Chapter 13: The Worst Is yet to Come
Quakes shudder through him as Tom stares at his palm. The sterile white of the Hospital Wing leaves his skin a pale grey. Tiles under his feet are solid, yet he feels unsteady, as if the very ground beneath will collapse. It's disquieting, the effect that terror leaves on the mind. His body trembles. The sensation pulls him back underground, within the railway's web of tunnels and the bomb shelters that lie in Muggle London. Tom clenches his fists.
Fear. It's insidious, suffocating.
Palpable in the anxious pulses of his mind. It pollutes and clouds rational thought. Once again, he feels the sickening desperation, the petrifying terror.
In his head, the shadows of Hill's mind seize the dark. A void. A bottomless chasm. He had sunk in to find emptiness. No thoughts, whispers, or memories to scour. Only an unsettling lull, a sweet repose, lay embedded in its barren ocean.
It had all but stolen away his mind, all but left him an obedient whelp. Something vast had latched itself onto him. A parasitic creature that drained. Yet, it also soothed. It was euphoric. A drug that removed everything but pleasure. His magic trickled out as he waded in waters so deep, they engulfed rather than flowed.
To be powerless.
To be weakened into submission.
Sweat pools in Tom's clenched fists. Fear. He grits his teeth. It's revolting in its destruction of the mind.
The rolling of a cart rattles. Tom schools his expression. Behind, he leaves the memory of that abyss.
It's afternoon, a few minutes after Magical Theory and before lunch. In the empty medical ward, Tom sits atop a metal cot draped in white sheets. Attending Magical Theory was the correct choice. Not one student had missed Hill's absence, and if Tom had been as well? It would only drive attention to them.
The rattling converges on his position. A cart stops at the foot of his bed.
'Sorry for the wait, Mr Riddle. Seems there's an inventory issue.'
Madam Weber—a middle-aged woman with sun-tanned skin, dark blonde hair, and pale-green eyes—places a small glass vial beside his cot. The potion shines a sky blue as it swirls in the bottle.
'An Exstimulo Potion. Should help with your magical exhaustion. Do try to keep your spell casting to a minimum today.'
'Thanks, Madam.' Tom smiles, sweet and shy. 'I should get to lunch.'
With a bow, he picks up the vial and departs. It takes everything not to slump to the ground.
Outside the doors, Tom pops the bottle open and spills its contents down his throat. A spark of heat builds in his chest, and his skin pinkens. Yet, the trembling persists. His hand brushes through coiffed hair. He tucks it back into the confines of his pockets to hide its quakes.
A monumental failure. Impulsive, reckless. Brash decisions are often high risk, high reward. It's a gamble, and Tom has never lost till now. Damage control is a new concern, an extra factor to add. To review all possible disasters is something Tom doesn't often find himself doing.
'What if Hill spoke to a professor?' was the first topic of unease. However, even if she had brought the matter to the Headmaster, there's not a single professor—aside from Dumbledore—that would believe her. She'd also sustained no injuries other than bruising, perhaps to her shoulder or head. But Tom? Tom is the one who received medical assistance. So it'd be easy to pin the assault on her, although a detriment to his pride.
His nose wrinkles in disgust.
In his chest, irritation builds. Before continuing to the Great Hall for lunch, Tom straightens his robes. When he passes through the doors, he finds his seat at the Slytherin table.
'Tom,' Rosier bows his head in greeting.
Tom offers the same back. 'Jacques.'
He's not too early and not too late. The other members of his group have yet to show other than Nott. Among the two, only Rosier might pick up on the change in his schedule. Tom steps over the bench and takes his seat. Without conversation, he fills his plate. Above, the charmed night sky rumbles with the warning of a winter storm tonight, ominous and roaring. It seems to mirror the dread that lingers beneath his growing anger. As the seats fill, Black takes the empty position next to him. Tom offers a polite, but perhaps strained, greeting.
