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Chapter 28: Styx

Dust coated shattered stones and pockmarked grass like grey snow. The smell of it was inescapable. Each breath brought him back to dark days when he had been hunted by the children and had known he would be found no matter where he hid.

Tom looked out at his property and let his mounting anger burn away those awful memories. Farther afield were sparse leaves and the remains of shrubs, all buried underneath a layer of wood chips where the nearest lines of trees and hedges had once stood.

Knowing how much worse it could have been brought him no relief. Had he not arrived in time to quell the winds, they would have done far more than uproot trees, shred his lawns, and level the northern sector of his estate. If he had been any slower in responding, they would have raged unchecked and left naught behind but bedrock. No one else could have calmed that storm. The winds had been too strong.

Far too strong.

They had been Potter's work. Tom was almost certain.

"My lord." The sight of dried blood on Felix's proud face earned him no more pity than his tattered robes.

"What happened?" Tom spat at him.

"There was an attack, my lord," Rosier answered at once. "We—"

"Crucio!"

Rosier's writhing brought him no pleasure. Nothing would bring him pleasure but acquiring that wretched ring and tearing the worm who owned it into bloody shreds.

Tom focused on that goal and forced his rage to uncoil. It had been a long time since he had been so wroth. Until Rosier had uttered a reply, he had been half-convinced his question had come out in Parseltongue.

"I am aware there was an attack," Tom said once Rosier had recovered enough for simple conversation. "What happened when you responded? Where is the attacker?"

"We attacked him, my lord," Rosier all but vomited the words at him. "We—"

"Was it Potter?"

The battered servant faltered. "P-P-Potter, my lord?"

"Yes, you worthless fool, Potter! Our Lord Governor. Was it him who attacked tonight?"

"N-n-no, my lord," Rosier stammered. "Blond hair, not black. Big, broad man. Blue eyes, I think, but—"

"You think?" Tom asked sharply.

"Yes, my lord. It was dark and hard to see. There—"

"Legilimens."

The memories blurred through his mind; winds that tossed trees skyward, earth spraying into the air as if riding geysers, and then a single flash of the attacker's face via the light of an ill-aimed killing curse. It was just as Rosier had told him, blond hair and a strong face to compliment broad shoulders and a barreled chest.

So not Potter. Potter would not hide behind false faces. The man was too prideful; his shameless affronts thus far had proven it.

Rosier's thoughts mimicked his own and showed him Charlus Potter on the night of the new year, unleashing gale force winds through his own banquet hall and scattering the white-masked knights.

Tom re-centred himself. There would be time for contemplation once all the pieces were collected.

Rosier's memories were guided

Back to the blond man who had allegedly unleashed the winds. Tom watched him stumble, roll, cast a silver shield, then…

No. No, that was impossible. The ground exploding in a spray of sentient stones the size and shape of dragons, plus a hundred other beasts he had no names for…

That was Spreadhadh Talammh. It had to be.

Except there was no way it was. No man could cast both Sgriosfàile and Spreadhadh Talammh. That was categorically impossible.

Unless…

Tom forced the memories to replay thrice over. There was no sign of the blond-haired man when those winds had been unleashed, not even the faintest shimmer of concealment. It was possible the man had merely been sheltered by the treeline, or that Rosier's vantage point had been insufficient.

But it was also possible that the attacker hoped he would think just that.

Rosier groaned and whimpered once the connection had been severed. Tom barely heard him.

They had worked together — Potter and whoever this man was. The Lord Governor had called the winds the way no other could, and then he had fled and let the blond-haired brute take his place.

It made sense. Potter had grown fatigued during their last confrontation and was likely to avoid risking that again, plus this kept his hands clean. It was his accomplice who had been at risk.

"The man behind the emerald mask," Tom murmured aloud. That fit as well — earth and fire were his own affinities and he himself had proved mastery over two of the elemental incarnations could be gained.

But the question remained — who had hidden behind the mask? Who had escaped from him tonight?

The man had looked no more than twenty, but that meant less than nothing. No one that age could pose so strong a threat. This face must just have been another mask.

So who could possibly be hiding under it?

His frustration boiled over. There was too much of it. It yearned for an escape and urged him into violent action.

But not against the masked man, he regretfully decided. Not yet. Not until there was a proper lead.

It was no matter. Potter and his ring were more important.

But how best to take it? Could he draw the masked man's ire elsewhere, then attack the Potters once again?

No. That would never work. The man was clearly in Potter's back pocket and the anger rolling off him on the solstice implied a personal vendetta.

