can't say she doesn't take a little vengeful satisfaction in that. She smiles a little wider this time and offers her hand. "But I don't dislike you as a person. Friends?"

He shakes it with a smile that Irene remembers seeing when they met.


There's a pep in her step today. One made lighter by the fact she's made up with Idris and can now attend her tutoring sessions with little grief. It's great. Sitting under Minerva's judging gaze while trying to understand complex science spiritualism is not exactly easy. Irene slows her excited steps to an acceptable sound as she nears the library doors.

Today should be potions and charms. Nothing too terrible. Recently she's gotten the hang of potions so that should make the disaster of charms theory easier to stomach. Irene weaves through the aisles and straight to the sequestered corner they always occupy. Her smile is wide and weightless. But when she turns the corner it's not Minerva standing beside the stack of books.

Fuck.

She whirls around, unable to stop her instincts that are screaming, "run."

"Miss Hill, right on time."

Irene closes her eyes, reaches deep within herself for an ounce of that peace she felt earlier. When she spins back around, she's not sure if she has it. Because, well, there's the Dark Lord in his pressed robes and pristine prefect pin, hair coiffed to perfection.

She feels faint.

"Riddle, er, Sir…Riddle?" Irene feels her head spinning and for some reason she's chosen to focus on his use of honorifics and her absence of them. Merlin.

Voldemort chuckles, and despite its pleasant sound she can only tremble—albeit subtly. "Why don't we just skip the surnames and honorifics entirely. After all, I believe we'll be stuck with each other for the rest of the term."

"Wait, what do you mean? What about Minerva?" She blinks.

"She sends her apologies; however, with Cadwallader in the best shape she's seen in a while, Minerva has taken to adding extra scrimmages to the Gryffindor quidditch team schedule. As her replacement for Tuesdays and Thursdays we should do our best to get along and not let her down." He smiles a charmingly disarming smile.

Oh. Right. The Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff match was the other Monday. Irene swallows. Minerva has forsaken her. Has sent a villainous maniac to her door. Is this punishment for the Iris and Idris incident? And now she can't stop thinking about their similar names and dissimilar reactions from Minerva. Oh, God. But he asked a question.

No. Asked permission.

And who'd turn down Tom Marvolo Riddle? "Someone who catches his attention that's who," whispers her mind. And well, Irene sees the validity in that statement. He seems the creep who'd find resistance intriguing. Ugh.

She takes a long breath. "Sorry, a bit shocking all this." Her hand takes on a mind of its own gesturing to him rudely then the books. "Let's get along, Tom." She offers her hand in a shake while her throat constricts at the end of his name as if she'd swallowed something bitter or poisonous.

Riddle takes it but doesn't shake. He bends forward, coiffed hair spilling in front of his dark eyes, and brings her hand to his lips, hovering it there—breath catching against skin in warm puffs. "I wouldn't dare do otherwise, Irene." His eyes arch into crescents as his lips brush against her knuckles, but the sharp pupils of his eyes hold no kindness.

God, have you forsaken me? She repeats in the library a second time. And Tom Riddle's presence is enough to remind her that she's a witch of course.


Extra:

Irene: *living her best life* This isn't so bad.
Mulciber: *heavy breathing*
Irene: Did you hear that, Minerva?
Minerva: Sorry quidditch, but I've got a replacement. Bye.
Tom: :)
Irene: :(
Dumbledore: Ah, yes. Balance.


Notes:

Quote for Dippet's office is from All Quiet on the Western Front.