The Tales of Lyra Black

by lumosmancer

Long ago, a bard named Beedle made a remarkably grievous mistake. Centuries later, his mistake fell into the hands of 2 exceptionally bright wizards & history repeated itself. 5 decades later, a cunning young wizard discovered this mistake & gave his entire life for a single drop of this power. But Death wanted revenge. And so revenge was born on All Hallows Eve, 1979...

42. For Desperate Measures

The sky was bleeding, irradiating flames of red pouring down onto the earth.

Harry had never experienced a lucid dream before, and yet when he looked up he became painfully aware that the sky wasn't real he didn't wake up like he was supposed to. He had never seen anything like it before, and he couldn't stop his body from trembling in fear as though its vermillion hue posed a real threat to his life. The heavens were on fire, raining ash down onto the dying earth like snow, and there was nothing he could do except brush the white from his shoulders and pray he would wake up soon.

He was alone on an empty plane that was manifesting before his eyes, but he didn't know whether he was controlling its form. He wasn't very creative, he knew he couldn't come up with this level of intricate detail on his own — crumbling foundations of decrepit cottages draped in ivy and dust, trees and surrounding shrubs dotted with bleeding flowers, cobbled paths that were so shiny Harry could've sworn they were drenched in actual blood. It was like something out of a retro horror movie set, where the fog swallowed your ankles if you stood still for too long and the shadows of the twisted trees looked suspiciously humanesque in the corner of your eye. Harry knew it was the kind of place he would expect to encounter a few bloodthirsty vampires, and he trekked through the village with extra trepidation, both enchanted and afraid of the narrative his dream conjured for him. He wasn't alone on this plane, he could feel it in his bones.

Harry wasn't sure why, but as soon as he reached the village square he realised he had been here before, he knew this village existed in the waking world. The appearance of the hunched, dilapidated concrete village hall centred in the square sparked something in his brain and he frowned, uneasy with this new feeling. There was a scruffy war monument that was brand new when he visited last, and the bus shelters on the side of the square were certainly not there before. He couldn't place the square in any memories, but his stomach somersaulted as though he was reliving a milestone in his life. Something important happened here… no, not here exactly, but up on the neighbouring hill overlooking the village.

It was then that Harry truly felt the overwhelming presence of the crimson house on the hill as though he knew it was watching him the entire time — a handsome, stately manor surrounded by pruned gardens and prickly fences that warned trespassers to fear for their lives. Dense pink fog settled around the estate, he couldn't quite tell if there were any other properties on the land or groundskeepers he needed to be wary of.

Every instinct inside of Harry was screaming at him not to go up there, that the hill was where the heart of the danger lay in this nightmare and he would be in actual physical danger if he went, but he had to. His scar was aching, thudding repeatedly against his skull like a mechanical hammer, but it was an ache unlike any he had before. It wasn't Voldemort… or rather, it wasn't the man he met last year. It signalled danger was near. Was it a warning, or a message he needed to intercede? He had to find out.

Harry didn't remember his journey to the hill, in a blink he was suddenly at its grass feet. There was only one dust path upwards and he used the light from his wand to penetrate the garnet vapour like a sword, forging his way through the sea. His limited vision played with the fear poisoning his thoughts, and he couldn't stop envisioning a swarm of vampires hot on his trail as though they were waiting for the right moment to ambush him. He scolded himself out loud, feeling bashful for reading way too many issues of Lyra's horror comic books and freaking himself out.

But the second he thought of Lyra, a bloodcurdling, high-pitched scream pierced the air, and Harry almost dropped his wand from fright. The hairs on his neck and arms stood straight as though he had been electrocuted, and the nausea came instantly. He knew that scream, it couldn't be—

But he heard her howl again and he set off blindly through the fog without a second thought, terrified that she was at the heart of the danger.

The old cemetery seemed to appear out of nowhere; it took Harry a matter of seconds to stumble upon the graveyard's gothic metal gates wrapped in oozing vines and thorns, but he missed its threatening warning as he sprinted through them in search of the girl crying out for help. The fog was thinner here, as though the dead beneath his feet were sucking in the vapour, craving the refreshing minerals like thirsty roots, and he used its opacity to his advantage since his wand light was grating and it exacerbated his scar pains. He could smell the freshly earthed dirt around him as he dashed around the graves desperately trying to spot a fallen body or a flash of her silver irises. The sickly sweet tang of poisonous nectar hidden in the grass started to catch on his tongue as he waved through the overgrown fauna towards the more secluded, expensive crypts, but his apprehension upgraded to paralysing fear when he saw it. He knew for certain this time that the clearing he emerged into was soaked in it.

Blood.

And she was there, cowering in the shadow of a great obsidian statue in an unnatural kneeling position as though she was praying. She wasn't screaming anymore, but he could hear her distinctive groans as she fought against the force restraining her. His eyes unexpectedly prickled when he realised she was drenched in blood, she blended almost too flawlessly with the pool rippling around her knees - was it her blood?!

"LY—!"

Harry's voice died in his throat, her name never left his lips as his scar grew more restless and wriggled through the rest of his face as though an anaesthetic needle had been unknowingly jabbed into his eyebrow. He clutched the cursed side of his head and stumbled forwards, but he refused to pass out. Something inside him was changing, he could feel it deep within his chest, and it tugged at his core like an embedded fish hook. It was trying to escape, like a spooked wild animal it was pummelling his insides and Harry couldn't handle the pressure. He needed to be sick, he needed it out of him.

"Like clockwork…" the fog taunted him, its voice high and chilling, and Harry collapsed onto his knees, dry heaving into the frosty, red grass, "she calls, and you come running…"

The pressure wasn't leaving, Harry tried not to scrunch his eyes up but the world was starting to spin faster around him, making him dizzier. Squinting to combat the motion blur, Harry looked up at the fog encasing the tombs in search of the danger, he needed to kill whoever was responsible before his scar exploded.

"Curiouser and curiouser," they hissed, closing in on Harry from all sides, and he swore his head was splitting in half, "you shouldn't be here, Potter… it looks like she isn't the only one harbouring dark secrets…? How is it that you're here? A talented Legilimens, I do not think so, but I can sense your consciousness as clearly as my own, as though you can manoeuvre through the magical arts as well as I can."

The voice didn't belong to the fog. Harry blushed, feeling like an idiot when he caught onto his mistake, and he scrambled backwards when he found the dark pair of eyes watching him from afar. The scarlet curtain of mist rolling down from the largest obelisk in the graveyard parted and a teenage boy Harry could only describe as dangerously attractive stepped out into the red light, dressed in pale black robes and a cloak that helped him blend in with the darkness.

The pain in his scar was a permanent part of Harry now, it was so wearing that he couldn't remember a time before the incessant searing, but it still wasn't enough to distract him from shamelessly ogling the boy. He was as intimidating as he was mature, and Harry couldn't help but feel inferior in his company. Everything about him felt like a personal threat. His chiselled features and perfectly pouty lips were taut in an expression Harry knew he would never achieve. He was tall and held himself in a way that made Harry assume he was physically strong, but he couldn't tell if he was only a couple years older than him or if he was treading the line of adulthood as the aura he exuded was that of a young man who was not to be crossed.

A small part of Harry wanted the boy to like him, he didn't know why but he knew that he needed to prove himself to him, that he was an equal. The tugging in his chest purred at the thought, and Harry pressed harder against his scar as its burning intensified. He could be just as threatening as him one day, if he needed to be.

"How did you get here, Potter?" The boy demanded, the same hiss coming from his lips instead of the fog, and he walked until his shoes slapped against the pools of blood. He blocked Harry's view of Lyra, and Harry immediately tried to stagger forwards, needing to see her to make sure she wouldn't disappear, but the sudden movement disturbed his stomach and he tried not to hurl again.

"Who are you?" Harry spat, ignoring his question with one of his own.

The stranger's lips curled upwards at the sight of his ailment.

"Is your scar bothering you, boy? Is that how you've managed this?" But he cut off his own statement and marched towards Harry, abandoning his bowed slave to properly inspect him under the molton night's light as though only seeing his scar for the first time. His smirk quickly slid from his handsome face, his face failing only for a flicker, but then his dark eyes sparkled.

Fear wriggled through Harry but he maintained his intense eye contact. For a split second he swore he saw the stranger's eyes flash scarlet but he knew it was only the reflection of the sky in his widened gaze. It had to be, because the alternative was impossible.

Harry fought his flinch when the boy bent down to meet him on the floor, and he recognised Lyra's knotted wand in his hand. His stomach somersaulted again and he desperately tried to catch a glimpse of his enslaved friend over the stranger's shoulder, but the boy's wand hand flicked and Harry's head snapped back to him like a spring, enthralled by the stranger's proximity. He anticipated feeling his cold fingers on his cheek but he never touched him, and more dread washed over Harry.

