She's fast and agile like a whip. Miss Hill lunges and twirls, dips and rolls, dodging spells from the bewitched doll. Galatea can't help but think she'd give Margarite a run for her money if they were back in school. Recently, every Sunday after lunch, she has been coming to the DADA chambers for practice.

It's a way for Hill to get whatever pent-up energy that's eating at her out.

Which is apparent in how far she pushes herself. Forehead coated in sweat and face a blush red, Hill looks like she needs a break. And Galatea has tried offering such relaxations, but the day she did ended up being the day Miss Hill accidentally Flipendo'd poor Miss Vane across the classroom.

Galatea shakes her head. A streak of black dances across the room. The practice doll's dark paint blends in with the muted shades of the chamber. She observes Hill's head bob and turn, attempting to track the movement. However, the gothic iron windows of the classroom are uncharitable in their meagre light.

Hill sighs in frustration and barely dodges a stinging hex from the doll.

'Focus,' Galatea scolds. 'Low visibility is not uncommon. Duels in the real world do not offer the luxury of pristine lighting and conditions.'

The girl refocuses. A streak of red pops out of the dummy as it stops for the barest of seconds. She lunges out of the strike. The tail of the spell singes her skirt.

And it's back to its rapid dash. Hill scrambles to her feet.

Her magic is wildly coursing about her. It has been since near three weeks ago, around the time Flavian scheduled that meeting with Miss Gladys Macmillan. Galatea's face pinches at the reminder.

'Has Grindelwald found out about her?' Galatea gripped her hat that sat upon her office desk. Such an event was always a possibility they'd foreseen, but so soon? Would they need to ask for Albus's aid?

Flavian shook his head. 'I cannot say for certain, Galatea.' Leave it to him to be unable to present platitudes at such a time. 'But he is not the Ramhart we once knew. I have been keeping a tail on him for the week, but they've gone missing. I may have to leave for Greece to discover the truth myself. However, I do not feel comfortable leaving the country at the moment.' He turned his head to their guest. 'That's why Miss Macmillan is here. Promise me you can get it done.'

'It already has been. You have my word.' She nodded. 'But what if the castle remains unsafe? Then what?'

'I'm in the middle of arrangements—a contingency plan, if you will. If or when such a time presents itself, I will take Miss Hill myself and leave.' His face turned pale, ashen, yet determined.

And Galatea hadn't seen that expression across Flavian's face since the time she had given him news of her condition during her seventies.

Some terrible storm is brewing. She hasn't felt her hairs raise like this since their bout with dark wizards in Romania. And at the centre is Miss Hill.

Galatea breathes out. The only thing she can do for now is keep an eye on Hill and let her enjoy as much of her childhood as she can, while she can.

Miss Hill's eyes track the movement of the doll. Her foot taps. One, two, three. One, two, three. Galatea sees how the tapping motion mimics the dummy's own pattern as it shifts and pivots while its wooden parts rattle along the way. Miss Hill stands, twirling her wand in her hand, waiting patiently.

The rattling stops and the practice doll casts. It's a stream of yellow that zips out.

She easily sidesteps and yells, 'Reducto!'

The dummy erupts into a puff of mist scattering across the room.

Its dust cloud hovers in the air, grey and thick. Galatea hears the coughs and hacks of her student.

'Ventus,' Galatea says.

Like a cool spring wind, a gust of air whirls out from her wand and breezes about playfully, fancifully, as it gathers the dust and remnants of the doll. It brushes past Miss Hill, gently sweeping away the debris from her skin and clothes. Then moves on to other corners and nooks in the chamber.

'Great work, Miss Hill.' Galatea smiles and gestures to her desk at the front of the class. 'Tea?' On her cherry counter sits a set of floral pots steaming with tea, prepared in advance for the visit.

Miss Hill smiles. 'Yes, please.'

With a flick of her wand, the room works itself back in order. Both Galatea and Miss Hill make themselves comfortable around the large desk.

