June to July 1943, 5th year
The exams came and went. The fifth years took their Ordinary Wizarding Levels, the seventh years their Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Levels.
Tom tried to mend their friendship with an apology and a gift, but Naenia resolutely ignored him. She still had to put up with him for prefect duties, but just because she was still angry with him didn't mean she couldn't act professionally.
He tried again, just before the last meeting of the Duelling Club, and when she refused him once again, he got angry. They were both angry. Maybe it would have been better if Weatherton hadn't put them up for the last duel of the school year, but at least they didn't hurt anyone else.
They were supposed to celebrate the exams being over.
Instead, Naenia 'beat the living hell out of Riddle' as Rosier had so nicely worded it. She honestly couldn't remember much about the fight, only how furious she had been, the boiling anger inside of her and how she had stood over him, lying on the ground, head and nose bleeding, his wand nowhere nearby. Weatherton had declared the match over, visibly shaken, and Naenia had come back to her senses.
She had looked over the crowd and seen intimidated little boys, being scared of – of the both of them, she supposed. And Naenia had not offered Tom a hand, had just hopped down the platform, collected Marin from Black and left.
Admittedly, not the best way to end the school year, but she had just been so angry.
She spent the train ride with Amelia and Black, watching the countryside fly by while her friends chatted about one unimportant topic or another.
And then she was back home.
Ꝋ
The forest had always calmed Naenia. The trees shielded her from the sun and the summer heat. The noises coming from one of the streams and the various animals and creatures living in it weaved a soothing melody of nature. Magic flowed around her. The forest was alive.
Naenia listened to the magic, felt it around her and let it slip through her fingers as she manipulated it ever so slightly, no wand in sight, no words spoken aloud. It was relieving. It felt natural. It felt right.
She had never felt quite right in the house that was full of Undead and now she was the only living being left. Whenever she stopped to listen, there was no sound to be heard. No breathing, no beating hearts, only the faint rustling of clothes and maybe a voice here or there. All around here there were only the dead and she felt incomplete.
When Naenia had returned for the summer, Veiovis had already left. He had apparently disappeared one day to join Grindelwald's forces. The rest of the family was unsure what to do with him, because he technically hadn't broken any rules, but the Lémures had always made a point to stay neutral. It wasn't her problem, Naenia told herself. Her parents and the elders would deal with it.
At least it bought Orcus more time to find a solution for his problem. Or Naenia might have to bear children after all, even though, four months shy of turning seventeen, she still did not want to. The mere thought of being involved with another person in any kind of intimate relationship disturbed her. It didn't bother her when it concerned other people, but she never wanted that for herself. She couldn't imagine this ever changing, but she was only sixteen and had an eternity before her. (Or a few hundred years, at the very least.)
Naenia sensed the approaching Thestrals before she could see or hear them. There were three of them slowly approaching her – called, inadvertently, by her slight disturbance of the forest's magic. They were majestic creatures with their gaunt, skeleton-like bodies and leathery wings, their skin smooth and dark, their black manes and their sharp, sharp fangs.
They could be so gentle, Naenia thought as she stroked one of the Thestrals. So soft and kind and caring. But humans were afraid of death and Thestrals not only looked like beings of the dead, but also had this small little quirk of being only visible to those who have seen death. It was unfortunate, the way people perceived them as bad omens, even though they had nothing to do with anyone's misfortune.
It was the way of life, she supposed, now surrounded by all three Thestrals, one softly nudging her side, another leaning into her touch.
She was almost of age. She would be allowed to perform the Ritual soon, though she did not wish to ask Him for immortality just yet. It was tempting – now more than ever with her as the only living being left in the family. But seventeen was still rather young and she had to wait for one of her brothers to produce heirs, so it was clear she wouldn't have to force herself to do it.
Her parents would let her attend the annual ball of the House of Black again this year – and probably the Malfoy family's Yule Ball as well. She would see her pureblood friends, then. And, maybe, Tom as well. If he had received an invitation. Naenia wasn't sure how far his connections reached, how true and deep his flock's admiration and respect ran. He was, after all, still only a halfblood.