"It cannot be true," murmured the teenager, and Harry shivered as his breath grazed his skin, "but I can feel it within you here… it is wounded but it exists, the most recent addition I suspect…yet I cannot feel it when I've been close to you before…"

"Get it out of me," Harry blurted out, sick of the thrashing inside of him. He assumed that's what the stranger meant, it was the only thing on his mind, "whatever it is, I want it gone." It hurt so bad, like the dagger hammering through his skull it cut him deeper and deeper. He was one with the pain, was this his life now?

"Oh no," the boy tutted, drawing away to laugh at him, but it was almost in jest rather than in malice, "why would I do that? This is brilliant, ingenious even, and it would be such a waste if I threw away the opportunity to explore this… connection… further. I can feel it too, Harry, right here," he gestured to his own face, brushing his finger from his temple towards the centre of his forehead, "and also in my chest, which is believed to be the place where one keeps soul… can you feel that too, Potter?"

Harry couldn't deny it, the tugging was relentless.

"Why?"

Before the boy could open his mouth to monologue, his desperate need to flaunt his brilliance caused him to virtually vibrate in excitement, the sky above them darkened, bathing them in sadder shades of red that prefaced a changing of the tide. A storm was coming to wash them away, and both boys kneeling on the floor felt the ground quake beneath them. The stranger's joy soured to terror and he whipped around to face the girl on the floor, and Harry collapsed forwards on his face, weakened by the boy's sudden withdrawal. The pressure in his chest didn't want him to leave, and Harry couldn't comprehend what was going on or why he was feeling like this…

"GET OFF ME! STOP! Please!"

The girl crouched in front of the Angel of Death had finally found the strength to rip off the illusory manacles holding her down, but the stranger barrelled over to her and tackled her before she got up. They hit the soaked ground with a sickened smack, and every nerve lit up in Harry's body when he heard Lyra's despairing chokes — the stranger was trying to drown her.

"DID YOU BRING HIM HERE?! HAVE YOU BETRAYED ME?! TRICKED AND DECEIVED ME LIKE I'M THE ENEMY!?" The stranger roared, ignoring the bloody mud mixture splashing his pale face like a demented animal ravenous for its first meal. Harry could barely see Lyra now, she was being squashed beneath her attacker like a bug and his own lungs deflated as though he was being crushed too.

"No! I didn't— it wasn't me!" cried Lyra, gasping for breath and failing to pry his hands from her, "please stop! Y-You're hurting me! Get your hands off my—,"

"No. You're mine, remember Black? Shall I make it hurt again? Did you bring him here to watch? Shall I force him to watch?"

"STOP! I TOLD YOU I DON'T LIKE THAT! RUN HARRY!"

"YOU TRAITOROUS LITTLE CUNT—!"

Harry couldn't comprehend what was happening in front of him, it was as though his brain was trying to protect him from the trauma of seeing his best friend in agony, but he was in survival mode now and his mission was to save her. The stranger was an enemy now, whatever doubt he held for the handsome teenager was gone, he felt nothing but fury. The blood bathed ground made standing virtually impossible, but Harry battled his way onto his feet fuelled by a surge of newfound power. Her shrieks were razor nails clawing through Harry's eardrums, it was a kind of torture he'd never experienced before, and his heart wretched as though he was the one being attacked. He wanted to inflict serious harm against the stranger, he wanted to kill.

But Harry couldn't move. He frantically wiped his dirty hands on his jeans so his grip on his wand was secure but he couldn't think of the right incantation. Or any incantation for that matter. He was smaller than the teenager, his only option was to physically attack him — and yet he never did. His legs were granite rods, refusing to budge even a centimetre. He was trapped too.

"LYRA!" Harry bellowed, tears rolling down his cheeks as he fought against himself, pleading with his body to move. Her life depended on it.

"WAKE UP HARRY! WAKE UP AND HELP ME!"

Harry shot up in his bed, dripping with sweat and half-tangled in his duvet. The graveyard may have disappeared, but the panic remained. Images of the bloody cemetery and the mysterious boy torturing his best friend imprinted on his bed curtains every time he blinked. The burning sky. Her haunting howls. The insidious older boy with his twisted intentions… and so much blood… It wasn't real, it was just a dream, Harry repeated in his head, trying to trick himself out of a panic attack, but he couldn't catch his breath when he realised his head was stinging.

His scar was hurting. The danger was real, he should've listened to his gut. The dream followed him to the waking world and he buried his head in his hands, pleading with the pain to leave. It couldn't be real, it hadn't hurt in so long. His cheeks were moist but not from sweat, and he hurried to wipe them on his (thankfully) dark t-shirt when he realised his curtain had been pulled back.

"Harry? You alright?" asked Ron, his bright brow furrowed in concern as his face appeared in the gap, and Harry saw the strange expressions from the rest of his roommates over Ron's shoulder. His already racing heart pounded even faster and he urged his face to remain blank — what did he do? Did he scream out loud? Did they hear him call for her?

"Yeah, er, I just had a really vivid dream," he blurted out in embarrassment, and jumped out of bed to distract himself with getting ready, "it's nothing, sorry if I scared you."

"Ah, been there," sighed Dean sympathetically from his own quarters, offering Harry a friendly smile as he picked out a fresh set of robes from his dresser, "ever since this Heir of Slytherin stuff began I've been dreaming about basilisks at least once a week and I've woken up scared too. Don't worry about it, I bet we're not the only ones."

"You're definitely not," Neville agreed helpfully, looking as ghastly as Harry felt. The confirmation that he had in fact screamed sent hot waves of humiliation down his back, it was not what he needed to hear right now and he lost his voice to the new lump in his throat.

"At least you have the option to fight back against the snake in your dreams though, have you tried speaking to it? That might help," Seamus asked, oblivious and rather lucky that Harry didn't take the question the wrong way since he was barely listening. All he could focus on was the haunting face of the older boy and Lyra's soul-crushing cries for help echoing in his head.

"Harry didn't say he dreamt about snakes, so let's drop this. It's a nice sunny morning finally, so how about we try and get through one day without mentioning the You-Know-What," Ron shot back at Seamus, growing defensive on Harry's behalf as he noticed his friend's abnormally vacant stare.

"Yeah, good luck with that," said Seamus seriously, holding back on continuing the joke when he noticed Harry's lack of input, "sorry mate, I didn't mean to joke about that."

"No, it's fine, I'm fine. It wasn't a basilisk dream," Harry answered automatically, avoiding the stares, "excuse me." He didn't stay put to hear what they had to say, he needed space so he rushed off to the bathroom, grimacing as his scar pain increased.

The beating of his rapid heart grew louder in the empty bathroom, and he swore time slowed down as he staggered towards the sinks and pawed at the taps. Fresh cold water gushed over his shaky hands but he relaxed into the bittersweet icy flow as he shoved his head under the faucet. The cold trickles forked at his forehead and Harry slumped in relief when his scar sizzled, its fierce stabs weakening to a dull pulse. The water didn't solve the issue but it was enough to make the pain manageable, and Harry exhaled deeply, finally waking up and shaking the excess water from his face.

The sharp pictures of his nightmare were beginning to blur, he couldn't quite visualise the details anymore. The stranger's features were fading into anonymity, and the harrowing reverb of Lyra's screams dimmed to white noise and blended with the roaring of blood pounding through his eardrums. It was only when he tried to towel dry his hair and attempt to make his puffy face more presentable that he realised he wasn't wearing his glasses, and his focus resettled on the waking world rather than the dreaded, blood soaked, made-up one he was dwelling on.

It was just a dream… And yet his scar still prickled, now an uncomfortable itch at the surface of his mind rather than excruciating pain he couldn't get rid of rooted into his core. The stinging was real, was it just a dream? What did it mean?

Ron barged into the bathroom before Harry could even attempt to pick apart the scraps of the nightmare that remained, and he thanked him with a nod when he handed him his glasses. He expected Ron to ask what his dream was about, his weird behaviour guaranteed at least one more question, and his best friend didn't disappoint.

"Was it a basilisk dream?" Ron asked quietly as he started to freshen up for the day, and Harry shook his head, his eyes constantly darting over to the door.

"No, I think it was something worse," he admitted, and he gestured at Ron to join him at the quieter end of the bathroom. As he assumed, the rest of their roommates ambled in seconds later and the pair lowered their voices, pretending to search for fresh towels in the cupboards built into the far wall.

"Something worse than a basilisk?" scoffed Ron, looking at him weirdly, "what? Like You-Know-Who or something?"

"Well, no, not as bad as him," Harry muttered, almost amused at his exaggerated guess, but his brain froze on that thought and refused to move on. It would have been impossible, Ron's comment was just a wild stab in the dark. He had no context whatsoever, of course he wasn't right.

Harry scratched the scarred tendrils above his brow. "It was…" he struggled to find the words, "there was this village, I think, and a graveyard that was drenched in blood… I don't remember what happened exactly but I found a boy there and…" his voice wobbled, "and Lyra too…"

"Already this sounds ominous," Ron frowned, preparing for what he assumed would be a horrific scene of events, but he urged Harry to continue, "what did the boy look like? Was it Riddle? What happened?"

