Chapter 5: Misjudgments and Misinterpretations
"Get up mudblood," the voice carries, it's shrill and reedy sound cutting in the dulcet tones of the distanced students. The girl who insulted her wears a mop of curly brown hair and is peculiarly similar to a giraffe. Irene faintly notices her three friends behind her, but her focus is on the mostly green ties and several students who are only watching from under the loggia's cover.
It's not as much of a cliché as it is sad. Irene frowns and minds her own, ignoring the slur. However, as a safety precaution, she grips her wand safely hidden away in her pocket.
"I said, get up!" Curly-hair kicks at Irene, but it doesn't connect—only a threatening feint.
Irene meets the other's eyes. "You should mind your own," her tone is calm, distant. She offers a warning, her heel already pressed into the soft soil beneath, ready to jump up at a moment's notice.
The girls around her laugh and chuckle as if her resistance is the funniest thing they've seen in a while.
And perhaps it is.
Perhaps the majority of the others—as small a population as muggle-borns are—never bothered to show any opposition at a disadvantage from the start. Irene's muscles tense.
"The Gryffindors always have something to prove," the one in the back—hair pristinely braided into a bun—mocks. "You think you're chivalrous, brave, destined to become some heroic knight, but the truth is, most of you are just like Sir Daguenet. A foolish, cowardly whelp whose only place by a king was as a court's jester."
This prompts another round of cackles.
Irene's empty hand palms the ground beneath her. She knows that bullies often stop once they can't get a rise out of someone, but why can't they understand to leave others alone? Why do they seek out such sadistic satisfaction? Her fist tightens around a patch of soil while her other shakes in fury around her larch wand.
"Oh, looks like the little mudblood's upset, Renee," the girl in the back—stout and muscled—says to the curly-haired girl, her tone is infantilizing, condescending.
Irene's attempts to calm her expression only serve to deepen the wrinkle between her brows. "Listen," she sighs, "if this is some powerplay I don't understand just get to the point already." Irene tries to breathe in slow, easy breaths. She needs to cool her building temper. This isn't her fight. A teacher should intervene, but as she glances at the crowd of students watching, she knows help won't be coming. She exhales, reaching for some sense of peace. A part of her admits she wants them to act out, if only so she can punish them, show them that hate begets hate.
"In a hurry? Need somewhere to go and cry to your parents?" the girl with the bun smirks. "Oh wait, I heard they were dead."
Irene sees red. She's on her feet in a flash, her teeth bared in a snarl. "It'd be wise to shut your mouth," she hisses. Her wand is out of her pocket, dangerously twirling in her hand, still pointed down. It sings in dulcet pulses that zip up her arm. She can feel it, the wand's courage and reassurance. And so, despite the fury she feels pressing behind her eyes, Irene relaxes. She knows they're just words from someone who doesn't have the heart for a pittance of empathy. She won't start a fight, but she'll finish it if she has to.
Renee grits her teeth. Her wand is carefully at her side. "Okay, Hill, I'll tell you why we're here. You're the new student—the current curiosity of the school. It'll last you a few weeks and maybe a month at best, but here's the truth." She leans onto one hip, as if her next words aren't some horrible manifesto.
"This is Hogwarts, and the majority of us are born and bred witches and wizards." Her hand gestures between the other three in her group. "We've been taught to understand the subtleties of our culture. Mudbloods on the other hand are rude, ignorant, and frankly brutish, taught nothing apart from their own savagery. Flirting with someone else's fiancé, whining about unfair treatment—when we have to suffer through something as droll as 'Halloween'—and your men are so quick to physical violence like some magic-less muggle. It's not your fault, it's your parents, your blood. You simply can't be taught; nothing can change your nature."
"To be honest, you don't belong here, but the law states otherwise. And until that wrong is rectified, we're forced to deal with your imprudence. Now you're free to muck up any of those blood traitors and apologists, but approaching a Slytherin pureblood is off limits."
Irene stares darkly at them. She's not unfamiliar with prejudice. Her grandmother had preached something uncannily familiar at her mother's funeral. It took time—as muddled as her mind is from the accident and extra memories—but she remembers bits and pieces. In her mourning—in her desperation—she'd let what she believed was a grieving mother come for her only deceased daughter. It's her greatest regret and strongest what-if. What if she didn't let her in? What if she didn't let her speak?
Her hand balls into a fist. What was it her grandmother said? Right. Her mom was cursed to have a half-life since she bred an abominable half-breed such as Irene herself. Irene laughs, low and detached. Since then, words such as this barely carry a weight to them as they can only strike chest deep once.