It's never been difficult to settle back into his mask. But today seems to be a day with many surprises. Tom breathes out and starts on his selected foods. A part of him wants to find Hill, snatch her by the nape, and Crucio her for his troubles. Another part of him admits she's quite valuable. How bothersome. He'll have to take more time to consider her usefulness. Tom continues eating his meal whilst considering contingencies.
'Have my references served their use?' Black asks once the meal has come to its end.
'Yes.' Tom folds his handkerchief, placing it atop the table. 'I believe we will discuss the matter next semester.'
'You have already discovered the link?'
'I had my suspicions.'
It was not challenging to find the connection. All parseltongue in Britain stems from the same wizard, Salazar Slytherin. Among his ancestors, there are only a handful of purebloods that still reside in Europe. And Marvolo, well, it's a rare name.
Something predatory flashes in Black's eyes. 'I believe congratulations are in order, then.'
'Yes, it appears so. Though we will have to wait for such a celebration. Perhaps on Imbolc.'Tom stands from his seat and stops to look down at him. 'Till next time, Black.'
Black bows his head, and Tom leaves, Rosier trailing to his side. Before exiting the Great Hall, he takes one look. Towards the Gryffindor table, between one bushy-haired girl and another blonde one, the seat is vacant.
The image of Hill standing in the glare of candlelight as the victor in some tumultuous battle flashes. Under his palms lingers the icy cobblestone of the passageway, lingers the unmistakable panic that had overtaken him. Nails dig into flesh as Tom pulls himself from the memory.
Irene Hill is dangerous, far more dangerous than anything he'd imagined.
Tom turns, his robes twisting in the wind as he continues through the doorway and to the dungeons. He'd never foreseen this result. Pushback, yes. A powerful one, expected of a Gryffindor. But overwhelming defeat?
Never.
Yet, aside from Hill's opportune victory, away from the dark's obscured shadows, he remembers her expression. A smattering of red, eyes dilated, and chest heaving, but there was no smug victory that played across euphoric features.
Only dawning horror and terror of the power she held sat.
A snarl rises in his throat. Power is a gift undeserving for those who shun it. His muscles tense and Tom's nose wrinkles in distaste. He thumbs the wand that lies in his pocket. It sparks at him. He retracts his fingers. A vicious thing it is, biting at him with every chance it gets.
Terribly unhappy to be parted with its master.
The metal nib scratches against parchment. A silent library is a productive library. Ten questions left. Minerva's work is roughly fifteen minutes till completion. That leaves a half an hour for extra studying. She's making good time. At this rate, she'll have an additional two hours of blank space on the weekend. Which will likely go to waste wandering Hogsmeade in hopes of a fated encounter that will never come. At least she can disguise her rounds as prefect duties.
Her nib continues scratching diligently.
Minerva thinks in absolutes. Definitives. Everything has a conclusion. Everything can be defined. There is always black and white—right and wrong. Because well, the undefined—the grey—is a spot on a pot, a scuff on the floor, a score not settled. So, she doesn't think about grey—about relativism—or really anything that can cause her world to crumble.
Because what if there's grey?
What if in the end, there's no good or bad, just a spectrum of colour?
What if life is about mitigating suffering?
Again, she doesn't think about it.
No.
Not at all. It's just a passing thought. A momentary fancy that won't see the light of day. But she can't help but allow her mind to wander. That's only natural, after all. It doesn't mean anything in the end. She's not double thinking.
Her eyes land on brown curls and round features. Her heart heavies with regret.
Yet, when Minerva feels the connections between people, when she finds herself living in the moment, she wonders if everything is so cut and dry.
What if life is a series of mistakes, a collection of greyed paths? The lucky are given easy trials and the unfortunate are left to struggle and claw to live. Our choices may define us, but what if our options are limited? An in the mess of decision, we all stumble and make fools out of ourselves, becoming the villain of another's story on the worst of days. This path, uneven and unpaved, is our life, our chaos. And the only thing that makes the journey worth continuation are those we meet along the way. Those that are willing to give compassion and forgiveness without anything in return.