Harry fell slack, stupefied and almost annoyed by Ron's innocent questions because he never made the connection while he was trapped inside his nightmare. He never connected the link between the boy and Lyra, he never thought once to stop and wonder why he was attacking her — his stomach knotted and plummeted a few feet, provoking another wave of heart palpitations. He had never hated a stranger more. It was Riddle… or rather, what his brain perceived to be Riddle. It must have been. There was more to their interaction though, it was like Riddle knew him personally. It was on the tip of Harry's tongue, what did he say to him again?

"Yeah," Harry croaked, before clearing his throat and forcing his face to stay neutral, "now you've mentioned it I think it was."

Ron looked rather proud with his seemingly accurate deduction skills and smirked at Harry as though he had already figured out what his problem with his nightmare actually was. He yanked out a fluffy towel from the stack and swung it over his shoulder before sauntering off towards an empty shower cubicle. "I think you're overthinking everything mate, you don't need to worry about this Riddle guy. Just think of it like this, he doesn't go here for one, we've never seen Lyra with Riddle so it's not like they're hanging out all the time and getting to know each other so you don't need to think that you've—,"

"Ok, ok, you're right," Harry cut Ron off abruptly as he tore out a towel at random from the cupboard, worried that the others would hear him. He knew what Ron was hinting at and he didn't want to dive into that dilemma right now. He should never have told him about his fleeting feelings, and the urge to deny ever saying anything was waiting to spew from his mouth."I'm looking way too deeply into my dream, but not for the reasons you think. I'm feeling a bit stressed at the moment, that's all, so we don't have to talk about this anymore."

"Whatever you say, mate, as long as you're alright. You keep scratching your scar so I just wanted to make sure everything was ok. I don't think this year can get any worse but I reckon a surprise visit from You-Know-Who might be the last thing we need," Ron assured his best friend before closing the cubicle's partition in his face, doing him a favour by not mentioning Lyra further. Harry felt the light spray trickling onto his face from the vapour filling the bathroom and he used its temporary heat against his scar twinges, silently cursing himself for acting weird.

He couldn't shake Ron's genuine concern from his mind as he got ready. Was he always this perceptive? Despite his efforts to help him, Harry felt as though Ron's input had unlocked something in his brain and made everything worse, like he could all of a sudden hear the blaring alarm that had been sounding off around him for quite some time now. He kept catching sight of the red scar tissue stretched across his forehead as he tried to tame his stubborn hair in the mirror, and each flicker of his reflection flushed more fear through him.

It was still hurting. It was trying to tell him something. What did Riddle say about his scar? He definitely mentioned it, but the memory was too fuzzy and he hated himself for his abysmal attention to detail. He needed to tell Ron, he couldn't keep these shamefully personal feelings to himself and he needed his advice. However, his own wounded pride was begging him to shut up so Ron wouldn't unearth his issue that he had been desperately trying to bury, which was something he was likely to do. It was inevitable, and he would much rather focus on solving the, for a lack of a better term, riddle than his feelings which he was trying to suppress.

As the boys descended from their dormitory, Harry finally gritted his teeth and made up his mind to confide in Ron. He couldn't wait any longer, the gnawing in his gut was inescapable and he needed to ease his pain. Ron was only a few steps ahead, stroking and comforting Scabbers, his newly appointed corner-checker as a defence tactic against the infamous basilisk, who was curled up in his shirt pocket. Harry's gentle shoulder grab caught his attention and the pair hung back as the rest of their roommates entered the common room, making sure the door swung shut before saying a word.

"I knew it, your scar is hurting you," Ron began with utmost satisfaction when Harry massaged his forehead, waiting for the door to settle in its frame, "spill, what's really going on?"

"I don't actually know, that's why I need your advice," Harry said briskly, losing his patience within seconds as the stinging sharpened, like it anticipated their gossiping, "but you've got to promise me that you won't tease me, this isn't about me and I really need you to take this seriously."

"Of course I won't, especially when it comes to your scar," said Ron gravely, unnerved by the pang of genuine worry in his voice, and he offered him his pinky finger, "I swear." Harry hooked it with gratitude and took a deep breath, relaxing a little as his gaze shifted to the rat squeaking softly in Ron's pocket.

"It was hurting in my dream, but I don't know why because from what I could see Voldemort— sorry, You-Know-Who wasn't there," Harry corrected himself when Ron flinched, "and it's still tender now, but not as bad as it was. It doesn't feel real compared to how badly it hurt in my dream."

"It could be nothing," Ron started off positively, and he intended to keep the mood light as he still hoped it would be a good day for once, "you have been a bit stressed lately, maybe it's related to that? You said Riddle and Lyra were in the dream too so it's probably your reaction to physically seeing—,"

For crying out loud!

"Ron — Riddle was torturing Lyra in my dream, he was hurting her," Harry snapped, accidentally biting Ron's unintentional bait, but he couldn't bear the thought of him thinking for a second that the stranger Riddle could in the slightest be the protagonist bathed in a positive light. He was in the wrong, Ron had to be on his side. "She didn't want him, she screamed at me to wake up so I could help her… I can't stop hearing her pleading for him to stop…"

"Oh…" Ron dropped his spry smirk and stared at Harry, unsettled yet slightly puzzled, "so he wasn't kissing her? He was attacking her?"

"Yeah," said Harry flatly, afraid of the actual answer. He couldn't remember the physicality of the pair fighting in his dream, and he swallowed the uncomfortable feeling weighing on his chest instead of confirming any assumptions. "He was trying to drown her in blood, and she kept telling him to stop."

"But this was a dream," Ron continued, "this didn't actually happen."

"Then why did Lyra tell me to wake up? It certainly didn't feel like a dream, it was the realest nightmare I've ever had," confessed Harry, fiddling with his bag strap nervously, "maybe I'm simply overthinking, but I don't know, it's like my scar is warning me that something is coming."

"Or maybe something's already here," Ron muttered, dropping his volume to increase the tension, and their grimaces matched when he added, "I dunno what it could mean, but I have an awful feeling that you're right. You'd be stupid not to listen to it since this isn't the first time it's tried to warn you that something evil was trying to kill you."

"I don't think it's that serious this time, but I have a hunch that it won't stop until I figure out who Riddle is, or what he is," Harry sighed, already exhausted for the day ahead, but he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to loosen up, "maybe we should just ask Lyra about him?" It was obvious that Ron wanted to laugh, but he was just as curious and he conceded that it wasn't a bad idea.

"Better you than me, you're the one who found her love letter after all," he agreed, giving Harry a friendly slap on the shoulder and leading him out of the staircase, "but we should talk to Hermione about this first, she'll come up with a smarter plan than us, she always does."

"Maybe she can ask her for me," said Harry gloomily, trying not to dwell on the subject, "she probably already knows who he is and she's keeping Lyra's promise by not telling us."

"Mhmm Lyra would definitely talk to Hermione about this sort of stuff first, not us," Ron side-eyed him before pushing him through the door, biting his lip to suppress his grin, and he let his intrusive thought win,"…are you absolutely sure this has nothing to do with your—,"

But words failed Ron as the pair entered the crowded common room where they were greeted with total silence. It looked like the majority of the Gryffindor house was present, all of the lions were tightly packed into the limited space as it was rare for them to convene together in one space, and both boys froze in fear when everyone turned to them, most of them offering small smiles of sympathy. The alarm bells in Harry's head grew louder and he latched into Ron's arm, preparing for the worst. He immediately thought of Lyra, and his stomach hurtled down to his shoes.

It wasn't a dream. It was real. She's gone… I failed.

"What's going on?" asked Ron bravely despite his voice cracking, but not one person answered. Gazes were averted and many shuffled out of the room, not wanting to hear any more details about the recent attack, and Professor McGonagall emerged from the crowd near the portrait hole to address the situation as sensitively as she could. A jolt of deja vu smacked Harry in the chest and whipped his head around the room once more, fretfully searching for his bookish best friend. It was selfish of him but Harry couldn't deny that he was the tiniest bit relieved, this wasn't about Lyra.

"Hermione's not here," he murmured to Ron, his eyes fixed on the approaching professor, and Ron almost collapsed from shock.

"What? NO!"

"Mr Potter, Mr Weasley," greeted McGonagall, summoning a benevolent smile that felt out of place on her strict face, "if you could both follow me please, I have some quite unsettling news to tell you and I think it would be best if we discussed this outside."

"It's Hermione, isn't it? The basilisk got her. What happened? Where is she?" Ron prattled, visibly shaken. He dug his nails unintentionally into Harry's arm as though trying to stay grounded, "is she ok?"

"Fortunately she was only petrified, we can revive her in due time. If you would prefer, I can take you to her," McGonagall assured, saddened by his initial reaction, but Harry helpfully latched onto his flustered friend and dragged him along as they whisked off to the hospital wing, too tongue-tied to respond.