Galatea bewitches the pots, filled with her favourite mix. A medley of strawberry, black tea, and bergamot. White china with delicate yellow flowers tip and pour. Miss Hill takes her filled cup to sip. Her red cheeks plump in a pleased expression. Galatea does the same, trying not to think of the terrible things that wait on the horizon. At least she can offer a haven for Hill until then.

'Has the castle been treating you well?' Galatea asks.

Miss Hill hides behind her teacup, trying to conceal her grimace. 'It's the usual. Could definitely be better, though.'

'That's unfortunate. Is it the pureblood students?'

There's a bark of a laugh. 'Unfortunately, no. That would be a nice change though.'

'If you don't mind me asking, have you been under any added stress recently?'

'Yeah. But I'm sure things will get better after Yule Break. My grades are almost high enough to end my tutoring. And well, I might have been overthinking things before. I might have misjudged someone. I feel kind of terrible about it.'

'I see. First impressions are important.'

Hill nods her head. 'Have you ever changed your mind after you got to know someone?'

'There have been a few moments. However, I've learned to trust my gut, as not doing so has led me astray more times than not. Though I imagine this is different for everyone.' Galatea hums. 'With your busy weekends, regular magic release, and tutoring, I don't imagine you have much time to rest.'

She nods. 'I'd like to spend more weekends with my friends. They're always chatting about what they did in Hogsmeade during the week, and I'm here stuck in the castle.'

'Maybe I can ask Flavian to give you a break next week? I can't promise anything, but I can argue with that old goat better than any other.' She flashes a wink and a smirk. It shouldn't be too hard to convince Flavian to give Miss Hill a break if she threatens to snap one of his toys if he does not.

'Thanks, I'd appreciate that Professor.' Her smile is blindingly loveable, and Galatea promises to break all of Flavian's artefacts if he doesn't treat Miss Hill right.

She grants a smile back. 'I've noticed you have been getting along well with Miss McGonagall and Fawley.'

'They're both great. I can sit in a daze, and they don't seem to mind. Just wish they'd get along with each other.'

She takes a sip of her drink.

'I also don't get headaches with them unlike a certain someone, so that's a plus,' Miss Hill grumbles.

'Headaches?' Galatea's brows pinch. 'Have you made friends with Doyle? I'm afraid it's part of his nature. He isn't able to stop his abilities, unlike others.'

She blinks, clearly confused. 'Abilities? Doyle?'

Oh my. It seems she's misunderstood. 'My mistake. I thought you were referring to our natural Legilimens in the castle.'

'A…natural Legilimens can cause headaches?' Irene says this slowly, as if the answer to her question is a road she's afraid of crossing.

'Yes. It's the result of magic invading the mind.' Galatea nods. 'As Doyle grows accustomed to controlling his innate abilities, the headaches will stop.'

Miss Hill's on her feet a second later. 'I have to go. Er…. I don't want to be late, and I forgot my, uh, quill in the dorms.' She bows and sprints out the doors, leaving a half-pot of tea behind.

But there's no classes on Sunday. Whatever will Miss Hill be late for?

That evening, Irene rushes into the owlery in a fury. She sits among the owls, her nose affronted by the scent of bird droppings and hay while writing a letter in heavy scrawl.

Dear Flavian Aurelias Dante Fontius,

Is it possible to transfer to another school?

Sincerely,
Irene On Hill

Her fingers glide across the crease as she folds and pinches. Tucking the letter tightly into its envelope, she seals it and passes it to an excited brown barn owl, offering it a treat to make the trip easier.

That night, she doesn't sleep much.

Irene feels like a fool. And perhaps she is one.

No, she definitely is. There's no doubt anymore. Not as her fingers rake through inches of her hair, pulling out more strands than brushing them. Stuck thinking about how she'd fell for Voldemort's manipulations.

Even if it was only one weekend, Irene had considered Tom Riddle redeemable, had considered him misjudged in her eyes. And for a delusional moment, she thought that maybe she shouldn't have closed herself off to him—taking his future as a condemnation of all he is—because maybe Tom could be more? Maybe he was capable of something other than destruction?