"You know," she breathes out, lifts her chin. "Ironically enough I've heard your speech before and from a muggle at that. The same separatism, the same bigotry. Doesn't it grate, strangle you in misery? How can you live with such vile hate in your heart?"
The words must be cutting, as Renee levels her wand at Irene. "Today's Transfiguration lesson was a mistake that will not be repeated. Let this be a warning." The next second a babbling curse is hurtling towards her.
Irene's wand slashes up. Protego!
The yellow curse fizzles out against her shield. And she has never been more grateful that work at the DoM prioritized defensive magic. The group blusters. Curses, hexes, and jinxes flash and scatter rippling across silver. Irene knows she only has a few seconds until the dome shatters. It doesn't matter that she has more magic than the average witch or wizard, control is crucial as well and she finds herself lacking in that department. Four against one. She needs a plan.
They curse and yell, their muffled voices and rhetoric unimportant and unregistered to Irene. She bites her lip—an idea on the precipice of its own making. Her offensive magic is volatile and dangerous. She doesn't want to, but it seems her best option.
The shield shimmers and bursts. Incandescent flecks of silver flicker and hiss—Irene's Protego reaching its limit.
A scarlet jinx screams through the air. She spins. Wind rustles through her unbound hair. The spell speeds past, its tail catching and singeing her onyx strands. Behind her, sparks shatter against bark. The tree's wood now scorched, blackened.
An Incendio? Irene glares. With a flick of her wrist she chants, "Entomorphis."
The magenta spell hits true. Renee falls, grass crunching beneath. But a curse is whistling towards her. Irene lunges to the side. A zip of green clips her ear. Her skin burns and swells instantly. She grounds her boots into grass, pivoting. Her response is sent in a stunning spell directly aimed at the girl with a bun.
It misses—the spell shrieking past to disperse against the cobblestone loggia. The shot just wide of her chest. Bystanders jeer and curse from the covered corridor—unhappy to be caught up in the spectacle.
Irene's second spell is already out before the first doesn't land. Purple scatters against the other's leg. When Bun Girl waves her wand to send another, the spell backfires. Her hair falls like feathers from her head. She gathers strands pressing it against her skull as if trying to reattach it. The other two raise their wands.
"—Salazar! What have you done to me!?" the high-pitched squeal of Renee's voice cuts through the chaos.
Everyone stops. Stares.
It's her leg, arms. They're black and bumped like a bug's. Abnormal prongs have replaced her fingers, each with their own horn-like protrusions. The scene is monstrous—a horror film made real—and Irene knows that she's responsible. She'd planned, bet on such an event. Her Transfigurations consistently end in unexpected and unfortunate results.
Renee screams and wails while her friends are too disturbed to come any closer. Her exoskeleton leg and arms crack and click with every irregular movement. Disgust is plain on their faces no matter how hard they try to hide it.
Irene should feel bad, and later she probably will, but right now righteous triumph is clouding her better judgement.
"What is going on here?" a voice stern, commanding, and directly behind Irene says.
She whips round, hand tightly wound around her wand.
Eye-level, the first thing she sees is the shiny prefect pin that sits atop the other's chest. She's about to pocket her wand, but then catches the green tie. Her fingers twitch over her cherry hilt.
Irene hesitantly raises her head.
Jet-black hair, pale skin, and ruddy brown eyes look down at her curiously. He looks familiar, like an artist's rendition of someone she knows but can't seem to piece through the broad strokes. Her attention flicks back to the pin.
Irene licks her lips. Great. She gets the Slytherin prefect to deal with her specifically Slytherin problem. She doubts it'll end in her favor. Her mouth remains shut. She'll say her peace if she gets the chance but won't fight for it.
"She cursed us! That's what happened."
Irene doesn't have to turn around to know it's the girl with the braided bun. Renee still seems to be consumed in her own sobbing.
"Miss Hill, would you care to explain?" The boy raises a brow.
"They attacked me, called me a mudblood," she says calmly. Then whirls around to face the group of students, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "I told them to mind their own."
"Is that true?" the prefect asks.
They splutter until one of them steps forward. It's the same girl again. "We were only having her on. There wasn't anything harmful sent, and look at her, she's completely uninjured. She's the one who used an unregistered spell against us!"