"Miss Granger was found this morning by Professor Lockhart on the third floor," McGonagall began to explain as they marched through the corridors, her heels sounding like galloping horse hooves from her brisk pace, "unfortunately it is unclear what time the attack occurred as neither the Fat Lady nor any of the staff recall seeing her last night on their patrols. Do either of you know the reason as to why Miss Granger broke curfew at all?"

Harry was dumbfounded, and he exchanged Ron's gawk of confusion. Hermione? Sneak out after curfew? By herself? Neither of them could verbalise their ignorance but McGonagall didn't need them to confirm, it was clear that the incident was suspicious even without their intel.

"Does Lyra know?" asked Harry once the trio reached the infirmary doors, and McGongall nodded curtly.

"Miss Black is aware, she was at Miss Granger's bedside when I left this morning," she informed them as she escorted them inside. Madam Pomfrey greeted them without a word, only a pursed lip at the second years' appearance for the third day in a row, and she led them into the private ward at the rear of the room. Conscious of his sweating palms, Harry hastily wiped his hands on his robes and ignored his rapid pulse as he prepared to see the girls. He hated how irrational he was being but he couldn't stop, he just needed to see with his own two eyes that Lyra was ok…

---

Tom knew the second he laid his eyes on Harry that his suspicions were true.

The connection between them was more tangible than Black's wand twirling in his hand. Or rather, in her dainty, nail polished hands. There was something intertwining him and the boy together like they were one and the same person, and the thought of indulging in the ancient magic he sensed between them was addictive. Like a nectar from a deity, he wanted to devour it whole in the hopes that he would absorb its power and transcend the boundary into wizarding eminence. No one had ever achieved this before, he was a true pioneer.

But it was the chase that had him hooked, Tom loved to watch Potter squirm and he found himself postponing the inevitable day after day, just to see him suffer.

The boy entered the private wing with Weasley at his side, an occurrence Tom came to expect while he inhabited the girl's body, and Riddle assumed a sadder facade as he became accustomed to the act. Impersonating Lyra became a kind of pastime to him, the longer he stayed in game the closer he got to the truth behind the mystery that was the infamous Boy-Who-Lived, and he loved winning.

"Merlin's beard…" he heard Weasley gasp as he came closer to the Mudblood on the bed beside him, his watering eyes glazing over as he absorbed the truth, and Tom pouted, pretending that Lyra was just as heartbroken.

"I know, it's terrible isn't it?" He said, deepening Black's voice to convey some sort of grief at the situation. Tom supposed he should show some signs of remorse despite the glee welling in his stomach. Potter was still staring at him, he could feel his gaze scorching the side of his face as though urging him to make eye contact with his mind, and his curiosity grew. The boy had a bad habit of staring at Black when she thought she wasn't looking, and he took great pleasure in feigning innocence to his allure.

"I will inform Professor Sprout that you three may be late to class. Please, take your time," Professor McGonagall, the annoyingly observant Gryffindor head announced as she took her leave, and Tom played down Lyra's joy at the statement so the pair wouldn't suspect anything. After months of perfecting his impression of the girl he knew he had her mannerisms down to a fine art, he quite enjoyed exercising his skill of impersonations as she was far more animated than he ever was.

"I suppose that's one piece of good news," he muttered, satisfied by the quick upturned corners of Weasley's frown, and Tom turned to meet Potter's desperate gaze as he had finally taken a seat nearest him.

"Do you know what happened?" Potter asked, and Tom relished the wobble in his voice. He was nervous, why?

"I have no idea," he lied, "when I woke up Madam Pomfrey told me that Hermione was in here… she said she was found with a mirror so we can only assume that the worst has happened."

"At least she was prepared," Weasley puffed, deflating slightly with relief as he tore his gaze away from the petrified girl on the bed, "whatever she was doing, she knew she wasn't safe… she looks so scared."

"Of course she was scared, none of us are safe," reminded Tom. He couldn't help himself, it was too fun, "this has gone on for far too long now, we have to do something — for Hermione." He was fully aware that Black had told them the tweaked back story he fed her to incriminate the dimwitted half-giant, and he was pleasantly surprised that they fell for it too. It made everything a lot smoother, although the boy beside him was the most reluctant to swallow the fable, but that didn't matter now. His goal was going to be achieved whether Potter said so or not. Rubeus was the next to go.

"Let's go and see Hagrid, now Hermione's been petrified he might finally talk to us about everything, we can use this against him and make him feel bad for not telling us," suggested Weasley, lines appearing on his brow as he simmered in his anger, but Tom noticed his darting eyes connected with the boy beside him and Weasley paused. Fear flushed Potter's face and he jerked awkwardly as though trying to communicate a secret message to his friend, but he wiped his expression clean and smiled politely when he realised Black was watching them. They were hiding something from Tom, and he was going to find out.

Potter nodded enthusiastically, attempting to cover their blatant tracks. "I think that's an excellent idea—,"

"What was that about?" Tom interrupted, an impish smile curling Black's lips like he had seen before when she was being meticulously devilish, "you're not hiding anything from me, are you?"

"No," spat Weasley a little too quickly.

"Course not, nothing important anyways," Potter added through loosely gritted teeth. He was doing a terrible job at masquerading the pain shooting through his face, the twitching in his scarred brow was the key giveaway, and Tom found himself drawn to the scar slashed across his head.

It was hurting him. Just like it did last night.

"I take it you've got a much clearer head today then?" Potter carried on, attempting to bypass the awkwardness in the air with a lighter conversation topic. "Unless you got bored of wearing your bandages?"

"I'm feeling much better, thank you," Tom replied coolly, sitting back in his chair as he mulled on the new development.

When Tom tried to strip Black of her mysterious power last night, the boy interfered. He entered his domain without an invitation, which shouldn't have been possible unless he was Tom himself. Blood rituals were known to be one of the oldest, strongest practices of dark magic in the wizarding world, and only those proficient in the Dark Arts, who had spent decades studying the complicated theories, would be able to desecrate the ritual — yet somehow Potter overcame it in his sleep. Like it was beneath him.

The boy knew what occurred in the early hours of the morning whether he meant to find out or not, and a shiny new Potter-shaped hole appeared in Tom's imperious bubble. The lure inside of Potter he sensed in that graveyard was concrete evidence that his future self meddled in ancient magic that his present self couldn't even begin to fathom. Potter saw him in person, and it clearly affected him in such a way that he was suffering in the waking world — that shouldn't have been possible.

This wasn't how Tom envisioned his grand plan unfurling, and he hated being wrong. If Potter had the power to intercede, then what else could he do?

"Wait, guys," Weasley piped up again before Tom could use Lyra's silver tongue to squeeze the truth out of Potter under the guise of being nosy — a trait he certainly knew she possessed — and the seated pair looked over to see Weasley inspecting the Mudblood's bulging dressing gown pocket with narrowed eyes, "look, there's something in her pocket."

"What is it?" prompted Potter, climbing out of his chair to join his investigation, but Tom clutched the arms of his chair, despising the fleeting spasm of doubt in his chest. Surely the Mudblood couldn't have anything on her that would reveal the truth behind her petrification, but Tom silently cursed his own arrogance twice for not checking for evidence of foul play before he fled the scene and again before the boys arrived.

Weasley snuck his hand into the dark-skinned girl's pocket and scoffed, his apprehension melting into incredulity as he revealed what looked like a tatty, aging treasure map, and both Potter and Weasley slowly met Tom's attentive gaze with matching smirks.

"Why does Hermione have your map?" Potter piped up first, cocking a brow as though suggesting he was amused by it all.

"So you won't let us use the map but Hermione is allowed to have it by herself? Wow," said Weasley, equally as scorned, "wooooow, Lyra! See, I told you they're keeping secrets from us!"

Thankfully Tom recovered in an instant when he recalled Black's words of adoration when she gushed to him about her cousin's gift, and he screwed his face up to show them that she was just as befuddled. This needed to be resolved swiftly. He knew what that map could do, how quickly it could bring about his downfall if they noticed the glitching footsteps labelled with both his name and Black's names, and so he made up his mind and acted accordingly.

"What?!" Tom exclaimed, outraged at their implied accusations. He jumped onto his feet and snatched the parchment out of Weasley's weak grip before they could inspect it closer. "What the hell! I didn't give this to her."

"So how did she end up with it?" questioned Potter.

"I don't know," Tom said slowly as though emphasising that he was being deaf, "I thought I had the map in my bag, but apparently not." He unravelled the pages in his lap, keeping the edges upturned so they couldn't see what he was doing, and his heart skipped when he saw the chaotic scribbles hovering beside the cluster of labels in the private ward. Black's and his names were knotted together as though a child had taken a crayon and tried to scratch the words out, jerking and flashing like the enchantment woven into the parchment was defective.

Tom stuffed the map into Black's pocket and crossed his arms, keeping her freckled face crumpled with unease. Black may have been more vocal in this instance, he could see her rambling on about complicated theories detailing why her friend would be creeping around after dark, but Tom played her prickly attitude off well enough. The Mudblood's petrification was the perfect excuse, it would be natural for her to be out of character when one of her closest friends was in the hospital after fighting for her life, lying perpetually paralysed and useless. He needed to focus on eliminating the threats around him as himself and as Black. It was all or nothing now, he intended on keeping Black to himself once this was all over so keeping up appearances with her friends and family was no longer a concern of his.