She sighs, closing her eyes.

How could she even consider that he was capable of empathy—of feeling?

'It was his face,' she tells herself. Because God, did he look expressive, as if he was actually worried. But clearly, he wasn't. A perfect performance of humanity, a monster in human skin. Irene was just a means to something he wants.

Legilimency. She's reminded. What he desires lies in her mind. And isn't that terrifying?

She shivers.

'Irene! Snap out of it!' Iris snaps her fingers in front of her eyes.

Irene's pupils shrink into focus. Breakfast, right, breakfast. She scoops up a portion of porridge but doesn't eat it. Her stomach growls in protest, but she doesn't much care for it. The thought of eating makes her feel sick.

'You're done?' Iris glares at Irene's half-filled plate.

'Can't eat,' Irene grumbles.

'That's it.' She drops her tableware on her plate with a clatter and stands. 'Up you go.' Her hand impatiently beckons Irene to follow.

They leave the ruckus of the mess tables while the rest of the group ignore them. Through the greyed hallways and spiralling stairs, they weave their way through the castle and to an inner courtyard on the upper floors of the castle. Irene's never taken the time to explore this area.

In the white of winter, their feet pad onto the blanketed path. As snow falls upon them, their footprints leave temporary impressions on the ground. They weave through the winding trail, passing by bushes, trees, and patches of once flowering soil. It's blindingly white. Both the sky and the fauna—that most of which have shed their green aside from the pine trees that tower the slim walkways—are bare and grey.

In a strange way, it's beautiful, but all Irene can think of is when did it become so cold? Left in the castle day in and day out, she'd only had a modest glimpse of the brilliant crescendo that autumn builds to, and the bare decrescendo it leaves in.

Iris brings them to an iron bench isolated amongst the towering pine. She points her wand, both clearing the seat of snow and charming them both in a heating spell. They sit and say nothing at first, taking in the scenery and frigid shade that veils them.

'I'm sorry for the last weeks,' Irene says. She's been lost in her own mind, unable to think past what she's been dealt. And what a terrible friend she must have been.

'An apology is not why we are here. Did you know Minerva came to talk to me about you? Minerva! Of all the people.' Iris sighs. 'Let's just chat. Get you out of that funk you're in.'

'You've been doing well in classes lately. That's an accomplishment.' Iris smiles.

Irene smiles back. 'Yeah, I think I'll ask Dumbledore to take me out of tutoring next spring. I've lost so many chances to go to Hogsmeade with everyone this semester. I just want to do more normal things with the group.'

'What? Do you miss us so terribly while you're locked up in the castle?' she teases.

'Yeah, I do,' and the admittance is easy.

'Merlin, Irene.' Her skin flushes a brilliant red. 'Must you be so earnest?'

She shrugs. It's the truth, after all. 'I find it freeing.' When everything else in her life seems to suffocate her in mistruths. 'I wish I could be more honest in other areas of my life.'

'Is this about Riddle?'

Irene can't help but sigh. 'A little perhaps.' Actually, a lot.

'I don't understand why you don't just tell him to sod off. I'm sure Minerva would gripe about it, but she'd find you another tutor in time. It doesn't matter if Riddle's done nothing. It doesn't matter how bloody perfect he is. He's just a fifteen-year-old boy. If you're uncomfortable, you're uncomfortable. Trust your instincts and tell him to shove it!' Iris slaps her back hard. 'We're Gryffindors, right?'

There's nothing to combat with that. Irene feels her larch wand sing in her pocket. Perhaps she's been playing it too safe, allowing him to get closer and closer without pushback.

'Oh, by the way,' Irene remembers. 'Professor Merrythought said she'd ask Fon-my boss if I can have the twelfth off.'

'So, you'll be able to make it to Hogsmeade this weekend?'

'If he's not an absolute tyrant and restores my faith in humanity, yes.'