Who the hell had he aggrieved so grimly as to make such a fearsome enemy? Could Bellatrix handle the man behind that emerald mask? Could Dolohov? What about the pair of them?

Tom remembered the way smoke had curled up from the stones and the ringing in his ears as lightning pounded all around him.

No, he decided as cold anger coiled tight around his chest. The vendetta was personal both ways now. The wretch was Tom's to kill, Tom's to teach would true power was.

But Potter first, and the ring along with him.

But how? Brute force would not serve him this time. Potter had proven himself skillful and well-manned.

The governor's weeping swam up through his thoughts. All over his worthless son. Yes… the brat could well be the key. Dare he risk trying to use Evans? The Potter boy was infatuated with her and she was coming along.

But not fast enough. Not for her to agree to that. Not yet.

And she would agree. All of them agreed. That was what made his work art, and for true art he could be patient.

Long blonde hair and eyes the colour of the ocean bobbed through his mind as if in mockery. Being patient there was hard, especially when he had no time for such slow pursuits.

Tom felt himself stirring at the mere memory of her. She was well-positioned given his current aims. She had an easy inroads to the Potter boy, and surely the brainless fool would be putty in her hands.

"Maybe just this once," he murmured to himself. There had been a wild look in her eye the last time they met. "Just this once."

It was quiet but for the sound of water pounding hard against the nearby shore and the gentle chiming of her storefront's bells as a strong breeze blew in. The backdrop was among her favourites and was a large reason she had set up shop along the coast, but there was no enjoying it tonight; not while panes of glass still shuddered from the onslaught of her shrill scream and not while she still trembled from the backlash of her shattered wards.

Narcissa tried to level out her breathing, but doing so was no mean feat. She had never smelled so much iron in the air and there was nowhere safe for her to look. The leaking blood had spread and there were long smears of it across her hardwood floor. Moonlight spilled in through the front window and painted those dark streaks the colour of bad rust.

Narcissa swayed where she stood. Her stomach roiled and her face and neck started to tingle as dark pillars closed in from the corners of her sight.

She blinked, hard, and clamped down on her mind. I am Narcissa Black, she told herself, daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The sight of blood would not unman her the way it had when she was a little girl. She was above that. She was a Black.

The grey hew retreated from her vision and her breathing deepened, then started to slow. Narcissa told herself the smell of iron was just a figment of her imagination and that the acidic taste when she swallowed just meant she needed to eat more. Soon her trembling grew faint and enough of her wits returned to confront the larger problem.

Feet away from her laid the source of all that blood — a broad man lying prone with a square of fabric missing from the black robes he wore. Where his leg should have been was dark blood leaking from a wound deep enough to show off a chunk of something sharp and…

The room lurched and she almost lost her footing. Styx… The man had splinched himself, whether from a careless apparition or a complication tied to barging through her wards.

Which brought her back to the central question — why had this man forced his way into her enchantry?

Narcissa drew her wand and held it between numb fingers, maintaining calm via force of will. "Jungere." There was a loud bang and a puff of purple smoke around the leg that had appeared and reattached itself.

She flicked her wand and caused the motionless body to roll over and steal her breath away.

The glow of moonlight transformed his slick blond hair into a pool of molten silver and turned his bloodless face a ghostly shade of grey. She had never thought of him as striking, but seeing him now was like staring at an undead king whose tomb had been uncovered.

Except for the rhythmic shifting of his chest and the cold shock coursing through Narcissa's veins.

It was Malcolm Renn.

She looked him over as dread settled in the pit of her churning stomach. There was no sign of the silver sword he had retrieved from her earlier that evening.

It was just as she had feared — Riddle must have stolen back at least the sword.

Indecision froze her. With this man's death would go any chance of laying hands on the founders' trinkets, if indeed he still possessed the others. But he had been discovered and she had no way of being sure what Riddle knew. Could he trace Renn's survival back to her if she kept him alive?

Or had he tracked the sword to her already?

That possibility decided her.

Riddle would kill her if he learned the truth, and it would likely be an awful death. Any man who had done what he had to Andromeda over the years was not one of reason or compassion.

And it was not as though she could stop him if he came for her.

Narcissa's eyes wandered to Renn's injured shoulder, and then to his closed eyes. There had been a flash of murder in them when discussing Riddle's ownership of those trinkets. She had dismissed it as a trick of the light or as a missed judgement by her at the time, but there was no doubt now — Malcolm Renn had fought Riddle, and he'd had some success in doing so.

And he had come to her in his bid for freedom. That was an important detail that might well save her life.