What if the truly weak, the truly villainous, are not the monsters that go bump in the night, but the ones who do not have the heart to be vulnerable? To ask for love, forgiveness, and leave the soul open to hurt, to give and share without needing repayment.
Minerva notices honey-coloured eyes on her. She dips her head back down to her work. Bugger. Her nib gets back to scratching. Only four more.
Light steps of a dancer pad across the room.
Merlin. She panics. The grip on her quill tightens. Just leave. She urges herself. It's close enough to the last question, anyway. What's four problems? There's time later tonight. Staying up an inconsequential couple of minutes later than her night's out at ten doesn't sound awful.
Minerva's eyes meet her visitor's before she can bolt.
'Minerva,' Iris greets with a pinched smile.
'Fawley, what's this? No biting words to exchange today?' The sarcasm is out of her before she can stop it. If only a bludger would put her out of her misery. Then she wouldn't have to deal with the dreadful person she becomes around Iris.
'No,' she sighs. 'Unfortunately, not. I came by to thank you.' Her back straightens—or perhaps stiffens. 'So you have my thanks for bringing Irene's behaviour to my attention,' she says with a rigid sincerity Minerva hasn't heard since first-year. Then dips her head in a light bow.
A civil conversation. It's shocking to see four years since their fight. Yet recently they've had multiple pleasant chats. Though there have been mediators present during these sparse moments.
At times like this, Minerva thinks about apologising for summer. Offering an explanation for everything that happened would be reasonable. However, it is long overdue, but not because she didn't attempt multiple times. She closes her notebook and turns to Iris. Opening her mouth, her throat tightens. Minerva clears it with a cough. She tries again. This time it's her lungs. They protest against her.
'That hard to accept a thank you from a wealthy prat?' Iris sneers. 'That's fine. Save it for someone who actually cares.' She turns and walks away without another look.
Minerva's eye twitches. As impatient as ever. Some things don't change. She breathes out, remembering why she doesn't want to waste the time on an apology.
Muscles tense, she hears a snap. Her quill has broken in two. A blue cloud rises from the crack. She sighs. That's a good two sickles and five knuts wasted.
A check for the time shows she should leave for lunch. Minerva decides to stop by the dorms to pick up another charmed pen—though not self-note-taking.
Which is apparently a choice that takes her luck on a spin for the worse.
It's afternoon. Winter afternoon. Meaning the skies that paint the confines of the Gryffindor common room are a blasted grey. Minerva curses to herself and hurries up the stairs to the girls' dorms. She strolls through the hall and passes one door. Then stops halfway to the second.
That was a decent amount of crying coming from the first room.
Minerva checks the time again. Lunch has forty-minutes left, and she has quidditch scrimmages in the evening. She taps her foot. There's always time between classes. Sneaking into the kitchens wouldn't be hard. With a chastising remark, Minerva reminds herself she's a prefect, a Gryffindor prefect, and turns round.
Godric, Lils.
She opens the door. The circular dorm, decorated in the rich colours of Gryffindor, warm the cold slate tiles and walls. Against the borders, four beds are spread round. Each share the same gold embroidered venetian red curtains.
But it's not Lillian who sits curled on the rightmost bed.
It's Irene. She's shaking into the comforter's hem. Minerva has never seen her in such a state, not through the countless hexes and curses sent her way. Not through the teasing comments and rumours after Cadwallader. All the other muggle-borns and some half-bloods have gone through the cycle, but Irene hasn't. And Minerva finds herself reviewing Irene's schedule.
Tutoring with Tom Riddle. Someone Iris believes Irene is both terrified of and holds hate for. Minerva's face screws up in a grimace. She feels the onset of a migraine. If this is what she fears, perhaps she should've separated them pre-emptively.
'Irene?' she asks tentatively.
Irene stops shaking but doesn't say anything.