'Let's hope not then. I'm a much better date than Cadwallader.' Iris winks. 'I have so many shops I want to take you! They've got the cutest accessories at Charlotte's. And Periwinkle's has the most interesting bewitched trinkets.'

Like that, the conversation spirals into an animated explanation of all the magical shops that fill the small town of Hogsmeade. Irene feels the fantastical thrill that magic brings slip back in to replace that trepidation that seems to accompany it so often now. But in the back of her mind lingers the unease of Tuesday's tutoring.

What is she to do about Tom Riddle?

In their nook of the library, Tom leans against the old rickety shelves waiting for his guest. It's after breakfast and before classes when they hold their Tuesday tutoring sessions. His fingers trill against the cover of his book. Anticipation builds in each tap. With only two weeks left in the semester, Tom's come to the precipice. He's not sure of what, but he can sense it. A humming beneath his skin.

It's unanticipated. Nearly three and a half months have passed. This little side project of his was to be a subtle, swift affair. It wasn't supposed to take this much time to garner one little Gryffindor's secrets. Nothing complex, a simple background check into an interesting new addition to the castle. But with each week past, he's found himself gradually entangled in an intricate web of lies.

Which only sweetens the mystery.

Tom hears familiar steps resound against stone. He shuts his book and pulls at his tie. Last Thursday was unfortunate, but matters such as these can take time, patience. It won't be too long from now.

Over the past weeks, he's attempted various strategies to charm her, probing every reaction of Miss Hill. Considerate, gentle, meek yet wary is what he's gathered, necessitating a gradual approach. Difficult over the brief span of a month's time, but feasible if he played his cards right.

And Hill has already shown moments of vulnerability.

Around the corner comes the slight form of Hill. Her back is straight, winter robe almost swallowing her in its bulk, but something's different today. Away from the ground and straight ahead lies her focus.

'Morning, Irene.' Tom smiles.

'Morning, Tom.' Hill smiles back. She's swift on her feet, dissimilar to the laboured pace she's carried the weeks prior. In no time, she's at their table, notebook and quill out, ready for whatever work Tom gives her.

He blinks.

Hill looks up at him with another smile. 'What are we reviewing today?'

'Magical Theory,' he says. 'Has something good happen? I can't help but notice your smile.'

'Oh, something like that. I received some great news.' She nods, eyes focused on him. 'Shall we get started?'

'Absolutely,' Tom says.

And something is terribly wrong.

They start the session.

Tom couldn't be more correct. He glances up over his Hogwarts: A History text to peer over at Hill, who is dutifully filling out the parchment he provided. Her black hair spills over her shoulders like ink from a well as her pale ivory hand scratches the quill's nib across paper.

She's far more focused than usual. Fleeting touches, praises, and entries to conversation, she's all but ignored. Between last week and now, her behaviour has taken an opposite turn. Distrust now guards her in sharp waves rather than hesitant pulses. It's curious….

And maddening.

Tom thought their little 'moment' was enough to get them on the right foot for once, but it appears he was wrong. Which is dreadfully frustrating and confounding.

He shuts his book and positions himself behind to observe her work.

'Irene, that is enough for today.' Tom smooths his hand down her shoulder, delighting in her prickling magic before his touch leaves her.

However, Hill quickly pushes from her seat and steps from his grasp. She places her quill on the table and rolls up her parchment.

With a step away, Tom flicks his wrist, and the books return to their respective positions in the library.

Something's gone wrong.

Hill is calm, relaxed, relieved. All too eager to leave him, to escape him. Tom clenches his jaw. Her hands unhurriedly grasp and tuck away her belongings into her Expansion Charmed bag. Which either is a result of wealth or her Ministry connections. Just another area that Tom remains unwillingly ignorant of. He places his hands behind him as he waits for Hill to finish gathering her things. He taps his finger against his palm.

She approaches him and bows her head. 'Thank you for the lesson today, Tom.' A bright smile on her face brought on by the freedom she'll have from him stretches across pale features.

And that just won't do.