Although he was frowning, Potter soaked up Tom's response and nodded, continuing to think out loud with Weasley about what they needed to do in order to solve the mystery. Tom sat quietly with his arms crossed, visualising his next steps as he begrudgingly agreed to visit the oaf down in the grounds — but once again, his brilliance shone through and the pieces of his plan clicked into place when he heard Potter say something unintentionally useful.

"Maybe we could trick him into telling us about the last time this happened, then? If he won't talk about what's going on now, then let's ask about his school years? He can't keep dodging this forever," He suggested to the room, looking rather dishevelled and stressed out amongst the room full of frozen victims.

"It's worth a shot, and we all need to promise that we won't give up when he inevitably shuts us down again. We can't leave with nothing, we can't take no as an answer," Weasley agreed, looking more determined, and the boys waited with bated breath for Black's agreement to their plan.

Tom was almost overly confident that Rubeus wouldn't reopen his old wounds in front of them, especially not in front of Potter. He knew the half-giant was too cowardly to even whisper his despicable Muggle name let alone tell them the tale of the Slytherin prefect who ruined his life out of sheer convenience, so naturally Tom knew their mission would fail. The visit wouldn't be a complete waste of time though, he needed something of Rubeus' to plant at the crime scene he had planned for tonight, and watching Potter continue to suffer was always a bonus.

"I agree, but I'm not holding my breath," sighed Tom, climbing to his feet with a soft pout and shaking Black's hair out of his eyes as he had seen her do multiple times, "we'll try our best."

"That's better than nothing," said Harry warmly, smiling at her with a glimmer of hope in his eyes and inducing a faint flutter in Black's stomach. Tom couldn't wait to see it fizzle out.

"We should go now, the sooner the better I reckon," directed Weasley, puffing out his chest somewhat as he took charge of the group, and Tom had to physically bite his lip to stop himself from usurping him as the leader. Potter swiped his school bag from the feet of his chair and pulled out something from within that virtually took Tom's breath away.

"I think it's time we put my dad's cloak to good use," Potter suggested, allowing the shimmering cloak made from the finest, most effervescent fabric Tom had ever laid his eyes on to run through his fingers. A peculiar buzzing percolated in Black's chest and it enthralled him, it was like the cloak was sending out shockwaves and it had clocked him on its magical radar. It was undoubtedly incredibly valuable, and from Black's primal reaction to the artefact he knew there was more to it than the second years were aware of. He wanted that cloak.

No. He needed Potter's cloak. And he was going to get it.

"Since when did you start carrying your invisibility cloak around with you?" scoffed Weasley, impressed with his idea.

"Since today, I had a bad feeling that I might need it when I woke up," muttered Potter, and he stuffed it into his robe pocket so they were ready at a moment's notice without further explanation. Tom knew he was thinking about his dream, he could see the darkness mulling behind his round glasses like an impressionable intrusive thought, and yet when the time came for the trio to depart the private ward and head to class, Potter never took Black aside and voiced his concerns like Tom assumed he would. He was keeping his knowledge from the girl, and subsequently himself, and it pissed Tom off more than he was willing to admit because it would mean that he had underestimated the boy.

Tom's initial instinct to take back control of the situation was to invade Potter's mind with the use of Legilimency, to forcefully read his mind and figure out if he was hiding anything else besides his dream, but before he could draw Black's wand and utter the words the incantation slipped from his mind when Potter shrouded them in his invisibility cloak. The tingling in Black's chest was back and Tom was entranced by it all over again. It was the strangest feeling he had never felt before, like all of the blood in Black's body had been replaced with electricity.

"We might as well skip Herbology and go down now," Potter told them, checking the coast of the corridor they were in before covering them up, "this can't wait."

"Well, you know me, I'm an avid fan of truanting so count me in," murmured Tom, eyes glued to the spectral material tickling his cheek as they crept.

As expected, Rubeus was mostly unimpressed when he answered his door and found the trespassers huddled on his doorstep with three innocent-looking smiles on their faces, but he softened his glower significantly when Tom relayed their shared grief at the Mudblood's petrification. The urge to spite the half-giant came naturally, he couldn't help the nasty jab in his side to provoke his past trauma and the shining fear in his black eyes was immensely satisfying.

Rubeus was an atrocious student in the past, he wore his huge heart on his sleeve and Tom despised how quickly he disregarded his own privilege by socialising with lower borns instead of using his ancestry to the best of his ability. He could've rallied the other half-breeds and convinced them to do his bidding if he channelled his strength into this personality, but he was weak and Tom had no time or energy for weakness.

The game continued for an hour at most, Rubeus gave them the benefit of doubt when they spoke only about the Mudblood at first but he closed up like a clam when it became clear as to why they were really there. Tom played along and spat out idioms that Black would likely say all the while focusing on searching for the most ordinary object he could swipe without raising suspicion — but then he noticed the flamingo pink umbrella lying against the empty hearth and a flash of the girl's memories helpfully directed him towards it.

Rubeus used it to perform spells, and the Ministry wasn't aware of this. As Tom snuck closer to the fireplace he could sense the broken wand trapped within its handle, and he suppressed his smirk with a well-timed face scratch. It was perfect.

These fools… they have no idea, it's almost too brilliant…

"Please, Hagrid," begged Potter for the third time, captivating the groundskeeper in a heartfelt performance and unintentionally giving Tom an opening to snatch the umbrella, "give us something — anything! — we can't keep letting this happen, we know you were here the last time a basilisk was set loose inside Hogwarts so you can trust us—,"

"How do you know about that?!" Rubeus gasped, totally side swept by the boy's confession as his jaw dropped. Sensing that the attention would be back on Black at any second, Tom kicked Black's backpack towards the leaning umbrella and thankfully it toppled inside without a sound, cushioned by the bag's leather sides. He snatched the backpack up from the floor, zipped it up and swung it onto his shoulders in one seamless move before anyone could turn their back.

"It doesn't matter how we know, what matters is what are we going to do about it?" Tom chimed in as though suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be playing the part of the annoying, outspoken one, "you can't keep getting away with this, Hagrid."

All colour drained from the half-giant's face and Tom recognised the frightened, little boy he threatened all those years ago hiding behind his grizzled beard. He hadn't changed, he was still scared of being ostracised and it was so easy to weaponize again.

"You don't understand," stammered Rubeus, switching from one young face to another as he implored them to believe him, "I have nothing to do with any of this, I would never endanger anyone."

"And we believe you," assured Potter without hesitating, reaching out to him, "but you've got to tell us what happened so we can help clear your name."

"Well, we're gonna try, we swear we're not hunting the snake down," Weasley added helpfully when Rubeus looked dissuaded. He glanced over to the girl blocking the fireplace for some sign that she was on his side, but Tom could only stare back, expressionless. His ego told him to inflict more terror and give the man a clue that his time had come, but when the two boys joined the oaf in looking at Black for confirmation he caved to the pressure and allowed the girl to summon the ghost of a smile.

"I just want Hermione back, that's all," he mumbled, and the heartbreak in Rubeus' eyes was glorious.

But it was short-lived. Potter wasn't the only one whose actions he couldn't predict.

"Okay, fine," sighed Rubeus wearily, and he stumbled into his nearest kitchen chair, reaching for a leather flask tucked in between two flower pots on the counter, "fine… I'll tell you something, but only because I don't want the three of yeh involved in any of this, understood? You've got ter stay away from this, please."

"That's what we've been trying to tell you, of course we understand," promised Weasley, eagerly joining him at the table and kicking the other chairs out for the remaining pair who were still gawking at him, stunned that he had cracked.

"What is it?" said Potter after closing his mouth, and he practically jumped into his chair. Trying his hardest not to reach for Black's wand, Tom slid in next to Weasley and watched the half-breed as though he was the prey. He had never experienced this type of confidence theft before, let alone from a brainless lump like Rubeus. How could he have underestimated him too? He had to be extremely cautious from now on.

"There are darker forces at work here, and it feels exactly the same as last time," whispered Rubeus, the sparkle of tears playing at the corners of his eyes, "when I was in my third year a student was killed and I was framed, but you must believe me when I say I had nothing ter do with anything of it."

"Who framed you?" Potter whispered, not wanting to spook him out of telling, but Tom saw Rubeus' gaze flicker towards his scar for a split second and his confidence ran out.

"I… I can't, I'm sorry… it's not worth it," the half-giant's voice broke, he couldn't look at them anymore. Tom could breathe again, and he let the nerves settle in Black's stomach. He never wanted to get that close to failure ever again. He needed to act fast.

"Well, I guess we did get something out of him, I don't count this as a failure," announced Weasley when the trio left the groundskeeper's hut and stepped out into the sunshine bathing the grounds, warming up after the prickly encounter.