'Are you alright?' She cautiously steps forward, as if approaching a skittish animal. However, she stops a few feet's distance from Irene to settle on the foot of the bed—posture facing the wall rather than Irene. Irene's hands tighten into fists, straining red fabric. It takes a moment, but she nods. Minerva doesn't miss the redden rings around her wrists.
'May I come closer?' she asks.
Irene nods again. Minerva shifts to settle in closer. Careful not to touch her, she scoots to the top of the bed. Leaning against the headboard, she spells off her shoes and crosses her legs atop the mattress.
'Did something happen?' Minerva asks.
Two shaky hands wipe at her eyes. There aren't any tears, but salt trails lay paths down her cheeks. Irene must have been here since tutoring. 'Yes,' she says shakily, before swallowing. 'I don't know what to do. I-I….'
'It's going to be alright. Take your time.'
Her whole body trembles, the memory of whatever transpired leaving its mark. 'I'm a monster. Everything I touch, I take, and enjoy takingit.' Her voice is a whisper.
It's a sentence, alright. But a sentence that makes sense? No. Because even Minerva knows Irene's not a monster. 'What do you mean?'
'It's my magic. I can't control it.'
That's not a surprise. 'Irene, I don't quite understand. What do you mean by 'taking'? What does that have to do with your magic control?'
She bites her lip and curls further into herself. 'I-I can't tell you. I can't tell anybody.'
'Alright.' She needs to try another route. Minerva stares at Irene's bruised wrists. 'What about that? Will you tell me how those came about?'
There's a brief pause, hesitation clouding the space between them.
'After tutoring, I told Tom about, about, the lessons ending and he-he….' She bites her lip to take a few calming breaths, but the quake of her chest never subsides. 'He grabbed me, slammed me against the wall. And I almost,' her voice is taut with tension.
'…I almost killed him,' Irene says in a whisper.
Minerva blinks. Accidental magic. It makes sense. That could attribute to her lack of control and sudden—and in Minerva's opinion, justified—homicidal tendencies. Her hand fists in her lap. 'Tell me what happened, slowly.'
What she's told next isn't what she'd predicted and something that holds far more implications than she can imagine. It almost feels as if they're talking about someone else. If this were Lestrange or Avery—the sneaky Slytherin snakes—it'd be easier to picture. But this is Tom. She's been familiar with him since first year. They might not be in the same house, but they have often spoken due to their class positions. So, when Minerva tries to imagine, she can only see the kind smiles, polite compliments, and disciplined diligence of Riddle.
Earlier, when they'd spoken of Tom before, she'd assumed he had a particularly aggressive crush. And from the overly intimate touches, Minerva had assumed, well, what one would assume from an overly zealous young man. However, her assumptions were wrong. Off the mark by a long distance, this is much harder to wrap her head around.
Still on the four-poster bed, the two sit facing the locked door, shoulders touching. The ornate comforter under them has lost its soft sensation. Now all Minerva feels is the rigid muscles that have stiffened with tension. She glances to her side. Irene has calmed since her retelling of the assault. And in effect, Minerva seems to have taken her anxiety.
'Tom Riddle is a natural Legilimens,' Minerva says calmly. 'And after tutoring, he took you into Gregory the Smarmy's corridor, physically attacked you, then tried to invade your mind?' Then, as the reality seems to settle in, she scrambles to get up. 'We should go to the headmaster.'
Irene seizes her wrist.
'No. You don't understand, he's a psychopath. And I have no proof. No one will believe me,' she says.
'No proof? Are those marks on your wrist only visible to me?'
'That's not,' she chews her lip. 'It's not enough. What I-what I did was much worse.'
It's a whisper of a confession that Minerva seems to have forgotten with Irene's recount of the incident. What has Irene done? She breathes out and settles back to lean into the headboard, trying to remember if there was any suspicious behaviour from Tom.
'Tom volunteered himself to tutor you,' Minerva blurts, remembering. Since when has he had his eyes on her? 'I had been discussing the matter with McLaggen, but he interrupted to offer instead. But why? Why would he want to know what's in your head?'
Irene winces, letting go. 'I don't know.'