'We are destined for the same chamber. Why don't we head there together?' Tom smiles back.

'There's the whole Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry. I wouldn't want to step on any toes,' Hill says.

'I insist.' He gestures to the exit, but feels her hackles raise. Before she can refuse, he adds, 'I have something to discuss before our tutoring sessions next week.'

There's a brief flicker of something but, returning to the Hill he's seen the weeks preceding today, she nods in agreement. They begin the walk out of the library. The fifth floor is a far trip, with enough back passageways to give them privacy on the walk to Magical Theory. Tom takes the lead, gradually steering them to a more private corridor.

'Are we not taking the main stairs?' Irene asks.

'This is a secret passage only known by the professors and prefects. It's rarely used,' Tom says.

The bright halls of the castle are left behind them as they enter the tight walkway hidden in Hogwarts. The sparse enchanted candles grant light in this narrow corridor. Candlelight flickers across Hill's face. Tom thinks he sees a hint of fear in her shadowed features.

Apprehension spikes in Hill.

He smiles. 'You mentioned our house rivalry. I thought it only rational to keep our walk from prying eyes.'

She brushes a hand through her hair and nods.

It's only a matter of minutes until they are isolated deep in the closed narrow passageways of Hogwarts.

'I wanted to discuss your potions performance.' Tom glances down at Irene.

Her gaze is forward, almost no reaction to his entry to conversation. 'Is this about the incident in potions?'

'Yes and no,' he says.

Though she'll never know the truth. Hill's potions results have been rapidly improving. The 'explosion' in their last class was due to the ever-helpful dimwit Davies.

'I have been considering this since I began tutoring you. It's regarding practical lessons.' Which, of course, is a lie.

The only practical sessions he'd prepared for were charms. But it's far too dangerous to attempt this on the second floor where several professors' offices are located. As discovered from their lesson prior, it seems surface Legilimency does not work on Miss Hill, and although he could perform the spell here, he'd much prefer more privacy and time.

'Considering what, exactly?' Her brows furrow, pressed together in either distrust or distaste. The acrid sensation in the air tells Tom it must be both.

'Extra lessons in the potions classroom.'

It's the perfect location. The dungeons are Slytherin territory, after all.

There's a brief pause, a long breath, then she answers a firm, 'no.'

'No?'

He blinks. That…was unexpected. Hill has never refused a suggestion until now. She's always willing to bend over to the demands of others. His lips twitch with the urge to frown.

'No,' she repeats.

The hands placed behind his back clench to redirect his growing confusion. 'Irene, I must urge you to reconsider. It would be faster to—'

'I already said no,' she says coldly and briskly walks ahead.

And this certainly is a shock. He's not quite sure what's come over her. 'May I ask why you are so opposed?'

She rolls her eyes. 'I don't feel comfortable with it.'

Tom grinds his teeth. Hill's sudden transformation to stubborn is baffling and frustrating. She's never felt comfortable with him. Since the start, she's had nothing but distrust wielded at him. A dagger poised to strike upon the slightest provocation. So why is now any different from before?

'Perhaps there is something I can do to make you more amicable?' He smiles, though pinched.

'There is nothing you can do. I simply don't want to be in a classroom alone with you.' She glares and there's that determination he had seen in the courtyard.

'And why is that? Have I done something to make myself untrustworthy, Hill?' his voice echoes against the stone walls. His building impatience is at its peak.

'Fine, you want to know why I don't trust you? I'll spell it out for you, Riddle.' She rounds on him in a full stop, crowding Tom against the narrow space. Firelight fills her eyes as they narrow on his. 'You give me headaches, and I'm not a fan of them.'

His eyes widen, then narrow into slits.

No. Not even Lestrange has seen through him—a pureblood trained in the Mind Arts.

'Anyway, I'm already improving. Dumbledore has agreed that tutoring will end after this semester.' She clutches her bag close to her chest and moves to press past Tom.

Dumbledore?