Narcissa levitated his body up off her floor and clutched his uninjured arm, then turned on one heel, stepping through complete darkness onto beige tiles. The first thing that struck her was the smell of sanitized surfaces. The sharp scent was a relief after smelling so much blood, as was how quickly a blue-robed nurse rushed in their direction.

Narcissa allowed herself to be led into a small sitting room while Renn was taken upstairs for treatment. "What happened?" a scribe asked once they were alone. "Any information would be of great help."

"I'm unsure," Narcissa said, hating the taste of her admission. "The only wound I saw was the one on his shoulder. He splinched his leg arriving home, but I reattached the limb the best I could, then took him straight here." That ought to suffice — enough to imply a deep connection and ensure he was treated properly, but nothing overt or revealing.

A floating quill scribbled on the scribe's notepad. "So the two of you live together?"

"Yes," she replied at once. Attaching herself to him was paramount. It was important she knew the moment he was awake. Every second might be vital if their dealings were no longer secret.

"What is his name and age?" the scribe asked.

"Malcolm Renn, and he turns twenty-two this summer. May I come upstairs and wait for him?"

"Are you married?" Narcissa shook her head. That was one lie she could not tell convincingly. "Then no. I'm sorry."

"Are you certain?" Narcissa wished she'd brought her purse, the subtle jingling of gold could have been a boon right then.

The scribe offered her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Miss, but we have strict policies about that sort of thing. We can contact you when he's discharged if you provide us access to your floo network."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," she said after some brief consideration. Her floo access would have to be closed off the moment she arrived home. "What time does your lobby open in the morning?"

"Nine o'clock, Miss."

Her heart sank. That was far too late. Her home was well-warded, but it would not keep out Riddle for that long. Where could she stay in the meantime? Not with her parents, who had come to view her hunter as the son that they had never had.

Then it dawned on her. "I'll be here," she told the mousy-haired scribe with a winning smile before briskly strolling to the nearest apparition point and heading home.

The deck creaked when her feet touched down. She was already fumbling with the lock before the sound had faded. She had to be fast in flooing to her grandfather's estate, then closing off his connection to the floo network.

"Good evening, Narcissa."

She froze in mid-stride, halfway to her fireplace. "Hello, Tom. I wasn't expecting you tonight." Every instinct screamed for her to run, or else to stand stone still and cling onto the childish hope that doing so would render her invisible, but neither was a real option. The first would only urge him into action, and the second would be useless.

"I hadn't planned to come." It was chilling how he said it, as if this meeting was a pleasant surprise he had stumbled into.

"What changed your mind?" Narcissa asked, keeping her voice calm while her mind raced.

Could she get a curse off fast enough to catch him unaware? She liked her chances against most men when it came to trading spells, but not against Riddle.

"I wanted to see you." Usually his words were smooth like the silken fabric of her favourite dresses, but tonight they sounded oily, like whatever Malcolm Renn must use to slick his hair. "I've found myself wanting that more often every day." That had not been the sort of thing an enraged killer would say, had it? So what—

Riddle was on her faster than she had believed possible, pressing Narcissa's back against the wall. She tried to slam her forehead up into his face but succeeded only in jostling his head. Why did he have to be so tall? She was easily the height of most men, yet she couldn't even reach his nose.

"I know you want it, too." Riddle's breath was hot against her face. "I've seen it in your eyes; that wild, feral look of an animal who's been caged too long." She wanted to shriek at him, to scream that caged animals wanted to escape, but his fingers were around her neck and squeezing hard. "Admit it. Explain how much you've wanted this." Narcissa strained to free her hand. She would not let this happen, but it was pinned against the wall and there was no space to move. "Say it!" Riddle stepped back from her, far enough to trail his hands down the base of her neck and toward her chest. Far enough to free her right arm.

The smack rang through her sitting room as harsh heat throbbed through the back of her right hand.

Then her wand was out and levelled at his chest as Riddle stumbled back and clenched his face. "Get the fuck away from me!" Blood was leaking between his long fingers and dripping onto her floor. "Get out or I swear on all your gods that there will be nothing left of you to save!" Green sparks swirled around her wand tip as if daring him to call her bluff.

"Fine." His blood-smeared lips twisted into a snarl and showed off at least one chipped tooth. "But we'll do this the hard way next time, and I swear to you Narcissa, there will be a next time." Narcissa watched him melt into smoke and streamed out her open window.

She was shaking so hard she lost her balance and stumbled back against the wall. Styx, she thought as her legs bowed and trembled. Oh, Styx…

"Earth be my witness now, the vaulting Sky above

and the dark cascading waters of the Styx—I swear

by the greatest, grimmest oath that binds the happy gods!"

— Homer

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