"It's better than nothing, but I still think we could do better - I say we come back tonight, I know we can get through to him," said Potter with unwavering conviction. Although Rubeus' answer was feeble it boosted the boy's faith and put wind in his sails, and Tom abhorred how unshakable he became. Potter looked virtually taller after visiting Rubeus; he stood beside Black with such conviction that the fleeting spasms of doubt were back, reminding him that he was a threat.

"You guys go ahead, I think I'm going to have an early night tonight," Tom voiced, crumpling Black's brow and massaging her temples to feign an oncoming headache, and the proud creature in his chest purred when the boys pouted at her, their side-eyed glances softer than expected.

"An early night? Are you ok?" wondered Potter, much gentler than he was back in the hospital.

"Yeah, it's just Hermione… It feels weird not having her here with us, and I'm still not one hundred percent yet so in honour of our petrified friend I'm going to try and act like a normal person for once m," sighed Tom, tugging on the boys' heartstrings, and luckily it was enough to sway them from prying further.

"Don't worry, we'll figure this out, she'll be back with us soon," assured Weasley, and Tom hid his repulsion well when he slapped his shoulder in commiseration but he nodded along and pictured the umbrella stuffed in Black's backpack as motivation. If the blood traitor touched Black one more time then he was going to lose both of his hands.

The rest of the school day didn't matter from that point onwards, Tom wished the hours away by mentally constructing a flawless plan that would escalate his cause as he sat through Black's classes. The headmaster and the groundskeeper had to go first, then Potter was his to claim. Once the senile old man saw that Rubeus was at fault then his guard would lower, he couldn't possibly suspect that Tom was back if the half-breed confessed to his sins and accepted his lifetime imprisonment without any objections.

From what he could remember, his ex-Transfiguration professor never publicly called Tom out for his possible involvement in the petrifications that took place during his own school year, although he did pertain some suspicions. He never voiced them out loud but Tom knew they existed, every time he locked eyes with the man his eyes sparkled, reminding him that he wasn't free of his perception yet. There was never any evidence that linked Tom to the attacks and following death, he and those closest to him made sure of that, but he was unfortunately clueless about what happened after he fortified his diary to preserve the fragment of his soul. Whether Dumbledore dared to take action and discovered a way to prove it was him all along…?

Absolutely not — if he had, then Rubeus wouldn't be living as an incapacitated dog in the school grounds like the runt he was. He had outsmarted the great Albus Dumbledore, and he was about to do it all over again right under his crooked nose.

Tom retired to bed after dinner alone, reinforcing the narrative that Black was taking her ill-health very seriously for the first time. None of the other girls sharing the dormitory dared to speak to him but he made sure to reflect the sympathetic smiles from the darker skinned Indian girl who looked the most likely to try and spark up a conversation, and thankfully she left him alone when he yanked Black's scarlet bed curtains closed. He focused on the slow resounding chorus of soft snores that filled the room as everyone fell asleep, all the while keeping his eyes peeled on the enchanted map of Hogwarts spread out in front of him.

For the evening that Tom planned to succeed in reaching its goal – the elimination of the petrified students and the incrimination of Rubeus – the pair of footsteps sneaking down to the groundskeeper's hut needed to be in their beds and out of the way. Considering the progress they made today towards unmasking the true Heir, Tom loathed the foaming anxiety welling in Black's stomach and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his anger under control for long. If he gave in to any remotely intense emotions then he would be expelled from his host, and he couldn't risk Black escaping now. As much as he wanted to exist within the form she had gifted him with, inhabiting her body gave him ultimate access to her and all of her dark magic as well as keeping up the facade that he wasn't involved.

Tom watched with gritted teeth as Potter and Weasley convened inside the hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, their footsteps locked in what he perceived to be an awkward dance with Rubeus. No doubt the oaf would put up a fight and Tom found himself rallying behind Rubeus, hoping he would use that enormous spine of his for once to stand up for himself. They stayed there for an hour and four minutes, Tom knew exactly as he incessantly checked the clock on the Mudblood's dresser through the slight gap in the curtains, and to his chagrin, Potter and Weasley turned on their heels and headed straight into the Dark Forest for some unknown reason. Rubeus remained in his hut, pacing round and round like a nervous dog, most likely unaware of the truanting pair's new path disappearing off the map.

As the hands on the dresser clock ticked over into the new day, Tom's patience snapped as his anxiety had reached an all-time high. The boys were still in the Forest, and he couldn't wait for their established return any longer. It was announced during one of Black's classes today that the security measures in place to catch the culprit would be increased, with more patrols and the addition of a secret security initiative the staff promised the class that they were safe, and Tom needed to take advantage of the break in the patrol rota. The corridors were deserted, he had to strike now.

Quieter than a shadow, Tom slipped out of bed and moved with the darkness as he reached for Black's backpack, making sure to use the silencing charm in excess as the odd-looking charms dangling from the zip were bound to give her away. The map and wand never left his hands as he got Black ready, he needed to know the instant the boys were on their way back in case they crossed paths, and he snuck out of the tower without so much as a whisper or creak of a floorboard.

The staff weren't exaggerating when they said more wards were in place to protect the students, Tom found this out the hard way. After confounding the Fat Lady to evade being caught, Tom hopped straight into the path of a dozen vigilant suits of armour who were getting ready to charge whoever emerged from the portrait hole. The creaking of metal chafing against each other was bound to catch the attention of a nearby patrolling professor but they never got the chance to sound the alarms. Tom excelled under pressure and he immobilised the tribe with a single spell, but the slip up had shaken his nerve and he struggled to keep his grip on Black. His emotions were building up pressure, the bottle cap was straining under the immense force and one more wrong move would trigger an explosion he couldn't clean up.

Tom's plans moved slowly at first, but he knew the anticipation would make the kill that much sweeter so he suffered in silence. The staff were more active tonight than they had been all year, with more intricate routes around corridors they had overlooked before, but the brief interludes between the professors swapping shifts eventually grew to hour-long stretches as the clock hands moved towards the witching hour. Tom escaped to his ancestral hidey hole so he could waste time until the teachers turned in for good, and his anticipation manifested into exhilaration when he noticed Potter and Weasley hightailing it back to the tower a little after three o'clock.

"It's time," hissed Tom, looking up from the map in Black's crossed lap to acknowledge the carving of his ancestor looming over him, "tonight you shall feast on the corpses of those lying in the hospital, like I promised. They are yours to take, and in doing so we will be at our final stage my sweet girl… once Potter is dead, the corridors will run red and you will finally drink the blood of as many of the half-breeds and Mudbloods as you desire."

The ancient basilisk reared her head from the mouth of her desolate stone nest, and her forked tongue lapped the remnants of Black's blood from the shallow pool of water around her home. The prospect of finally receiving the fruits of her hard labour was on the horizon, her master kept his word, and she slithered from her hole to help the descendant prosper. She could taste on the tip of her tongue that the descendant inhabited the small pureblood girl and she loosely coiled her body through the water, patiently awaiting her commands.

"Join us at the infirmary," Tom instructed, wiping the slime from Black's legs and stretching in preparation for the attack. He fetched a couple of potions bottles filled with rooster blood from one of the many side chambers, a safekeep he had been hoarding for the right moment, and checked the map one last night before ascending back into the castle.

Only two names stood out to him amongst the sleeping population, the Squib caretaker and the air headed Defence Against the Dark Arts professor were awake and on patrol. It was the best case scenario, and Tom smirked to himself as he envisioned the added bonus of taking them out too. If they were unlucky enough to cross him, that is.

After freezing yet another set of marching suits of armour guarding the staircase hall and wishing that he had already stolen Potter's mysterious cloak, Tom reached the corridor housing the infirmary without breaking a sweat. The infatuated calls coming from the pipes hidden in the walls sharpened as the basilisk got closer, and Tom helpfully assisted with her smooth escape by transfiguring a nearby cleaning cupboard into a metal grated drain hole large enough to accommodate his pet.

Keeping Black's eyes to the ground, Tom approached the hospital wing doors with her wand tight in his fist, and the anticipation inflated his crooked ego further as the buzz of winning hit him. He was practically shaking as he muttered the counter-curse to the advanced lock, and his heart skipped as the doors swung open with a tired groan. The flickers of the basilisk's tongue when she slithered inside reverbated as the hiss hit the domed ceilings, as though warning those trapped in the private ward that death was coming and there was nothing they could do about it.

"Come, my pretty–,"

At the far end of the first floor corridor where no guard stood, the door opened. Tom froze. He didn't check the map screwed up in his pocket and he knew he was in plain sight of the intruder.

"GOOD HEAVENS– BLACK?!"

Tom never expected to hear the pompous Dark Arts teacher sound so abhorrently triumphant as he stumbled across the culprit, and he turned to scowl at the flabbergasted man charging towards him. He had no clue the basilisk was hiding behind the swinging hospital doors, and he forced Black to grin impishly at him.

"Can I help you?" Tom drawled, crossing his arms and sneering at the professor.