Naenia could only ask Black or wait and see for herself, because, for the first time since the two of them had started at Hogwarts, Tom and Naenia did not write to each other during the summer holidays. It was a strange feeling.
She still exchanged letters with Amelia, with Black and with Nott. But they were lacking something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Naenia wasn't sure how to feel about that.
She had every reason to be angry with him, to be disappointed, to be sad. She was better off without him. He had never been truly her friend. He had, right from the start, only stayed at her side because he wanted something from her.
It hurt.
It hurt to think about him, about their friendship, about the way it had ended. She longed to reach out and tell him that she forgave him. But she couldn't do that. Tom had done a horrible, horrible thing. He had performed an act so terrible that she could not, should not, ever forgive him. But she wanted to.
She wondered what he was up to. Maybe he was visiting Morfin Gaunt. Maybe he was immersed neck-deep in his studies of the Dark Arts and do God knows what. She hoped he wasn't doing anything… Anything what? Bad? Evil? What could a sixteen-year-old boy do on his own, when the Trace still clung to him? Unless he had found a way to dispel the Trace like the Lémures had.
Naenia shook her head and pushed the thoughts about him aside.
She closed her eyes and let her mind paint a picture of the magic surrounding her – how each plant and animal and creature, no matter how small, played its very own part, how the nearby stream washed the darkness away, how the trees filtered sunlight from above and magic from below. There was a longing inside her that wished to stay like this forever in a blissful stasis.
But she still had a life to live before she would be able to.
Ꝋ
He was here. At the ball.
Naenia should have known that Tom would attend. She had briefly considered it, sure, but she hadn't prepared herself for it.
He fit in perfectly with all the splendour and the pompously decorated hall around him, wearing an expensive looking dress robe in a nice, velvety green colour and quite a few select accessories showing off a wealth he did not possess. Naenia wondered whether these items were gifts, too, or whether he had acquired them in another way. As bribery, to name one. Or as means to appease his anger.
She, herself, wore a black dress made of heavy fabric with white, embossed patterns. All the Lémures did and no one else was clothed purely in black and white. It was a statement, a warning, but also a show of power and wealth. Something they had no need for but did all the same, because everyone did. That was what these events were for in the first place.
Black had jokingly called it her 'debut' in high society, because Naenia hadn't attended a ball in so long and only returned now that she was facing her seventeenth birthday.
It was easier, she noticed, having friends here. For once, out of the many times she had been to a pureblood gathering like this, she could breathe.
So she gladly accepted Perseus Black's hand for a dance and then Nott's, all the while avoiding Tom. She even danced with Lestrange, who seemed only slightly uncomfortable – no matter that he had been the one to ask. She talked with Black and had a discussion with Nott, but she knew she couldn't stay away from him all evening.
Although she did do her best to try.
Tom finally managed to corner her in between two musical pieces, taking her hand out of Nott's in a seemingly fluent motion. Switching partners like this was not unusual and backing out now would only gather unwanted attention. So Naenia had no choice but to resign herself to her fate.
He had taken her hand but nothing more than that. He was waiting for her to make the next move.
So Naenia raised the hand he was holding her with and laid her own in it. She guided his other one to her back. They were looking at each other, never breaking eye contact, not even once.
Then the music started. One step forward and two steps back. They were going around in circles.
It fit them perfectly.
He was tall and dark and handsome with his high cheekbones and sharp jawline and his deep, deep eyes. The luxurious dress robe fit him well. It emphasized his good looks.
He was also wearing a ring. She had been so busy avoiding him and then concentrating on keeping her calm that she hadn't noticed. It wasn't unusual for him to wear a ring, but this ring – this ring was special. She felt it to her very bones.
For a moment, Naenia forgot how to breathe. For a moment, the world around her blurred and vanished and everything was reduced to the singular feeling of the ring Tom was wearing against her own hand. For a moment, all Naenia could think about was a deep, deep longing and yearning and how much she wanted.