Minerva frowns. 'I swear I will not tell a soul whatever you choose or don't choose to tell me.'
'That's…. Maybe he knows something, but I-I can't say it. It would be irresponsible to tell someone, and it's personal.'
Her brows furrow in thought. Is it related to Irene's position in the Unspeakable Department? If it is, then Minerva has no plans to pry. She sighs. However, there is one last matter to settle. What she's been holding off on asking.
'You said you 'almost' did him in. So…is he?' her voice raises an octave.
'I don't,' Irene breathes out to smother the panic. 'He's fine, likely drained.' She holds up her hands and they're shaking again.
'No physical injuries?'
'No, I tried, but he-he was so much bigger than me.' she croaks.
Minerva grimaces. 'Are you sure we can't bring this to a professor at least? If we get it on record, it would be much easier to discuss with the headmaster, if God forbid, something happens again.'
'Minerva,' Irene places a hand atop hers. 'Promise me you'll drop this. Riddle is dangerous, maybe not as dangerous as the professors, but he's incapable of guilt.'
Minerva swallows. Irene's expression is serious in a manner that douses one in cold water. Normally so mild-mannered, it's worrying to see such grave eyes.
She nods and thinks perhaps she's in over her head.
Irene wanders to class. A part of her wonders if she's really doing the right thing? Not telling a professor seems the opposite of what the adults suggest.
'We all panic a little sometimes. But sweetie, don't jump in headfirst out of desperation.'
Her mother is right. A simple decision like this might just cause a disaster. Dumbledore couldn't even find proof Riddle had killed a student. So, what would make her situation any better? Voldemort wasn't someone to take lightly. The Harry Potter books had shown how destructive he could be when following, no, obsessing over a means to an end.
If anything, Tom Riddle is more dangerous, more sane.
And because of that, Irene can't help but wonder if she made a mistake in telling Minerva. This isn't a simple issue anymore. Legilimency. Obliviation. Riddle had planned to get her alone. Her strategy to slip into the background was doomed from the start.
How far back do his manipulations go?
Merlin. Minerva mentioned he'd interrupted the tutoring discussion between her and McLaggen. So, he'd set his eyes on her before then? The reality hits her in the gut just like before. What did she do to catch his eye? Curse a pureblood? Fail at classes? Have a job at the Ministry? Irene rakes a hand through her if he—she shivers—what if he already knows something? Knows something about her and her Ancient Magic?
Or worse, that she knows about him?
Her heart drops to her it's due to stress, but the rest of the day passes in a haze. No teachers call on her, no students bother her. Perhaps the scene she made in the halls when running back to the dorms has reached everyone's ears. Irene stays in the comfort of the Gryffindors and keeps one ear out for Tom Riddle, who is functioning well despite their earlier scuffle. It's a complex combination of guilt and anger when she sees him. The conflicting emotions tear at her chest, warring with each to take hold.
When classes end, she's finally able to breathe, first in the common room, then at dinner. However, the headache never recedes. Irene struggles to fill the contents of her stomach. Her utensil dips into the light soup she's chosen. A screech pulls her away from her flavourless food.
The sight of Fontius's owl unleashes a wave of relief in her. Aki rushes through the window of the dining hall and drops himself unceremoniously on her plate. Then pecks at her side of fruit.
She blinks. He's gone and soiled it.
Irene drops her spoon onto the table. Aki flaps his wings and jumps off the plate. She unties the letter from his leg. The envelope's beige colour and black stamp reflect. It's strange, Fontius has never answered this quickly before. Normally when she sends a letter, there's a seven to ten business days gap in between.
But this is what she needed. She knows she can trust Evan and, despite his grumpy ways, the Overlord as well. Irene forgoes finishing her meal, glancing up at Iris and Lillian.
'Yeah, yeah. You have responsibilities, unlike the rest of us. Get lost already. Since I'm still eating, take Blythe with you, will you? She's over at the Ravenclaw table.' Iris smiles, and Irene smiles back.