His irritation boils into wrath. Dumbledore has ended their lessons—has set fire to another prize he's claimed? His fingers dig into skin. It would be that self-aggrandising old codger to step in Tom's way at the last minute. His nose wrinkles in distaste.

This is not how things are meant to go.

Hill's supposed to agree, allow him the opportunity to take whatever secrets he desires from her. Weeks practising both Legilimency and Obliviation are riding on this chance. His teeth grind together. In his ears, the pulse of his blood is thunderous. Why does Hill have to be so annoyingly wary? Why does she have to make this harder than it needs to be?

Should he take a step back, wait, and try again?

But nothing but anger wars inside. Acting as the kind-hearted Slytherin prefect is starting to grate.

It won't matter much if she forgets, will it?

He snatches her wrist. Action as quick as a snake. His wand slides to the palm of his other hand. There's no one here to watch them. And although impulsive, this place offers the privacy he desires.

'We aren't finished talking,' Tom's voice is dangerously low.

Hill pulls against him. He restrains her by force. His grip is a vise around her.

'Let go,' she demands in a snarl he's never heard. Vicious. A lion parading as a rabbit.

'No, I don't think I will,' he nearly laughs. A harsh tug drives her closer.

Her robes rustle, and a hand flicks forward. 'Stupe—!'

But Tom's faster. 'Expelliarmus.'

A bright burst of red flares. Her larch wand snaps into his hand.

'You should have asked for duelling lessons,' he tuts, stowing away her wand.

In two wide strides, he corrals her against the wall.

A hand expands towards him, curled in a fist. She lashes out at him like some muggle.

Tom catches it—binds it. In a sharp tug, her arms are above her. He's taller, larger. She has no chance against him physically, but Gryffindors are never one to back down. Unyielding, Hill bucks against him, legs kicking. He presses his leg between hers, caging her to the wall. Hill bites her lip, uselessly thrashing. Tom can't help but smile. An intoxicating heat floods him. One brought on by his overwhelming dominance.

But he's had enough of her resistance.

Tom pulls her arms towards him, then crushes her against the wall. Hears the sickening crunch of her body against stone. She whimpers pitifully as her mind scrambles. Nervous vibrations of her confusion and trepidation colour the air. He can feel the pulse of her blood in his grip, hear the heavy breaths of her lungs. It feeds the heady rush needed to build his power.

If a door has closed, then he'll carve out another.

Tom seizes her wrists in one hand, pinning them above. Cold stone scrapes against skin. She shivers. Her quakes shudder against him. Something shoots down his spine, hot and electric. He grabs her jaw, forcing her to face him. Shadowed features and tightly shut lids meet his. They're intimately close, legs entangled. Hot breaths brush against his skin.

'Won't you open your eyes for me, darling?' Tom coaxes.

Irene bites her lip. 'Sod off, Riddle!'

'Stubborn,' he chides, pressing his nails roughly into her skin.

She gasps and her eyes open. No choice but to meet his gaze. And as dark eyes bore into his own, he smiles beneath the dim candlelight.

'I have one more matter to settle, Irene,' he purrs with elation coursing through him. 'I promise you won't feel, or remember, a thing.'

Wandlessly, wordlessly, he casts, 'Legilimens.'

It's similar to the sensation of having the Sorting Hat rifle around in there, yet distinctly different. Irene's no longer seeing the darkened passageway or flickering candles. There's nothing but a black void that she looks out upon, which can only represent what must be her mind. Irene shivers. Her head pulses in angry quakes.

Where was she again?

What occurred seconds ago almost slips from her. Dazed and panicked. Irene can't seem to think straight. But now is not the time to hesitate.

She's in danger.

Danger from what?

Tremors rage through her. Irene clutches her head and curls into her knees. A headache. Right. She's trapped here. Trapped in this void. But she's not alone.

Tom Riddle is here. Inside.

No. Her heart pounds, drums.

No. Her power writhes under her skin. Fingers dig into the flesh of her skull. She can feel him. Anxious beats tremble from her chest to her body.