There, on the middle finger of his left hand, sat a crude gold ring with a large, black stone. That stone, Naenia was sure – although she couldn't see it clearly – was marked with the sign of the Deathly Hallows. Because this stone was the Stone of Resurrection. The one and only. The Hallow her family had sought after for centuries. And Naenia wanted.
He could see it in her face, clear as day. She knew that. She knew how dangerous that was. But she couldn't help herself. And even if she had managed to hide her longing, Tom would have known anyway. He knew her that well. He knew of her desire – undoubtedly remembered, even though she had only told him about it once. And he had a talent for sensing other people's emotions, not that he could empathise.
Tom didn't comment on it. Instead, he led them through one dance and then another and still he didn't say a single word.
People were watching them. The feared, respected Necromancer and the brilliant, ambitious orphan boy, dancing together. They made quite the pair.
Naenia knew what this looked like on the outside. She was aware that Tom had calculated this. It was only one of the many benefits he gained from this one little act.
He gave her a break after the third dance, handing her over to some frightened wizard who didn't know what to do with her, only to claim her as his partner again right afterwards.
"You have become quite the dancer," Naenia said eventually.
Tom smiled. It was a charming smile. She had seen it on his face very often, though rarely directed at herself. "I have learnt from the best."
He raised his eyes and stared above her head – to watch the other guests, Naenia presumed.
"We fit well together," he said quietly. "Everyone can see that."
"Of that there is no doubt," Naenia replied calmly.
"Then I am sure you are aware of how much we benefit each other. How much more we could benefit each other. If only we were to put aside our differences."
"If only," Naenia repeated. "But nothing is ever that easy in life."
"Indeed," he agreed. "Though I am sure we will. One day. After all, you belong to my side."
His smile was gentle, caring almost. And he made sure that everyone in the room could see the way he was looking at her. They wouldn't see the look on her face – not that there was anything to find beside nondescript calmness – because no one was looking at her too closely. They never did.
"You don't own me, Tom. No one ever will."
His smile dimmed slightly, his eyes saddening. "I know that, Naenia. You misunderstood. It wasn't what I meant at all. We are equals, you and I."
"I was under the impression that equals listened to each other and respected each other's views and values."
He arched an eyebrow. "Did I not do that to your satisfaction"?
"I think you did, in your own way," Naenia replied, feeling calm despite the infuriating smile that still graced his lips. "But you have crossed a line that you knew very well was there. And you did it intentionally, despite knowing how I would react."
"Have I offended you? Have I hurt you? But you are so much better than that, Naenia. You are so much more, my beautiful, precious Necromancer."
"Is that all I am to you? A Necromancer?"
There they were again, those sad eyes. Naenia couldn't stand them. But still her heart remained calm.
"No, Naenia. I just told you. You are so much more than that, my love."
She sighed. "You still do not understand me truly, Tom. And as long as you don't, I will not be able to forgive you."
He regarded her silently for a while. Then he said, "Very well." And with that he left her, in the middle of the floor, surrounded by dancing pureblood couples.
There had been a time when they had left the pretence behind, when they had been utterly honest with each other. That time had long been over.
Naenia watched as he stepped aside and out of sight.
She left the floor, herself, retreated to a more private spot, and then, finally, she allowed herself to feel the pain and anger that she had not been able to let herself feel before.
Black found her, eventually. He didn't ask, nor did he offer false consolations. But he took her by the hand and let her to the gardens, where they talked about trivialities and he made her heart feel lighter, if only for a moment.
AN
I'm gonna go ahead and confirm that, as of right now, the ring is not a Horcrux. Naenia would have noticed and Tom is not that stupid.
On that note, it seems like original-Tom killed the Riddles in the summer of 1943, between fifth and sixth year. But even using Morfin's wand should have alerted the ministry via the trace, so how did he avoid suspicion? Dumbledore would have known immediately, instead of having to resort to pure guessing based on some tempered memories. But JKR hasn't been very consistent with the trace overall, so there's that.