She walks to the end of the hall. From her spot, she can see Blythe's bright red and gold tie amongst the sea of blue. She's chatting with Bell, it seems. Not wanting to intrude on their impromptu date, Irene pivots on her heels and returns on her own.
In her hurry, she doesn't notice the student that tracks her movements through the halls and into the dim corridors.
As the sconces flicker in the slow breeze of the hallway, the shadows dance and tremble. Sometimes Irene remembers the bizarre shadow creature she'd seen months ago as she walks at night. It's nothing new. However, her heart is erratic. An aftereffect of the day's nightmare. She brushes her hair and continues onward. But when she focuses her eyes on the sconces, they blur and double.
Click.
Irene stops, shakes her head. It throbs, and she feels faint. Maybe she has a concussion. Riddle had slammed her against the wall.
Clack.
Irene stops. The noise doesn't continue. She waits. Listens. But she doesn't hear it again. Maybe it's her imagination. She continues on her way to the fifth-floor stairs. This time, she focuses on the sounds about her.
Tip tap.
It wasn't her imagination.
Irene turns, hand dipping into her robe. She palms for her wand.
But there's nothing there.
Her wand is gone, left with the Dark Lord himself. A curse hits her in her realisation.
Purple and noxious magic rolls over her. Her limbs tense, and her body hits the floor.
She's immobile.
The cobblestone bleeds its icy cold into her. Move.
But she can't. She's under a body-binding curse. Irene swallows. She shouldn't have been so distracted.
Tip tap.
Her mouth tries to open. To call out? Scream? She's not sure. But her muscles are unable to act, even tremble. She can't yell for help. A weight settles on her chest, heart pounding.
Tip tap.
Move! She pleads to herself, but no matter how strong her will is, it doesn't matter. Blood rises to her head. The migraine that pounds away worsens in her panic. Her vision spots with black.
Tip tap.
Steps echo behind. They are maddeningly slow. The sound building with each echo. Panic constricts her chest. She can't breathe. Help. Someone help.
Her head's light but pounding with blood. Irene wonders who's behind her. Lestrange? Carrow? Maybe Davies, or worse….
What if it's Voldemort?
What if he's vengeful, angry that she'd left him drained in the darkened corridors of Hogwarts? Her heart pounds with enough force that Irene feels as if she's shaking. The walls close in on her. Her spotty vision never ebbs. She's distressed. God. She can't be here. Not with Riddle. Her throat convulses in a silent scream.
Clack! Two hands wrap around her ankles.
Her abductor lifts her legs. But her face is still pressed against the flagstone floor. Irene can't see. Can't lift her head to see what her kidnapper looks like. It makes the image morph into something terrifying in her head.
A dark figure. A whisp of smoke, faceless and skeletal.
Her pulse drums. Bony hands constrict around her flesh. They pull and drag her. Farther and farther into the corridor she's hauled. Her cheeks grate against the stone ground. Each tug tears at her skin, gradually rubbed raw. The scent of iron fills her nose, skin broken and stinging.
Someone will find her. Someone will walk down the halls, see the blood. Irene hopes and hopes.
Yet, nothing but grunts, heavy breaths, and the clack of shoes fill the silent hall.
Tip. Tap. Drag.
It's torturous, terrifying. Sharp fingernails dig into flesh. The form in her head morphs. A blackened mass hunched and gaunt looms over her. Its talons cut into tissue. Her body, bound and unable to move, slides against the ground. Fear threatens to take hold. Sharp, panicked breaths empty her lungs. She holds her breath to calm herself.
From the last corridor she traversed, she's on the fourth floor and there's only two classrooms she's been in on this level. None located this far into the western side.
Click. Squeak.
A lock and rickety door echo behind.
Irene's dragged into a room that she's sure she's never entered.
The door shuts with a click. And then her kidnapper murmurs, 'Clausus.' Something prickles against Irene's skin, pushing past.
'We wouldn't want anyone to catch notice of your disappearance.' The silence breaks.