Irene's cheek twitches. Nothing harmful? The scorch marks on the tree behind would serve as conflicting evidence. But Irene can't seem to muster up any angry retort. Bun Girl—well perhaps she should say Bald Girl—has lost nearly half the entirety of her braided hair which now sits loosely on the back of her head edging to slide off entirely while the rest of her pale skull shines and reflects the afternoon sun. Irene's lips thin to prevent her from laughing. "It wasn't an unregistered spell, only a botched Entomorphis."
"Was it really?" The boy says a little too fascinated and excited considering the situation. And maybe something shows on Irene's face, because he changes the subject without hesitation. "Any matter. Miss Carrow, I believe we should get you and…the others to the hospital wing for now. And although it disappoints me to do so, I'll have to take off points for your conduct as I'm inclined to believe Miss Hill's story." He sighs as if terribly pained, but something about it rubs Irene the wrong way.
It feels artificial.
"I'll handle that, Tom. I took statements from the witnesses that stood around watching the scene. Miss Hill is telling the truth." A Gryffindor prefect Irene had yet to greet walks over to them. She turns and flashes a glare back at the group of onlookers. "Cowards the lot of them," the last sentence is barely registerable under a whispered scoff. "Fifty points will be taken from each of you for attempting to curse a fellow student. And Miss Hill?" The prefect spins on her heels to face Irene. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for use of an unpracticed spell."
"Minerva, are you sure that's necessary? She's a new student. Clearly, she was upset about the assault and only defending herself."
"Unfortunately, in her particular case, yes. We can't have students turning into bugs now, can we?" Minerva—McGonagall? —sighs.
They turn to Renee who's still sobbing and whimpering at her arthropod appendages.
"I'll take them to the Madam Weber." Minerva nods and gathers the group of girls. "All of you, follow me to the hospital wing, lest you wish to lose more points from your house. After the Madam whips you into shape, I expect you to report to detention with Professor Merrythought. And stop your incessant whimpering Lestrange!" She glares, and Renee Lestrange wobbles onto unsteady feet, unused to the transfigured leg.
Murmurs and chatter carry across the courtyard. Their eyes are on her. Watching, judging, and then Irene remembers.
Minerva, Minerva McGonagall, called the other prefect "Tom."
Irene bites her lip. What are the chances that another fifth-year prefect would have the name Tom? What are the chances they'd know McGonagall and graduate Hogwarts roughly fifty years before the golden trio?
Dread slithers down Irene's back. She can feel the side of her face burn, the prefect's piercing stare never leaving her face. It makes the curse that swiped her ear grow molten. Jet-black hair and pale skin loom in the corner of her eye. What if it is him?
What if it is Tom Marvolo Riddle?
She needs to get out of there.
Irene slaps a hand over her ear. "I think I should head to the hospital wing as we—"
Two strong hands clamp down on her shoulders; Irene tries not to shiver. "Miss Hill, if you'd please," comes the soft rumble of the voice behind her. "I'll help you with the counter-curse for the spell that nicked your ear."
So, he'd seen that? How long had he been watching before intervening? Irene observes enviously as Lestrange limps alongside the others, following McGonagall into the safety of the castle and medical ward.
Irene doesn't want to look at him—doesn't want to be face-to-face with a possible future genocidal maniac—but like everything else in her life, like everything else that makes living difficult, she doesn't want to, but she does. Irene steps out of his clutches and smiles at the devil himself. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that," she says. And color her surprised, perhaps she can lie naturally after all.
He stares at his palms as if she offended him by shrugging him off. "Shall we move to a more private area?" He clasps his hands behind his back returning the smile to her, and Irene feels a bit like she'll faint from the shock of it all.
"I'm supposed to meet some classmates here," she says weakly.
"It'll only take a second."
Irene nods and allows him to whisk her away into the castle's corridors. When they're properly sequestered in a corridor behind the Great Hall, he withdraws his wand—bleached wood and an intricately carved hilt. Unhesitant, he closes the gap.
She swallows, eyes never leaving the bleached wand. "What was your name again?" At this point there's no doubt in her mind who it is, but how she wishes she could be wrong.
"Oh," he chuckles, low and deep. "My apologies, Miss Hill." His hand reaches and brushes against her locks, combing it with his fingers to reveal her ear beneath. Then his wand is raised and pointed at her.
Her breath catches.
With a flourish of his wand, he murmurs two spells in succession. The burning of her skin is replaced with a cool sensation. "A counter-curse and a healing charm." He tucks her hair behind her ear. "Tom Marvolo Riddle." He bows his head and offers his hand.