"You truly had me fooled, I genuinely cannot believe you're getting away with this," scoffed Lockhart, matching the sneer with one of his own and he stared at Black as though she was vile thing on the bottom of his shoe, "I should've trusted my gut and not have underestimated you. What a plot twist this will be, although many of my readers will suspect you from the beginning considering your ancestry but I still think it might make it into the bestsellers list."

"What are you talking about?" spat Tom, cocking a brow in confusion as he came to a stop a few feet away from her, his wand raised half-heartedly as though he assumed the girl wasn't a threat. Tom didn't react with a spell of his own, he merely laughed at his insinuation instead. The man was a fake, the probability of him inflicting any real damage was highly unlikely.

"You've been using dark magic, haven't you? You've come to finish the job so they won't snitch on you, nice try Miss Black," chuckled Lockhart, dazzling Tom with his artificial smile. "Come on, let's go and pay our dear headmaster a visit, ey? If you come quietly then I promise I'll try and haggle with the old man, maybe I can convince him not to expel you but only if you agree to my version of events."

Tom blinked, highly offended by his offer.

"Are you truly that blinded by your own vanity to think that I would ever agree to those terms?" He challenged Lockhart, turning Black's nose up at him, "do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to even be in my presence? If I were you, not that I could ever achieve your severe case of brain rot, then I would surrender my wand."

Lockhart chuckled harder this time, and he wiped away an absent tear to further demean the girl's empty words. "Come now Lyra, for once in your life be honest with me. No one is going to take an obnoxious little girl like you seriously when you can't back up your claims, even with your little petrification act. Granted, it is impressive that you've managed to trick the school into thinking that there is some monstrous basilisk on the loose to embellish your tracks, but did you really think you were going to get away with this?"

Holding his nerve, Tom took a deep breath and reconfigured his grin, never faltering once. Hearing Lyra take the credit for his genius work was innately infuriating and he couldn't stop the word vomit from coming up. Maybe he had possessed the girl for far too long now, he was losing touch with his core.

"And do you honestly believe that anyone is going to take your word as the truth? The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor who can look directly into the eyes of a young student who has been possessed by dark magic and not see the true master behind it all?" Tom blurted out to soothe some of the pressure building inside, but if anything he exacerbated it instead. He could hear the basilisk hiss impatiently through the doors, calling out for him to break into the private ward so she could feast, and Lockhart's brazened eyes darted towards the hospital. All blood drained from his rosy face, he heard the snake too.

"W-What do you mean?" He stammered, struggling to hold his wand arm up, "Miss Black, w-what was that?"

"It's your demise," Tom smiled as prettily as he could before pushing one of the doors open. Black's startlingly grey eyes sparkled in the darkness, enticing Lockhart to give into his impulses that told him to take a peek, but Tom noticed his attempts to fight it. Sweat formed fast on his golden brow, and he was murmuring under his breath at rapid speed, as though praying for some divine intervention that would save him.

"If you want to write about how you slayed the fearsome attacker that has been terrorising the school all year, you need to know the full story, right?" persuaded Tom as though it was the only logical way forward from this point, but he added, "just take one look then I'll come quietly," just in case.

Like a moth to a flame, Lockhart rushed towards the crack between the doors and poked his head inside the ward, giving in to his thirst for knowledge without a second thought. Tom took a step back and waited with bated breath for the inevitable screech of horror as Lockhart locked eyes with the basilisk waiting inside — but every hair on Black's body stood to attention when he lunged backwards out of the door frame, his eyes screwed shut to protect his life.

"ATTEMPTED MURDER! I'VE GOT YOU KNOW BLACK!" hollered Lockhart, groping the air for support as he staggered backwards, "HOW IN MERLIN'S NAME DID YOU FIND THAT MONSTER!"

Powered by fear of royally fucking up his masterful plan, Tom used the man's moments of blindness to tear Black's backpack open and retrieve the half-giant's magical apparatus. The handle of the worm umbrella tingled slightly underneath his clammy fingers, but the raw emotions battled through him like a cannonball as he channelled the energy needed to seal the man's fate.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Gilderoy Lockhart passed away before his golden crown pummelled the cold stone floor. The Unforgivable Curse illuminated the first floor with bright green light as it shot out of the umbrella and blasted the professor squarely in his chest, and he fell to the ground with a pitiful thud. The aftermath of the killing curse electrified Tom's senses and he breathed in the scent of death lingering around him — but then he felt them.

Reality as he understood it fell apart as the darkness consumed the corridor, and a ball of pressure conclaves Tom's chest like a spontaneous heart attack. He clawed at Black's chest like a rabid animal, pleading with the force to stop because he couldn't breathe anymore, but the ethereal glow exuding from Lockhart's broken corpse caught the corner of his eye and he felt the pressure ease at its presence. What looked like radioactive stardust evaporated from Lockhart's pores as though a powder magnet was hovering above him, collecting the magical dust since he no longer required it, and Tom could only think of one thing as he crept closer, Black's eyes ballooning in awe.

He needed to touch it, it was his destiny.

Drunk off the dark magic pulsing through Black's veins, Tom was too infatuated to notice the imposing shadow of the most ancient one of all, observing the scene with nothing but utter disappointment dripping from their shroud. If he truly was the One, then he would have felt them come up behind him and whisper into the girl's ear, asking her to make a decision.

"…THIS ONE, MY LOVE?"

Their intervention, once again, saved the life of the girl enslaved by the evil fractured soul. They had a job to do, and the fact that their loved one was in chains made from malignance didn't matter when the laws of the universe hung in the balance. The game needed to be played fairly, that was their role, and the most ancient of all knew only how to play by the rules.

But she didn't answer, his grip was too tight.

And they didn't like that. No, they hated that. He needed to be out of her. For good.

"IT IS THE ONLY WAY… I'M SO SORRY…"

The forces from above weaved the threads that made up the fabric of the living, it was the most important of all the jobs they were chained to, but they broke the rules for her and weaved a new line of thread to save her life. The form she had created for him was impressive considering her lack of awareness — one of the key elements in navigating her power — and they used her base as the main template, why waste it? They peeled the parasite from Black like a master working with a stubborn piece of clay, and they moulded him into the boy he once was.

Tom didn't remember passing out, the wave of fatigue knocked him sideways and he felt the icy stone tiles flat against his cheek once his brain rebooted. His entire body ached as though he had run a marathon, something sharp was piercing him down the side of his forehead as though he landed face first in gravel, but he shook off the shock and sat up when he realised Black was lying beside him, stirring gently like a newborn cub.

He had a body. He felt real, more real than he had felt in decades… Tom prodded the stinging on his forehead and seized up when he felt the ridges of scarred skin lying above his brow. Blood dripped from his fingers when he pulled them away to examine the plasma, its vibrant droplets staining the stone below. That was new.

Now completely separated from Black and all of the darkness she honed, Tom could no longer sense the ancient presence dawdling in the corridor under their spectral provisions that kept them safe from evil's eye. Murderous was an understatement of how they were truly feeling, but under the oath that they swore by, they couldn't react unless she said so. They watched the ever glowing spirit of Gilderoy Lockhart linger in the living world for a moment longer as they waited for the girl to wake up, wondering whether she would react in time.

But before Gilderoy's magic was lost to the world forever, Lyra's eyes snapped open and every type of pain imaginable bombarded her like a slap in the face. Their presence was too overwhelming to ignore, the devastating scene she found herself in was sugar coated to protect her delicate brain as she reintroduced herself to reality and Lyra could only look at them. The fading spirit before her brightened, realising she was conscious.

"YES, MY LOVE?"

"Of course," whispered Lyra, embracing the peace within the darkness and harnessing it for good.

They disappeared as swiftly as they arrived, and Lyra relished the cold air whooshing through her as the darkness lightened once more. The pressure hanging onto her lungs eased as the glowing emitting from Lockhart settled back into the vessel from where it came, and Lyra took a huge breath for the first time in what felt like weeks.

But the peace vanished and dread rolled over her like a tsunami when Lyra realised that she wasn't alone, nor was she in any way safe from harm. He was breathing heavily immediately to her right, panting like a wild beast eyeing up something delicious, but she couldn't find the courage to tear her eyes away from the pile of embellished cloaks at her feet and meet the unhinged gaze of the boy she was terrified to see head on. Something was hissing to her left, but she didn't dare turn her head away from the cloaks – Lyra's stomach shrivelled and she clutched her mouth in horror when she realised it was a body and she whipped her head to the side, refusing to look for any identifying features. NO! NO NO NO! STAY CALM! DON'T PANIC!

"Look at what you've done, Lyra," said Riddle gruffly, his voice rumbling like distant thunder in the silent corridor. The stomach flutters were long dead, only trauma remained, "you killed him."

"No!" she squeaked, desperately trying not to cry, "I didn't do anything! This isn't right!"

"I tried to protect you, Black, this was all you," Riddle continued, lying through his teeth to prevent her from reacting, "he caught us, he was going to turn you in – what I did, I did because of you."