It's a feminine voice, soft in pitch.
Irene can't say she recognises it, but her breaths even. It gives her something to grasp onto, to hold, when fear breathes down her back and licks up her spine.
A girl. That means it's another pureblood. She tries to bite her lip. Her haste and relief had blinded her. The weeks of peace had lowered her caution. Irene should have known better than to walk the halls alone, especially today of all days.
'Ugh, why are you so heavy?'
Suddenly, the girl drops her legs. They slump to the ground at an unnatural angle.
Slam!
Pain shoots down Irene's spine. A foot digs into her abdomen. Air rips from her lungs.
'Rowena. All I wanted was the respect I'm due! And then you waltz in. You've been such a pain in my arse!'
Wham!
Irene's stomach gives. She struggles to breathe. Another blow digs right under her sternum. She attempts to grit her teeth, but nothing happens. Her lungs struggle to gather air.
It hurts. It burns.
A whimper follows that never breathes life. Another hit slams against her stomach. She's unable to shield her body from the brunt as the attacks continue. Help. Someone, please.
Kick. Thud. Kick.
Tears spill from her. Leather Mary Janes dig into flesh and bruise ribs.
'Argh!'
It's a relentless beating. Angry grunts and shrieks are the only noise aside from the sickening crunch of her bones and the smack of her skin. Irene's barely kept conscious through sheer stubbornness. Emotions so jumbled tear at her soul. Everything aches, stings. However, the pain does nothing to increase her terror. An amalgamation of agony, desperation, and resentment build under her skin, writhing and wanting to lash out, maim at her attacker, herself, her life.
This is all too much. A prickling burn digs at her eyes. Her tears stop. She doesn't want to be here. Can't stand this powerlessness she feels over her magic and situation. Irene yells, but nothing comes out. She's mute under the petrification spell.
She's not entirely sure how long this horrible moment drags on, passing out and waking to sharp stabs of pain, until something wet trickles from her lips. Under her, a pool of dark liquid rubs against her cheeks and mouth. She can't see the colour, not in the darkness of her shadow. But it tastes like bitter metal as it rolls down her tongue and drips past her lips.
'Merlin,' the girl breathes, taking a break from her violent outburst.
Irene rushes to catch her breath, her head swimming from her injuries.
'I feel better now.' And suddenly the breathing is louder, closer to Irene. Another push at her abdomen and she's flipped over to see where she is and her attacker.
'It's a blue tie,' she thinks. Then Irene notices the girl's eyes, which have a purple film over the whites of them.
Is she on something?
'Oh my stars, you look terrible, Hill.' The girl cackles, kneeling over Irene. 'Quite a pitiful sight, isn't it?' She taps her fingers against Irene's cheeks. Something like hesitation shines through for a moment, the girl's eyes turning back to brown. Her face twists into a frown.
And that's when Irene recognises her. This girl, she knows her. From the courtyard, one of the three behind Lestrange. The only one that donned a different colour tie.
Irene doesn't even know her name.
Her magic thrashes ravenously in her chest. Wasting time on 'why' will only distract her. Her eyes flicker about the room. A supply closet. Walls of shelves enclose them, littered with jars and boxes.
'Pathetic. Yet, I also find this sort of behaviour barbaric.' The girl's eyes flash purple again, whatever hesitation gone. 'Regardless, I refuse to be on the same level as you, Hill.'
Irene swallows. She's mental.
'You know, it's been a few months since the courtyard. Hard ones, no thanks to you. Renee has been temperamental, and when she's like that, she acts like a spoiled prat. Even let Agnes have a few goes at me as well.' The girl pulls up her shirt. A constellation of bright purple and yellow bruises covers her ribs and side. 'But uncle sent a wand and a magical artefact. He assures this will solve the problem.'
A silver charm dangles from the girl's fingers. Its metallic sheen glints in the low light.
'I've dealt with so much since September. All the progress made, just poof!' Her hands mimic an explosion. 'At least you'll be forgotten come next semester.'