Irene takes a long breath. She grabs it in a firm shake not giving any opening for a polite kiss. "Irene On Hill, pleasure to meet you." She lets go.
"The pleasure is all mine." Riddle's smile is the picture of charming.
She wants to puke. He looks completely genial. Isn't she undesirable number one, being a mudblood and everything? Merlin. A right charming bastard he is. Thinking of which, when does he go on his reign of terror with the Chamber of Secrets?
"Well, I ought to meet with my classmates. Wouldn't want them to wait too long." She twirls and doesn't give him a chance to interrupt. "It was nice meeting you. Thanks for the help again, Riddle." She waves as a parting farewell and scurries away.
Irene's chest heaves as she makes it back to the courtyard, but by then the students are already cleared out. She hurries to the Great Hall and breathes out a sigh of relief when she spots Iris waving her over.
"Goodness, Irene. You look like you've been through a windstorm," Sloper says.
Iris pats the open seat beside her. Irene sits whilst trying and failing to comb out her hair. Wood murmurs a spell to fix it behind her.
"Thanks." Irene beams. Her heart is still pounding, but she tries to focus on what's happening now rather than what was before. She takes her empty plate and begins to pile food atop it.
"So, is everything alright?" Wolpert gives her a concerned look. "We heard about the whole courtyard incident."
"I'd say she is. I mean did you see Lestrange limping to the Hospital Wing? And Carrow? In comparison Irene is in excellent shape." Iris cackles into her salad. "Sorry about Minerva, though. She's a fanatic when it comes to the rules. I swear the only time she lets loose is during quidditch."
"No, I get it that's her job. And I'm fine. Nothing to worry about. I just hope they can figure out how to fix the transfiguration I did on Lestrange." Irene sighs.
It's Thursday when Carrow finally comes out—or is forced out—of hiding sporting a pixie-length haircut. Irene isn't lost on the irony that she makes it just in time for their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Since the courtyard incident, most Slytherins have been ignoring Irene. Either she's below them, or not worth the possibility of losing more points. Lestrange's posse did quite the number on their house first day back.
Irene shuffles into class. The DADA chamber is chilling to put it lightly. Gothic windows with grey curtains block out the light while scorched metal lanterns glow in ominous blue. Objects, most certainly cursed, are tucked upon the highest shelves that line the southern facing side of the room. Several specimen jars of all shapes and sizes preserving dark creatures are kept in a cabinet to its side. It's positively macabre.
She takes seat next to Iris, taking out her textbook, and waits until class begins. Students filter in and Irene watches as a tall boy with dark hair and green robes walks alongside another with a brown mane of curls. She doesn't need another glance to tell who they are. Tom Riddle and Renatus Lestrange. Irene shoves her nose into the DADA textbook. She's been giving him a wide berth since Monday and plans to continue doing so until the rest of her stay at the castle.
She bites her lip and twirls her quill.
Thing is Riddle is very…human.
He looks, well, normal. So much so, it's almost anticlimactic. Handsome? Yes. On the level of a model or actor? Absolutely. But upon closer inspection, there's a slight bend at the top of his nose, one brow hangs just a smidge lower than the other, and his smile rises higher on the left side rather than the right. To her surprise, he's not some perfect rendition of the golden ratio, or an artist's masterpiece personified. Irene thought he'd be otherworldly in his appearance—Lucifer himself, a fallen angel.
Merrythought shuts her doors with a flick of a wand. "Now then, open your texts to page 175."
And just like that, the two-block course begins. DADA is probably Irene's second-best class past Arithmancy. The concepts are particularly difficult. If she had a muggle course to compare it to, well, it's like gym class mixed with mythology. She begins notes on vampire bats. In the corner of her eye, she sees Evelyn sneaking glances at the future Dark Lord. Horrible taste. Irene grimaces.
Then again, she's never actually held a conversation with him past what happened in the courtyard and corridor.
Sure, she's heard him talk to the teachers and other students in the hallways, but that's just a façade. For all she knows, he could be the second coming of Hitler himself behind closed doors, and chances are he actually is—the books had certainly hinted at that. After all, this man—well child at the moment—will rage a genocidal war in about twentyish years. He must have the charisma to match the monster inside. For the aurors to believe an acromantula killed Myrtle.
Maybe she should talk to Dumbledore? But then again it doesn't sit right with her to condemn someone before they commit the crime. She sighs. She'll just have to wait until the petrifications start, then she'll tell a professor—probably Dumbledore.