"Stop it!" Lyra scrambled backwards, fighting through her nauseating aches so she could escape without throwing up, but Riddle pounced at her and latched onto her ankles. He dragged her back towards the scene of the crime, forcing her to face him at last, but Lyra kicked him as hard as she could and squeezed her eyes shut in self-defence.

"Get off me!" Lyra yelled, hammering weakly against Riddle's chest as he tried to pin her down, but she was too exhausted to fight back. His fingernails split the top layer of her freckled skin when he gripped her jaw and forced her to look upwards into his shadowed face, and with the help of her own wand prodding into the side of her cheek he got what he wanted. Unable to blink the tears away, she took in every detail of his haunting face driven mad with power, but the jagged line ripped across his forehead and into his brow was the hardest to ignore. It may have been the blinding pain shooting through her body that muddled her mind but she could have sworn that it looked identical to the one seared into her best friend's forehead.

"Look at me, Black," Riddle breathed, enamoured with their extreme proximity as he watched the fright well in her large eyes, "you won't ever leave me, will you? You don't have a choice anymore, I'm the only one who will love you after this, I'm the only one who truly understands who you are–,"

Suddenly a rattling gasp filled the air, and the pair on the floor turned to see Gilderoy Lockhart hyperventilating as he came back into his body. He clutched his chest and face, checking to see if they were still functioning as they were supposed to, and he released a deep sigh of relief, a handsome grin melting his cracked lips as noticed the tussling pair. Despite his dishevelled golden curls and wrinkled robes, he looked perfectly healthy and rather happy with the circumstances he found himself in.

Tom's grip on Lyra slackened, his chiselled jaw practically unhinged itself as he gawked at the resurrected professor, and Lyra attempted to use his bewilderment to her advantage. Maybe if I try and karate chop the wand out of his wand while he'se looking the other way I might be able to weaken his grasp a little–

"WHAT THE HELL DO YEH THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

Rubeus' silhouette inconspicuously filled the entire doorway exiting the corridor, it didn't take a genius to work out who had just stumbled upon the bizarre situation. Lyra craned her neck and spotted the groundskeeper striding their way, and a burst of strength erupted through her at the mere sight of him. She could've sung, she had so much hope.

"Rubeus," growled Tom, being the first to acknowledge the newcomer, and he flashed him a wicked smile that stopped him in his heavy footed tracks.

Lyra watched as the strong, unwavering man she thought she knew cowered and shrunk before her very eyes when he recognised Riddle. His mental relapse was blatant despite his bothersome beard, it illuminated the relentless shame that had him locked in psychological chains for years and all authority he heard evaporated at once. Her own hope crashed in a heap of flames and she trembled as she accepted her impending fate. No one was coming to help them.

"H-How are yer—? Y-Yeh not really here," Rubeus stuttered like a scared child, flinching under Tom's gaze.

"But I am here, Rubeus, and so are you it seems," said Riddle softly, studying his foe as though expecting a surprise attack, "and so is your umbrella… how unfortunate for you yet again. Wrong time, wrong place — when will you ever learn?"

It was then that the groundskeeper noticed his most prized possession lying abandoned in the middle of the hallway, waiting for its owner to claim them, and Lyra spotted the flicker of fury in the rough line on his face. Hope wasn't completely lost, and Lyra used the spark to fuel her own flames.

"HELP ME HAGRID! PLEASE! SEND FOR HELP!"

The rest of her shriek was cut short when Tom aimed a punch at her face out of reflex so she wouldn't draw any more intruders to their compromised location. Her tooth pierced her top lip as his knuckles connected with her mouth, and Lyra cried it in agony as she felt the skin burst.

"PLEASE DO SOMETHING?!"

At last, Lyra's sobs shattered something within the two adults and they finally jumped into action, powered both by adrenaline and courage. Rubeus charged forwards in an attempt to swipe the umbrella, and Gilderoy leapt to his feet with the intention to hunt down the headmaster — but Tom was a real boy now, with real magic coursing through his veins and a real thirst for blood that he couldn't quench.

He was too fast. The immobilising spell tripped Lockhart up before he reached the end of the corridor, and he grazed his face as he fell, his porcelain skin already bruising from the blunt contact. The simple disarming spell sent the half-breed's umbrella spiralling over his head where it rolled into the shadows, out of sight out of mind. A second spell paralysed the giant where he stood, straining and puffing as he fought against his fierce hold, and a third robbed him of his booming voice. Nothing was going to stop him, not the cretinous groundskeeper, not the supercilious amateur Dark Arts professor, and certainly not the traitorous bitch squirming like a worm beneath him.

"You won't have me, Tom, you won't get away with this," spat Lyra, incoherent as she started to drown in her own tears. Riddle's knees were pressing into her stomach and impinging on her lungs' capacity. If he knelt any harder then her ribs would implode for sure.

"I already have gotten away with this, all thanks to you," hissed Riddle, his dark eyes shining in satisfaction as gazed down at her, head tilted in amazement, "but it doesn't matter in the end because whatever happens, Black, you will be mine forever. In life, and in death. There is no escaping me."

The Imperius Curse wrapped its dark tendrils around her neck, replacing Tom's hand so he could move freely without the fear of her fleeing the scene. Once again, Black's unpredictable nature tore his part of his plans to shreds and presented him with something just as spectacular, and he saw to fix the mess before they were discovered. The hour break between patrols was due to end at any minute and Tom wanted to be as far away from the first floor as possible.

Lockhart was by far the easiest mind Tom had the pleasure of controlling, he fell under his influence without so much as a prod back in defence. His sapphire eyes turned milky as he lapped up Tom's instructions, and he didn't so much as flinch when Tom sliced his arm open and splattered his blood around the room to create the perfect crime scene. He tore off a sliver of Lockhart's cerulean and dusty pink cloak, and left it in the shadows for the headmaster to find, thus securing Gilderoy as Hagrid's final victim and leaving him free to investigate the man who seemed to have risen from the dead. He had so much to uncover, but he knew to save it until he was back down in his sanctuary miles below the school.

Unlike Lockhart, Rubeus put up a decent fight against Tom's Imperius Curse, but within a minute of mental combat he succumbed to his will and accepted his dismal fate with a vow of loyalty.

"You will confess to the crimes you were accused of when you were expelled from school," ordered Tom, twisting Black's wand into his temple and strengthening the confinements of the spell. It was imperative for the curse to be unbreakable, it needed to last until the half-breed was a couple of years into his life sentence in Azkaban before it wore off, so Tom mixed in a powerful memory charm to manipulate his perception of how the evening went to really screw with his psyche. The blurrier the memory, the fiercer the doubt that would grow.

"And you will confess to setting the basilisk loose again out of hatred for the world that wronged you, you was the one who wanted to purge the school of the Muggle scum," Tom added another shade of cruelty and watched in glee as Rubeus accepted the task and settled into his new role without so much as a flicker of resistance. The incandescent whiteness fogging his conscience faded from his eyes as though the charm had worn off, but the invisible strings were still strictly tied around his limbs. No one, not even the precocious headmaster would be able to tell that he was under the Imperius Curse.

"Return to your hut, half-breed, and wait for the Ministry. No doubt you will be arrested by lunchtime tomorrow," dismissed Tom, shooing Rubeus away with a lazy wave of his hand now he was no longer a threat. He waited until the half-giant stumbled out of sight to attend to the frantic basilisk trapped inside the hospital wing who was most upset that there was no time for her feast tonight. To his surprise, however, he was rather tickled when he discovered that the basilisk wasn't alone in the wing. He found the petrified matron hiding underneath one of the hospital cots crammed in the corner, its metal frame crushed from the basilisk's powerful tail thrashes. Deciding it was more comical to leave her where she lay, Tom escorted his treasured monster back into the pipes before closing the hospital wing doors for the evening.

"You two, with me," Tom called out to the puppets who were waiting politely by the transfigured drain hole for instruction, utterly oblivious to the enormous, lethal snake that had just slithered past them. Lockhart, the seemingly more enthusiastic of the pair, hopped into the wall after the basilisk and strolled into the darkness without a care in the world that he was most definitely in danger. Black, however, refused to move until Tom's hand was intertwined with his, a gesture he felt as though he had been waiting for since their physical separation.

"See? I told you I'm protecting you," his uttered under his breath. He moved Black's clasped hand to his cold lips, and placed the softest kiss he could muster against her freckled knuckles that inspired a pretty blush in her rosy cheeks. All of his hatred towards the girl melted away in an instant as he got lost in her endless silver irises.

"This version of me will never betray you, Tom," she breathed back, enchanting him with words he forced her to say, "I was lying back there when I said I wasn't yours, this version of me will stay with you forever."

Tom felt complete, despite his setbacks he deemed the night a resounding success, and he replaced the drain hole with the unsuspecting cleaning cupboard as he lured Black back down to the safest place in the entirety of Hogwarts, their Chamber of Secrets.

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Sorry for the delay, time definitely isn't real. I hope you enjoyed :) xoxo