'No, get out!' she panics.

Yet no one answers.

However, she can feel him. He's everywhere. A magic so terrifyingly powerful and….

Filling.

It's impossible to ignore. Hot like molten metal, it burns through her skin, her bones. Irene has no choice but to take it. And soon that overwhelming heat becomes all-consuming. Magic trickles from him and into Irene without prompt—she won't know that this is a defensive response until much later—her unique abilities taking on a mind of their own.

And she can do nothing to stop it, too lost in the rapturous taste of Voldemort's power.

No.

What she's absorbed before does not compare to the taste of what's flowing freely into her. Warm. Succulent. Sating.

You can't.

She just can't help from coaxing out more, taking her fill. Outside her mind, silver tendrils spark from her chest and wrap themselves around her invader. And that's when the burning truly starts.

A heat so hot it's nearly freezing passes through what Irene imagines are veins—or what Fontius had called Qi lines. Irene trembles. It's intoxicating, this power that flows into her, filling her, making her whole in a way she's never felt before. She breaks out into a cold sweat. Feverish, her head drunkenly basks in the raw energy that passes into her. All nerves firing with pleasure.

This isn't right.

It's like a drug. Freeing, empowering, enthralling. Her control slips further. She wants more and more. And she can't believe she'd ever thought magical artifacts to be enough when such irresistible —

Stop!

Irene pushes free.

Her mind rips away from Riddle's entangled one. Her vision swims and light glares in her eyes. She shuts them tight. A ringing hums in her ears when she opens them once more. She's back in the dim passage. But it's no longer dark, illuminated by the magic that courses through the walls of Hogwarts. And even worse, there's that flowing heat that still streams into her, drugging her mind. Tom's hands rest on her chin and wrist—eyes dazed, euphoric.

She pushes him off, ending their connection. Tom falls to the floor in a clatter, but Irene can't seem to hear—her heart beating loudly, ticking like the seconds of a clock at night. She shuts her eyes. Boisterous drums thunder away in her chest, her head, her ears. That power…. Her stomach feels full.

God.

The urge to retch rolls in Irene. Her skin is prickling, senses fully in tune with the magic around. There's no need to open her eyes. She knows, knows that her magic has activated on its own. Her teeth press into the tender flesh of her lips. 'Slow the flow,' she begs herself. But her thoughts are addled as the reality of that sick fullness settles in. It's impossible to reel calm in. She feels herself teetering on the edge of all her fears.

Irene rips open her pouch. Her hand is inside, palm open. 'Accio potion.' The bottle snaps into her hand. She pops it open, downing it. It trickles down her throat. A bitter smoky taste. The cool sensation of her body reassures her it's working. Her magic ebbs, caging itself back in her chest.

And Irene breathes.

Only now does she notice she's holding her breath. But she feels nothing but that nauseating fullness in her gut.

God.

Irene opens her eyes to see Tom still sitting on the floor of the corridor. Her heart quakes inside.

Pale and sickly, limbs trembling like an addict.

This is wrong.

Blue skin that almost mirrors that of her mother's and blown pupils reflect.

You're responsible for this.

Tom's eyes latch onto her—bore into her, blame her—and she sees the red glint in them that stutters her pulse all together.

You almost killed him.

In his expression, there's a flash of anger and then something she can't parse through her panic.

And you enjoyed it.

Irene can't say a thing, she just runs. Straight back from where they came and to no destination in mind, she escapes. What she's running from, she's not sure. But it's not her fear of Voldemort that sets her feet aflame, that digs a hole in her chest.

She'd nearly killed him—separated him from his magic.

Thoughts akin to that cycle through her head. And what had Evan called it? Vitality magic. Godric. Her knees feel weak, like she'll collapse on the floor—the waves finally pulling her to sea. The sensation of Tom's magic sits warm under her skin.

It disgusts her how much she liked it. It disgusts her how much she wanted to take more.

A waking nightmare. Everything she feared come to life—becoming the monster she's so dreaded.