Regardless, for now Irene should steer clear of him. Settling into her notetaking, the class goes by in a whirlwind.
"Okay, everyone great class today. Expect longer practical lessons starting next week. We will have a quiz as well, so don't forget to read the chapter. Miss Irene Hill, please stay after class. As for everyone else, dismissed." And with another flourish of her wand, Merrythought lets out the fifth-year students.
Irene gathers her things together and Iris promises to save a seat for her in the Great Hall. When all the students have exited, Professor Merrythought shuts the doors, this time with a locking charm.
"It's wonderful to meet you, Miss Hill. Flavian has sent such praise, surprising for an unhappy and bitter old man like himself." She offers her hand and Irene shakes it.
"Is this about the upcoming Saturday meeting?" Irene asks.
"Oh, no. It's regarding a letter I received from Flavian earlier this evening. If you'd follow me, please." Professor Merrythought gestures to her office door and the two vacate the room.
Inside is much the same as the DADA classroom, with the familiar dark flagstone flooring, brick walling, and accompanying slate colored furniture. Behind the desk is a ceiling tall gothic window and to its side is a grand fireplace that blazes green.
"Flavian is waiting for you on the floo." Merrythought gestures to the fire and then begins dispelling a series of intricate spellwork about the room. Irene only recognizes the anti-eavesdropping charms.
Irene obeys and walks to the fire. She's never been on a floo call with someone and is not sure—
"Hill." A head bursts from the flames. Irene startles. "You've received my package, correct?"
She edges closer to the mantle, leaning back and forth like a bobblehead. Fontius's face is burned in 3D across the fire. He looks terribly unimpressed with her behavior.
"Sorry, a bit strange isn't it—calling through a fire?" Irene straightens her posture. "But, yes. I received your first edition Tales of Beedle the Bard during lunch. Aki is a menace." Irene stops pacing, turns, and frowns. "Did you really just call me to check that I received the fairytales you sent?"
"I believe you'll find the chapter of The Village Boy particularly enlightening. But that is not the only reason why, no." Fontius sighs. "I've reached out to an old study companion of mine. He lived on the border of Mongolia and China for a while during his studies. I've scheduled a meeting with him in the winter to discuss Ancient Magic of the East. It appears he returned to the European continent a little more than two decades ago to start work on a new project. We've had an expert in the field under our noses this entire time. But I guess I should've expected such poorly travelled news with the war about and all that."
"Do you think he'll know what my abilities are?"
"I'd say there's a strong chance. From my memories, Ramhart was vexingly thorough. I doubt he'd leave Asia without securing at least a few hundred records and accounts. He was also quite the fieldwork enthusiast. He likely knows several magical enclaves as well."
"Magical enclaves?" Why would that matter?
"Oh, yes. I've never explained this. Ancient Magic appears to have some hereditary link. We aren't sure if this is because of nature or nurture. Excellent debates can be found in the field for either side. But, I digress." Fontius shakes his head. "Some communities tend to seclude themselves from both the magical and muggle world to keep their magic within their group. Ancient Magic is commonly found to be practiced within enclaves."
"I see." Irene chews her lip. "And this study mate, will I have to meet with him?"
"No. I haven't seen him in decades. It wouldn't be wise to let him know of you. Europe isn't the only country dealing with political discourse. The Asian continent has seen more bloodshed in the last century than we have seen since the time of the Goblin Wars."
Irene nods her head, subtly relieved to know her secret is safe. "Thank you for taking my safety into account, sir." She bows.
"Of course, my dear girl." Fontius offers a rare warm smile. "Any matter, the meeting is scheduled for a little after Samhain. During this time, I believe staying in the castle would be for the best. I will inform you if I make any new findings."
"Understood." Irene smiles.
"Then I bid you a good evening. Oh, and Miss Hill, please do send a letter to Prewett, he's been abnormally clumsy since Tuesday evening. I believe your incident with the Lestrange girl has reached his ears."
"Wait, how do you—"
The face in the flames disappears before she can finish. Rude. Irene sighs. Footsteps behind her remind her that the Professor had been there throughout the conversation. She turns around. Merrythought is standing, no, hovering over her.
She coughs into her hand. "Flavian has taken the utmost precautions into sending you here. He has his own reservations about the security of the castle. It's not so much so regarding physical harm as much as it is about espionage. You can never be too careful."
"Oh." Irene thinks back to the various DADA professors that will join the Hogwart's staff just to harm poor Harry Potter in the future.