The charm jingles in her hand as she unclasps it to chain around Irene's wrist. It stings her on contact. Something intangible slips through her skin.
'Have you ever heard of a quitaped?'
Irene can't say she has.
'It's an abomination. A monster with five legs, hostile and dangerous. This trinket will slowly turn you into one against your free will. And with Professor Kettleburn out, thanks to conference season, the teachers will have no choice but to put you down like the animal you are.'
The sting of magic makes more sense now.
Irene's stomach sinks.
'Though it'll take an hour to activate. So, I think I'll play with you before I leave. Since I have all that pent up frustration to get out. Hmm.' She taps her wand against her chin. 'You know, I think I'd like to use muggle torture methods—since you're a muggle-born and all that.'
Placing her wand between her teeth, the girl grabs Irene by the hair and pulls her to sit upright against the shelves. The sudden shift brings another tremor of agony. Irene bears the pain mind stuck on one thought.
She's planning on killing her.
No matter how convoluted Irene's actual end will be, this girl is planning on killing her.
The fear of her attacker has faded. Under Irene's skin, her magic builds, hot and lethal. Wanting to lash out and harm, inflict. Irene struggles, wars with herself. Can her magic dispell the artefact despite the binds on her? And if it can, will it rid her of the petrification curse as well?
But what happens if she lets it out?
She came so close to sucking the magic out of Riddle and she's going to risk it again?
There's no professor, no Gryffindor, no guardian to come to her rescue. Irene's alone in the closet with her killer. And her magic is the only thing that can save her. It slithers in her core, coaxing her with pulses of hunger. That's what wishes to leak out from her and latch onto the one who's hurting her, and what has already lashed out and hurt another.
'Hmm. There have been some interesting experiments performed in Asia. Human dehydration is one of the more fascinating ones. However, all I know are a few variations of burn spells. So that'll have to do.'
The girl is eager to snatch up Irene's wrist.
In her ears, her heart slows to thunderous drums. Sweat trickles down her face, lungs heaving in wet, rasping sounds. She watches in horror.
Pointing her wand, the girl spells, 'Torreo.'
'It's yellow' is all Irene can think before the muscles of her arm seize and atrophy. She shouts, thrashes. However, nothing sounds.
The pain is familiar. A burn that blinds her.
'Torreo.'
Everything's hot. Everything's on fire.
Irene's magic builds. It swirls with the energy she had taken, wanting to break free of its chains. She wars with herself. She doesn't want to die, but she doesn't want to kill someone. Her focus lands on her arm.
The flesh of her limb is a black and blistering. Red breaking through her cracked skin. However, no blood spills from the openings—thick like sludge. It doesn't even look human. More like charcoal attached to flesh. She feels numb.
'Torreo,' the girl spells again.
Irene's muscles twist and seize. She's engulfed in flames again, back in the hospital in muggle London.
She doesn't want to hurt anyone.
'Torreo!'
Pain takes hold, white-hot.
But what choice does she have?
'Torreo!'
Tears spill from her eyes. A silver sheen covers them, and a scream breaks from the quiet of the closet.
Notes:
I'm making edits to change the formatting from American English to British English (the miracle of having an alterable proofing language). You'll see things like "" changing to ''. However, as for tenses, slang, and other grammatical/syntax errors, I don't believe you'll see that anytime soon. I'm not familiar with British phrases and despite reading and watching British books and shows, I am not comfortable using anything other than curse words. Hell, I probably even use the curse words wrong (slight difference in their connotation or something).
Now onto my questions for you guys. I have a fair number of notes that detail the world-building going on in the background. If you'd like me to put information regarding that in the author's notes, I can do that (I'll put it under an expandable tab to keep from clutter). If not, that's also fine.
Last thing. As we get further into the story, I'm increasingly worried about Irene being a Mary Sue/White Lotus/etc. She's a hard character for me to write since she exemplifies many characteristics I do not hold and am not familiar with myself. If you spot something strange, just write it in the comments.