"Why don't we get you to dinner now, Miss Hill?" Professor Merrythought lowers the privacy wards in the room. "I'll see you bright and early on Saturday, then?"
Irene nods and leaves for the Great Hall.
"First week is over, it's only going to get harder from here on." Lillian sits atop her four-poster bed, her hair in tight buns.
"Week's not over yet for me." Irene rolls to the opposite side of her bed. Tomorrow at nine she has an appointment with Professor Merrythought and four cursed items.
"Oh! So, do we have any new crushes this year? We've had seven days to scope out the boys." Gwendoline Vane pushes her chair out from her desk, forgoing her nightly study to talk about this as if it's something of grave importance. "I'm guessing you've still got your eye on Desmond, Blythe?"
Lillian gets this faraway look in her eyes. "It must be true love to never waver."
Ears half in the conversation, Irene opens her nightstand drawer. Books, quills, and trinket boxes shuffle around while she digs about. It's only a week and she's cluttered up her space.
"Haven't found anyone yet, Lily?" Gwendoline asks.
"Nope, I think I might be incapable at this point. I'm afraid my parents might get me a fiancé if I don't find someone in the next three years. Why can't it be acceptable to grow old with a friend?" She sighs. "Do you have eyes on anyone?"
Irene frowns. God. The forties are insufferable. With her new future as a witch, she hasn't given marriage much thought. Drawer properly disorganized, she withdraws The Tales of Beedle the Bard. It's a good time to read the story Fontius tasked her to.
"I think Avery's kind of growing on me." Gwendoline says dreamily.
Two groans of protest spark from Irene's dormmates.
"You know what? You can't be saved Gwen. You're doomed to have terrible eyes for men for eternity. If last year didn't teach you anything, then you're a lost cause." Blythe Prang places her book down on the bed just to rub the point between her eyes.
"I don't want to be mean, but I agree Gwen. You can't just keep going after Slytherins. You're gonna end up as the…'other' woman." Lillian whispers the last part like it's a scandal.
Irene checks the table of contents, settling back into her pillows. Page seventy-eight. She flips until the page rests on The Village Boy. A black penned illustration of a humble hut is positioned beneath the cursive title. The door to the hut opens—the drawing animated. Irene's entranced. A man—not so much a boy—walks to the forefront of the page in strange robes. They're high-colored and wrapped around him like a bathrobe. He waves at Irene with a sad expression across his face. Her hand twitches; she almost waves back.
"And you Irene?" Gwendoline asks.
"Huh?" She snaps her head away from the illustration.
"Do you have anyone you've set your sights on?" Blythe repeats.
"Oh, no, of course not. I've only been here a week. How would I get to know anyone in that short time?" She cocks her head.
"I respect that." Blythe nods.
"Oh, pish posh. What about love at first sight?" Lillian's got those stars back in her eyes. "When I first met Eve, I knew from that moment on she'd be my best friend."
Irene feels the need to hide herself in her book. "Sorry. Haven't experienced that." Not even regarding friendship.
"All good things happen in due time." Gwendoline smiles.
Again, Irene wants to draw the curtains and get to reading. If that's something that'll eventually happen, she hopes she won't see the other person for another three years. At least until she gets herself together.
"Your Father…? Well, it was a long time ago, but the truth is it was hate-at-first sight…."
Irene smiles at the memory of her mother. Although the idea that someone she'd abhorred so adamantly had become someone she'd give her heart to seems a bit barmy. But perhaps it's just Irene's inexperience that makes it appear so. Love seems too complicated to involve herself in at her age.
She crosses her ankles and begins the tale.
When it finally comes to an end, the others have closed their curtains and Irene's sitting in the dark with only the barest light flickering from her wand. She twirls her wrist in a spell to close her bed and tucks the book under her pillow. Her hand palms at her chest.
Frankly, finishing the story, she feels like utter shit.
She doesn't even understand the moral of it all. There has to be one, right? Merlin. What is it—don't help others?
She frowns and scoots under the covers. The plush duvet smothers her in warmth. It's like it's swaddling her in comfort. She bundles herself in tight as if it can take away the despair she feels deep in her soul. Her hand lingers on the book's binding.
A melancholic dark tale of a foolish man. Or perhaps he was still a boy in the end. Either way the ending was nothing but regretful. Irene should've saved it for a morning rather than an evening. Terrible thing, to go to sleep with a mess in your head.
When she closes her eyes that night, she dreams, dreams of a boy with grand ideas and nothing but his own demise to show for it.